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Oikawa has a sister, twelve years older than him, whom Iwaizumi remembers from childhood afternoons spent playing in the sun, popsicle staining their shirts, and then, later, at stilted family affairs Oikawa had dragged him to for his sanity's sake. Iwaizumi read somewhere that last borns with large age gaps develop all the spoiled egocentrism of being the baby and all the perfectionism of an only child. It explains a lot, Iwaizumi thinks.
What it doesn’t explain is why Oikawa is currently standing in Iwaizumi’s living room wearing a skirt.
“What the hell,” he says as Oikawa runs a hand down his thighs, shifting the pleats. They barely reach his fingertips.
“My sister went to Aoba Johsai too, Iwa-chan, didn’t you know?” Oikawa says as though it is the obvious conclusion.
Iwaizumi stares pointedly at the very much not standard issue sheer white thigh highs Oikawa has chosen to accessorize with.
“Her socks weren’t made for legs as nice as mine,” Oikawa laments. “I had to improvise.”
“You didn’t have to do anything, idiot,” Iwaizumi shoots back, out of habit more than anything else; the insult definitely lacks its usual fervor as Iwaizumi finds himself stuck staring at the muscular expanse of Oikawa’s thighs. He does have nice legs, damn him.
“You don’t like it?” Oikawa whines.
“I didn’t say that.” Iwaizumi isn’t sure whether he wants to kill Oikawa or himself.
The slight heel of the uniform shoes gives Oikawa an extra few centimeters on him, and Iwaizumi finds himself at eye level with the long expanse of Oikawa’s neck. Iwaizumi watches the nervous bob of his Adam’s apple (one of his nervous tells) and lets his eyes trail down to where Oikawa’s collarbone disappears behind the pressed linen of the button up, the soft weave of the sweater. The shirts are Oikawa’s own, Iwaizumi thinks - the bastard is too tall and broad and muscular to have any hope of fitting into a girl’s blouse. (Though the image of him trying is certainly - something. Huh. Better not think about that now).
The top two buttons are undone, the neck of the sweater stretched loose and hanging low, his usual tie replaced with a slim piece of maroon ribbon tied in a teasing bow around Oikawa’s neck. If not for the button-up, Iwaizumi knows there’d be the tease of a collar bone there.
When Iwaizumi finally drags his eyes back up to meet Oikawa’s, the taller boy is staring down at him, biting the inside of his cheek. (Another tell, he thinks.)
“Iwa-chan.” There’s a flush on Oikawa’s cheeks now. This time, when his fingers smooth down the hem of the skirt, it’s not an attempt at seduction but a display of embarrassment.
Iwaizumi may find his boyfriend’s bravado annoying, but it’s the bouts of unfounded self consciousness that are by far the worst.
“Moron,” Iwaizumi huffs out, and before Oikawa can think to stutter out an apology, Iwaizumi drags him down into a fierce kiss.
Oikawa whines against his lips, and when they part, he’s smiling. “So you do like it,” he asks, and now his cheeks are flushed with pleasure.
Iwaizumi runs a hand down Oikawa’s chest and groans. “I can’t believe you,” he says, and pulls Oikawa into another kiss.
He feels Oikawa smirk against his lips when his fingers finally reach the rough fabric of the skirt. It slips under his touch in ways Oikawa’s usual uniform pants don’t, pleats shifting over the strong muscle of Oikawa’s thighs. The easy give of it makes something twist hot in Iwaizumi’s gut. He groans and breaks the kiss to attack Oikawa’s neck instead.
“Ah~ Iwa-chan, don’t forget your rule,” Oikawa chides, fingers curling around the circumference of Iwaizumi’s bicep.
The rule is a necessary evil; Iwaizumi is far too fond of littering Oikawa’s neck with bites, and Oikawa is far too fond of dragging his nails down Iwaizumi’s back. The rule is necessary. It was Iwaizumi’s idea, and he hates it.
“No marks,” Oikawa hums, as though Iwaizumi could have possibly forgotten.
“No marks,” He agrees with a huff.
“Good,” Oikawa says with a smile. It’s the smile he wears when he’s up to something either very bad or very good, and it’s the only warning Iwaizumi gets before the hand on his arm is tightening, spinning him around and pushing him down onto the couch.
