Work Text:
Oikawa Tooru, at nineteen, is six feet two inches of pure determination and spirit.
Long gone are those lingering tendrils of uncertainty. That hesitancy that always seemed to hold him back, regardless of how much he denied it, how much Hajime told him otherwise.
At nineteen, Tooru is bright-eyed and driven. His cheeks are peppered with freckles, courtesy of weekends spent at the beach and long runs under the sun, and a natural always-blush that dots the apples of his smile.
Back home, Tooru was always wary of tanning. Too focused on the rigid beauty standards prescribed by MAQUIA back in ’08.
But now, now, he’s blossomed into a better, happier version of himself. Someone more comfortable in his body with his thin waist and strong arms and smooth hairless legs that go on for miles.
Someone who doesn’t give a fuck what other people think about him.
There must be something wrong with him, Hajime muses, as he traces his index finger down the length of his boyfriend’s spine. Over each last crook and curve from nape to tailbone, concentrated on the way Tooru responds to his touch — that is absolutely and wholeheartedly.
Tooru, at nineteen, is a responsive lover. Much as he had been at eighteen, seventeen, sixteen — his whole life.
It hadn’t surprised Hajime the first time they had slept together. At least, not in the way he would have imagined.
Because under the covers, between the sheets, pinned still against a twin XL mattress that was probably older than both of them, Tooru was the same person he had known — loved — his entire life.
Loud and brash. Attention seeking and feisty and abrasive and brazen, above all. All the things Hajime knew came with loving someone whose intensity could rival the sun’s.
No, rather, it was himself that he had been left confused about. Because while he had predicted the other’s tendencies, had intrinsically known how Tooru would react to being tugged close by the lapels, mouth curious and eager, his hands curling in Hajime’s short hair, thighs pressed together, and the soft squeals he made when Hajime walked him back. Pressed him up against his door, then, his bedroom wall, and, finally, his bed — he hadn’t foreseen the effect it would all have on himself.
And, sure. He had laid awake countless nights in the past, eyes fixated on that one crack on the far right of his childhood bedroom’s ceiling (the one eight year old Tooru had left when he’d accidentally set off an air rocket indoors) the spidery tendrils in the plaster trailing outwards like a Lichtenberg figure.
He’d thought long and hard about the repercussions of loving someone so intense. Someone with a personality that fully occupied any space it was allowed the opportunity to bloom; his best friend nonetheless, sprinkled with a minor crash out over realizing that he was in love with a boy at the end of the day, because he clearly didn’t have enough to stress over.
Regardless, when he’d laid awake at night. Listened to the fading chirp of the cicadas in the summer, the pounding rain in the spring — nothing he could have thought of, envisioned, fantasized could have prepared him for this.
For the way Tooru’s body quivers when his finger reaches the base of his spine, presses against the dip that has haunted Hajime’s thoughts since he was first made privy to its existence.
He presses down harder, a sadistic thrill coursing through his body at the way Tooru shivers, his shoulders shifting like leaves in the breeze on a hot summer’s day.
He makes a noise halfway between a sob and a sigh and no matter how many times he’s heard it, Hajime wants to hear it again.
He drapes his body over the other’s, breath coming harsh as he buries his face against Tooru’s sweaty nape. Breathes in the pungent sweet smell that he’s quickly become accustomed — addicted — to.
Tooru shivers again, the entirety of his upper body trembling as he struggles to support both of them on shaky arms, and something hot, something possessive curls in the pit of Hajime’s stomach.
He presses his face firmer against Tooru, left arm curling over his boyfriend’s chest, right hand around his cock.
Tooru exhales at the shift, at the way Hajime’s cock, buried inside of him to the hilt — so thick, so wet, so deep that he can feel him through his stomach — brushes his sweet spot. The place that always makes him scream when Hajime drills into him. Kisses it over and over and over again, drunk on the sound of Tooru’s voice. The lilt and fall of his moans, his sighs, his cries entrancing Hajime until he feels he’s going insane.
