RED-HANDED | Iwaizumi Hajime

Iwaizumi knew this was a fucking terrible idea. He’d known it the moment he lied to Oikawa about feeling like shit and needing to stay in, the moment he’d gotten in his car instead of crawling into bed like a normal person, the moment his tires had hit the asphalt of the highway heading toward that familiar apartment complex. The steering wheel cool under his palms, the streetlights slicing across the dashboard in rhythmic yellow pulses. His mind has been anything but quiet.

He wasn’t here to see Oikawa. He was here to see you.

Four weeks. One month since Oikawa had dragged you to the game against Date Tech, all bright-eyed and introducing you as “my baby brother, isn’t he cute, Iwa-chan?” And you’d smiled at him. Not the polite, perfunctory smile people give their brother’s teammates, but something slow and knowing that had settled right under Iwaizumi’s skin and stayed there, an itch he couldn’t fucking scratch. You’d watched him play from the stands, and afterward, when the team had been celebrating and Oikawa had been distracted, you’d sidled up next to him and said, quiet enough that no one else could hear, “You’re the ace, right? I like the way you hit.”

Not volleyball. You didn't say volleyball, and you didn't needed to.

Now here he was, climbing the stairs two at a time because the elevator was taking too goddamn long, his heart a heavy thud-thud-thud against his ribs that had nothing to do with exertion. His knuckles rapped against the door, sharp and decisive. And before he could draw another breath, the door swung inward.

Your mouth crashed against his. Just like that. No 'hey', no 'how was the drive', just the hot press of your lips and the scent of whatever cologne you’d put on, your hands already fisting the front of his jacket and dragging him forward. A low sound punched out of him mmngh half surprise and half raw hunger, and then his back hit the hallway wall with a thump that rattled the picture frames.

“You’re late,” you breathed against his mouth, your teeth catching his bottom lip and tugging, just shy of painful.

“Traffic,” he managed, but it came out hoarse, wrecked. His hands found your hips, fingers digging into the jut of bone, and then you were walking backward, pulling him with you, stumbling through the dim apartment. A shoe caught on the rug thmp and he kicked it off without losing stride.

The bedroom door hit the wall with a bang when you backed through it, and then the mattress was rising up to meet him, springs squealing as you both tumbled down in a tangle of limbs and the wet, messy sound of mouths that couldn’t seem to separate for more than half a second.

Oikawa was out with the team. Getting drunk, celebrating the win. Iwaizumi had bailed on purpose, had texted some bullshit about a headache and gotten a flurry of crying emojis in return, and now his cock was so fucking hard it was straining against his jeans, a thick ridge that ground against your thigh with every shift of your bodies.

“Fuck,” he hissed, the word drawn out and guttural as your hand slid between you, palming him through the denim. Fuck-fuck-fuck, the syllables blurring into a single continuous curse that broke apart when you unzipped him and your fingers closed around bare skin. Hot. So goddamn hot. The slick, dry friction of your grip made him buck up, a grunt tearing from his throat as his vision hazed at the edges.

Clothes went everywhere. His jeans hit the floor with a heavy clatter of the belt buckle and your pants followed, and then it was skin, miles of it, your body arching up under his as he dragged his mouth down your chest, tongue tracing the line of your collarbone, the dip of your sternum, the salt-sweet taste blooming on his tongue.

“Turn over,” he said, and it wasn’t a request.

You went willingly. More than willingly. Scrambling onto your stomach like you’d been waiting for exactly this, your knees sliding apart on the rumpled sheets. The lamp on the nightstand cast a low gold glow across the curve of your spine, the swell of your ass, and Iwaizumi made a sound that wasn’t quite human. His hand came down on the flesh with a crack smack and watched the skin bloom pink, watched you shudder, heard the little gulp of air you sucked in.

“Christ,” he muttered. “Look at you. Fucking look at you.”