“Iwa-chan…” The mention of that endearing nickname he’d rolled his eyes at when they were younger, strokes something primal raging in Hajime’s core and he responds by pressing an open mouth to Tooru’s nape, humming by way of words.
Tooru responds beautifully. Arches his back, hips rising, followed by a sharp hiss as he manages to draw Hajime further into his body.
It’s dizzying, this warmth. And sixteen year old Hajime, the same one who had spilled hot and sticky into his palm after lights out, the silence of the night, could have never fathomed how good it would actually feel. To have Oikawa Tooru beneath him like this. So pliant, so pretty, begging for his cock like a drugged-up back alley whore. Like he might die without it, despite the fact that they’ve been tangled in each other’s embrace for hours.
“Iwa-chan…”
God, that voice. The way Tooru calls for him like Hajime’s his salvation. A benediction, his own personal grace — it’s all so much for the boy who had gotten himself off to the thought of chaste kisses and a phantom memory of his best friend’s musky-sweet shampoo.
“Tooru,” he murmurs between soft kisses peppered along the other’s neck.
It had been so pale, unmarred, when Tooru had shown up a week ago, oversized luggage in tow. Long gone is that pristine skin — soft and flawless.
The Tooru beneath him looks as though he’s been attacked, mauled, by a territorial animal. Spots of varying purples, greens, and blues. Yellow patches that Hajime drags his mouth over, tracing them with his tongue, heart jolting at the sound of every gasp, every sigh that leaves the other’s mouth, a psychotic thrill shooting up his spine.
His cock feels so heavy, so sensitive. Leaking precum despite releasing more times he can recall and he remains mindful as he jerks Tooru’s body up.
Pulls him up onto his knees and marvels at the way the other droops forward despite the long hours of conditioning, all that pent-up energy, all that want, completely wrung dry. And how it still, somehow, isn’t enough. How Tooru is still leaning into his touch, slamming his hips back weakly, his entire frame shaking when Hajime drags his blunt nails across his chest, over his swollen nipples, his pronounced clavicle scratched and bruised.
“You okay?” he murmurs, nosing at the back of Tooru’s ear before pressing a sloppy kiss to the base.
Tooru jolts, his entire body singing as he leans back into Hajime’s embrace. Brings his right hand up so he can tangle his fingers in Hajime’s hair and hold him still and close.
He nods, slow and purposefully, head lolling to the side as Hajime continues to kiss along his jaw, down the sharp edge, and then his neck.
“Tired,” Tooru murmurs, his fingers tightening on the other’s hair in a silent request to stay. With him, in him. There, in place.
Hajime complies. Of course he does.
He tightens his embrace. Tugs the other firmer against his body and buries his face in that soft, soft hair.
And that’s another facet that’s driving him insane. Because Oikawa Tooru’s hair, usually so perfectly styled, coiffed, not a single strand out of place, resembles a bird’s nest. Mussed and tangled, sticking up every which way and then some.
Gone is that perfectly sensible boy. That put-together star athlete who always wore every part of his high school uniform perfectly, the obedient sweetheart who played by the book.
In its place remains a trembling horny mess. An angel desecrated by lust, by Hajime. One who cries for his best friend’s fingers, his mouth, his touch. Spends hours a day daydreaming about taking Hajime into his hand, between his lips, his legs. Touches himself to the hollow echo of Hajime’s husky staticky voice on speakerphone and lets the boy he used to chase around the woods fill his stomach over and over and over again. Craves being loved in a way he can never speak of. Can never let their dearest know. Decisions driven by a single-minded need to take and take and take some more.
“Do you want to stop?” Hajime asks though his actions suggest otherwise. He wonders, fleetingly, how they must look when they’re like this. Bare in a manner he could have never imagined. His heart parallel to Tooru’s, beating in tandem, cruelly separated by a few irremovable inches.
He’s seen Tooru’s face when they get like this more times than he can count. Yet, it always makes him feel as though he could die. Because Tooru — handsome, audacious, outspoken Tooru — always seems to melt beneath his touch. Falls limp and pliant, the perfect mold, the perfect doll for him to use day in and out.
It’s been a few since Tooru had rolled onto his forearms. Raised his ass in the air and moaned loudly when Hajime brought his hand down hard with a loud crack and a few choice words that would put most pornstars to shame and Hajime’s mouth feels dry, his heart revving into overdrive as he envisions what the other looks like right now.
Tooru shakes his head, his own fingers, callused and long, curving over Hajime’s hairy wrist to hold it in place.
“I’m just a little tired, Iwa-chan,” he rasps and it’s Hajime’s turn to shiver. At the prickle of Tooru’s blunt nails lazily tracing patterns along the front of his forearm, causing the short hairs to rise. His touch gentle, yet possessive and those nails. God, those nails.
Hajime always misses the way they feel digging into the soft muscle of his back, the length of his arms, the curves of his biceps.
Tooru’s meant to keep them clipped short. A general precaution, given his chosen career, and Tooru is nothing if not by the book when it comes to his endeavors.
Yet, he still manages, every single time, to leave a mark. A dozen-hundred scratches, some long, some short, some deep, some rough, like a territorial cat claiming its stake. A short lived reminder of his existence before he flies back south and leaves Hajime to his own devices. With a dozen videos and even more pictures and the fleeting memory of time that passed far too quick.
“Let me help you,” Hajime murmurs as he muses over how much he’d like to feel them raking down the length of his back once more.
He pulls Tooru tight against his chest. Kisses his shoulder, his nape once, then twice. Over and over and over again, drunk on the scent, the taste, the sound of Tooru’s pretty whimpers as he pulls his free hand down over his belly. Presses down on the tiny bulge and feels himself through the other’s stomach.
And then it’s back — the intrinsic need to dominate his best friend. Consume his entire being until the only thing he can perceive is Hajime, so much so that they’ll both feel as though they’ve been driven mad.
“Iwa-chan,” Tooru says once more and it’s enough to yank Hajime from his stupor. For him to pull himself out, the fat head of his cock leaking thick beads of silvery cum. A shiver courses down his spine at the loss of heat, one that is mirrored by the other and the soft sigh of his name. “Iwa-chan…”
He has to remind himself to be gentle as he slowly turns Tooru over. Pulls the pillow Tooru had been hugging to his chest back over to the headboard. Pounds it with a closed fist to disperse the feathers before easing the other down.
Tooru looks like a manifestation of all of teenage Hajime’s wet dreams culminated.
His cheeks are rosy red, his eyes blown wide, his hair a disarray. And his lips — oh, his lips.
Pink and swollen. Tiny cuts from where they’d kissed too roughly and one or the other or both had bitten down hard enough to break skin.
Tooru raises a lazy hand to cup Hajime’s jaw. Thumbs over the apple of his cheek, true devotion burning raw in his eyes. And Hajime loves him like he’s never loved anyone or anything else. Like Tooru’s his only reason to wake up in the morning, his every fiber, his every breath, like a moment spent apart might be the reason for his demise.
He turns his head ever so slightly. Just enough to nuzzle Tooru’s palm, kiss it soft, eyes fluttering shut against the smooth skin, relishing in his beloved’s touch.
Seconds pass and then Tooru murmurs, “Fuck me. Make me scream.”
There’s a fire burning in Tooru’s eyes when Hajime meets them, his muted tone a jarring juxtaposition to what he’s asking for.And that’s a request Hajime will never be able to deny.
He can feel his heart beating in his throat. His hands sticky from the prior spend. And every last one of his nerves feels as though they’ve been set alight as he quickly works another pillow under Tooru’s hips, guides his legs around his waist.