The lube was in the nightstand drawer where you’d clearly left it. Convenient. Planned. The cap clicked open and then the gel was cool on his fingers, warming fast as he slicked himself up. One hand on your hip, the other guiding his cock, and then the blunt head was pressing against you, against that tight fucking hole, and Iwaizumi’s jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached.

“Relax,” he said, but his voice was shaking. “Relax, come on, you—fuck—“

The first push was agony and ecstasy in equal measure. You gasped, a sharp inhale hahh and your hands twisted in the blankets as he sank in, inch by torturous inch. Tight. Slick. A wet, obscene sound as your body swallowed him, and Iwaizumi’s forehead dropped between your shoulder blades, his breath coming in hot gusts against your skin.

“Yeah,” you were saying, your voice gone high and breathy. “Yeah, yeah, yeah—“

He moved. No finesse, no patience. Just the deep, driving rhythm of a man who’d been thinking about this for weeks, jacking off in his own shower with your face burned behind his eyelids. The sound was incredible. The wet suction of his cock plunging into you, the slap of his hips against your ass plap-plap-plap building into a filthy percussion that filled the room. Your moans rose to meet it, spiraling higher, and he couldn’t keep quiet either, grunting like an animal, his fingers leaving bruises on the meat of your hips.

“That’s it,” he growled. “Take it. Take all of it. You wanted this, didn’t you? Since that first night. Fucking knew it.”

---

Three blocks away, Oikawa was drunk. Not stumbling home with a lampshade on his head drunk, but warm and loose and dangerously sentimental, the kind of tipsy that made his chest ache with every beat of some sad HY song on the bar speakers. His ex had texted him. Something short and final. And now he didn’t want to be surrounded by teammates who didn’t understand, didn’t want to toast another victory when all he could think about was the smell of her perfume and the way she’d said his name.

So he’d left. Slipped out the back, caught a cab, and spent the ride staring at his phone, thumb hovering over her contact photo until the screen dimmed.

His apartment key turned in the lock and Oikawa stepped inside, toed off his shoes with a weary sigh. His keys hit the ceramic bowl by the door with a jangle clink and he was already talking, his voice rising into the familiar theatrical whine.

“{{user}}? {{user}}, are you home? I need to tell you about—she’s awful, okay, she’s absolutely awful, and I don’t know why I still care, but I do, and I need you to tell me I’m being stupid and make me tea or something—“

He stopped.

Mid-step, mid-sentence, one hand braced against the hallway wall.

A sound. Rhythmic. Wet.

His brain, sluggish with sake, took a long and mortifying moment to process what he was hearing. And then your moan cut through the walls, loud and unmistakable.

Oikawa’s mouth opened. Closed. His perfect teeth ground together so hard his jaw creaked, and a muscle in his cheek jumped like a live thing under the skin.

Another voice now. Gruff. Familiar. “So fucking tight—take it, yeah, just like that—“

Iwaizumi.

The world went very still.

Oikawa, who had never stormed anywhere in his entire life, who believed in charm and grace and the artful exit, stormed. His feet slapped the floor and his hand hit your bedroom door like a battering ram, shoving it open with a violence that sent the doorknob crashing into the drywall. Wham.

The scene hit him all at once, a freeze-frame of repulsive obscenity. The tangles of discarded clothing, the lamplight, the sheen of sweat on Iwaizumi’s broad back, and then oh god the gross visual of his best friend’s cock buried deep in your ass, your knees spread, your face half-turned and slack with pleasure that hadn’t yet registered the intrusion.

A sound escaped Oikawa’s throat. Not a word. A strangled, horrified noise as his hand flew up to cover his eyes too late, already having seen everything he could never un-see.

“What. The. Fuck!”

Iwaizumi froze mid-thrust. Literally froze, his entire body locking like stone, and then he was scrambling backward, pulling out with a slick squelch that echoed in the sudden silence. One hand grabbed the nearest corner of bedding to cover himself, the other raised in a gesture of futile explanation.

“Tooru—listen, this isn’t!—“

“Don’t.” Oikawa’s arm stayed up, shielding his vision, but his voice could have chipped glass. “Don’t you fucking dare.”