Tooru moans loudly when Hajime slides back into him, body giving easily as though it was meant to take cock. Hajime’s cock.
The bulge resurfaces, prominent against the other’s flat stomach, jutting out in a a way that makes Hajime feel as though he’s going insane.
He takes a moment to run his rough finger against the swell. Entertains thoughts that he would have killed himself for having if he were three percent more sane. But now, right now—
Tooru’s heel is sharper than he remembers when it comes down hard on his tailbone.
“You’re thinking about something other than me.” And that’s where the brat couldn’t be anymore wrong.
Hajime takes both of his hands into his own. Jerks them up above his head and leans in so close that he can smell the faint remnants of strawberry boba on the other’s breath.
Tooru’s breath hitches, eyes crossing as he zeros in on Hajime’s face, his lips. Opens his mouth and closes it. Swallows thick. Again and again.
“You want to know what I’m thinking about?” Hajime asks, shifting so that his groin is situated firmer against the other’s ass.
Tooru’s breath catches once more and he nods slowly. Curls and unfurls his fingers and grasps at the air, anything for an anchor.
“I’m thinking about this,” Hajime says, gathering Tooru’s wrists into his left hand so he can drag the other over his stomach. “Thinking about how good it’d be to knock you up.”
It’s the first time he’s spoken those words into existence. And any possible shame evaporates at the sight of Tooru’s face. At the way his blush deepens, his pupils widening, and his tongue lolls out just long enough for him to run it over his lips.
Hajime follows its path with his eyes. Watches the way Tooru opens his mouth. Closes it. Tries and tries hard to speak over and over again, no sound coming out except for a clipped squeak.
“Think you’d like that, angel? Let me fill you up nice and good?”
It has to be the SoCal heat talking. Or at least, that’s what he tells himself as he presses his palm into Tooru’s stomach, tightens his grip of the other. And god, is his boyfriend a sight to see. So smart and beautiful. Eyes blow wide, looking like the very personification of nasty filthy sex. His own personal wet dream, pornstar, and Jesus Fucking Hell. Hajime needs him so bad.
He snaps his hips hard as he separates Tooru’s wrists into each hand once again. Clamps down hard enough that he knows he’s gonna leave bruises, thick manacles for Tooru to wear for the rest of the week — a wonderful icebreaker for people who aren’t as deranged as they are.
“I think you would,” he continues, snapping his hips sharp once more. “I think you want people to know what we do.”
Tooru’s head rolls back in response, his mouth a wide ‘O.’
“You’ve always been greedy like that.”
The pace is starting to pick up. A rhythmic pap pap pap that causes the headboard to tap against the wall.
“Always wanted me to yourself. Even when we were kids. So fucking selfish, baby.” Disjointed ah ah ahs fill the space, the sound of Tooru’s pleasure only spurring Hajime on.
“Well, now you have me. You have all of me and I want the world to know you’re mine.”
The sound of the headboard is a staccato beat in Hajime’s mind. A metronome to pace himself by, harmonized by Tooru’s high pitched moans so short, so sweet that Hajime wants to drink them up one by one. Kiss Tooru until they’re tottering at the very edge, when they have no choice but to separate, and even then, they’ll consider the alternative.
He wants to consume Tooru — mind, body, and soul. Tie him up and lock him away. Hide him somewhere only he knows about, behind several barriers, and throw away the keys, take him far far away where no one else can look at him.
He wants to possess Tooru in the filthiest of ways. The most unhinged manners that would land him in a psych ward if anyone were to know what he is thinking about, and use Tooru for his pleasure. Make him cry and scream, beg for Hajime, for his mercy, his benevolence and love, until the only thing he can perceive is his sweetheart. Make him forget that anyone else exists and that the world knows that Tooru belongs to him, that he owns him.
That he is Hajime’s and Hajime’s only.
“Fuck,” he swears when Tooru clenches down around him hard. Keens loudly and nods furiously, swallowing back tears, his face twisted angry red.
“Do it, Iwa-chan. Do it. All of it — ah, knock me up. Tie me down. Just please. Please don’t stop.”
A scintilla of mania is seeping into his voice, mirroring the emotions Hajime is currently experiencing as he realizes he spoke out loud. A crazed laugh passes through his system and he swears once more as the full extent of Tooru’s words overtakes his psyche, the sadistic realization that he could do anything to his boyfriend, that it would be more than okay, causing a burst of perverse energy to shoot through his very core. At the fact that they’re both in too deep, too far gone, light years from salvation, and that he’s lost his goddamn mind.
Fuck him. Fuck Tooru. Fuck the world. He could take his very last breath in this very moment and would happily go to the grave.
The renewed vigor reflects in his hips. The way they snap into Tooru’s heat as though he’s trying to permanently bruise his insides, cleave him in two. Tear him apart in all the ways he drives Hajime insane. Inflict a shred of the hysteria, the derangement he feels every time he so much as looks at his boyfriend upon the other.
He loves Tooru. He loves him. He loves him so much.
“Fuck, baby, you’re driving me insane,” he growls as he slams hard into the other’s heat, putting enough force behind the movement that Tooru slides up against the mattress until his crown is pressed firm to the headboard.
Tooru’s eyes are filled with tears — thick fat beads that gather at the edges before trickling down the lengths of his cheeks — and before Hajime can help himself, he’s leaning down. Lapping up the salt on his tongue, the taste desecrating the last of his sanity. Because Tooru. Oikawa Tooru is beneath him. Struggling against his hold and screaming his name so loud that Hajime’s flatmates probably think he’s committing a crime. Sodomizing this bright-eyed, bushy-tailed angel with the fervor of someone who knows he can never be redeemed, that he’s too far gone.
He doesn’t care, he realizes, as he relaxes his grip on Tooru’s wrists. Just enough for Tooru to tug them away. Dig his fingers into Hajime’s scalp. Fist his hair and pull him down.
“Fuck me,” Tooru growls, forcing Hajime’s mouth to his own, speaking the words directly into the back of his throat. And the screams. Oh, the sounds he makes as Hajime gives it his all. Lowers his body down on his forearms, one on either side of Tooru’s head, his entire body blanketing the other’s, pressed together from head to toe, swallowing his cries like the sweetest ambrosia.
It’s all just so fucking much.
“There!” Tooru yelps, locking his legs at the ankles, hands scraping down the length of Hajime’s neck, tearing into his soft back like a rabid animal. “Right there! Iwa-chan, please, please, please. Ah, ah—”
Never in his wildest dreams could he have imagined a universe in which the object of his affections, the love of his life, would be screaming for Hajime to fuck him like his life depended on it. Where Tooru would be clinging to him like a lifeline, his own hips rising and falling to meet Hajime’s, his warmth growing, chest rising, nipples pert and swollen, begging for Hajime to suck on them, and his throat bared just enough for Hajime to wrap his palm around it. Drive the base of his hand into his Adam’s apple and control his very existence.
He’s sure his younger self would be so proud.
“Don’t stop. Oh, god!”
The world feels eerily silent as all the movement comes to an abrupt pause, Hajime’s mind spinning as he tries and fails to steady himself.
Tooru’s back is arched, his body milking his cock, greedy for everything Hajime is willing to gave him and Hajime — well, everything is so quiet, so loud, so blurry, so pink all of a sudden.
He unclenches his jaw, hips still thrusting weakly into Tooru as he comes down from the absolute high of his orgasm. An elation akin to what he imagines hard drugs probably feel like. Addicting, euphoric, urging their user to go back for more, more, more.
He blinks blearily into Tooru’s eyes. Presses their mouths together sloppy once more and then in three, two, one, everything goes dark and the world is good.