Oikawa looms over him. The hunger in his gaze makes Iwaizumi’s breath hitch with want. Standing over him like this, there’s a raw strength and power to Oikawa, and Iwaizumi sucks in a breath, because of course his boyfriend is the one person in the world who can make a skirt look masculine. The contrast of the softness of the skirt and the hard lines of muscle hidden beneath makes Iwaizumi’s blood boil, Oikawa staring down at him hungrily all the while. Finally, he can’t take it anymore, and he grabs his boyfriend by the hips and pulls him down hard on top of him.
“Someone’s impatient,” Oikawa says. Iwaizumi shuts him up with a kiss.
Oikawa gasps helplessly into his mouth and shifts his knees to either side of Iwaizumi’s hips, straddling his thighs .Iwaizumi drags his hands down, playing with the hem of skirt before slipping his fingers underneath. He trails them up, up, up -
And freezes.
“You- you’re not-” Iwaizumi stutters, breaking the kiss. Oikawa’s face is flushed a pretty pink and he licks his lips and he grins down at his boyfriend.
“Boxers would ruin the aesthetic.”
“So you went commando?”
“What? Expecting a pair of lace panties?” Oikawa teases.
Iwaizumi’s hands spasm against his will, clutching at the soft, bare flesh of Oikawa’s ass. “Fuck,” he grunts.
Oikawa hums, looking far too pleased with himself, the same way he does when he’s discovered the opposing team’s weakness in the middle of a match. “Yeah, that’s the plan,” Oikawa whispers into the curve of his ear. It sounds like a promise. Iwaizumi’s not sure he’ll survive it. He doesn’t get much of a chance to dwell on it, because Oikawa is suddenly attacking his mouth again. Oikawa spreads his legs more - Iwaizumi might have the brute strength in this relationship, but god is Oikawa flexible. He grinds down, and fuck, Iwaizumi is so hard right now.
“Hajime,” Oikawa whimpers. Iwaizumi feels a hand fumbling at the button of his jeans, and then Oikawa is pulling down his zipper and groping at the hand length of his cock through the fabric of his briefs.
Iwaizumi lets out a groan as Oikawa thumbs the growing damp spot near the head. “You really like this,” Oikawa says, grinning down at him.
Iwaizumi might die. Oikawa looks obscene: hair rumpled, face flushed, erection crudely tenting the fabric of the skirt. Iwaizumi trails a hand over his thigh to stroke it, and Oikawa sways above him, hips jerking forward in short, aborted motions.
“You really like it too,” Iwaizumi observes. Oikawa says nothing and instead buries his face in Iwaizumi’s neck. It’s how Iwaizumi knows he’s right.
“You like dressing up like this,” He continues, and Oikawa whines high and reedy. “You’re kind of a slut.”
Oikawa gasps, and for a moment Iwaizumi fears he’s gone too far, but then Oikawa is rutting down helplessly against him.
“Say it again.”
Iwaizumi is frozen, stuck still while Oikawa grinds into him.
“Please,” Oikawa murmurs.
Iwaizumi swallows. He draws in a stuttered breath, and then -
“You’re a slut.”
“Yeah,” Oikawa breathes into his neck, hips grinding desperately against Iwaizumi’s.
“Fuck, you’re so needy,” Iwaizumi groans out, hardly aware of the things he’s saying while Oikawa rocks against him like he was born for it. “God, you’re so hot like this, all dressed up and begging for it like the little slut you are.”
Oikawa moans, long and low, and then he’s vibrating above Iwaizumi, rocked by a full-body shudder as he comes.
“Holy shit.”
Oikawa is clutching his shoulders, still trembling and panting, while Iwaizumi tries to wrap his head around what just happened and try not to come on the spot holy shit.
It’s Oikawa’s displeased whine that draws him out of it. His hands are on his boyfriend immediately, looking for the source of discomfort and trying to figure out what he did wrong, did he go too far, shit, he went too far, he -
“My skirt,” Oikawa whines.
Iwaizumi looks down between them and -
Oh.
The skirt is stained sticky and white with Oikawa’s come.
It should be gross, it really should, Iwaizumi knows in some back corner of his mind, but his cock throbs painfully at the sight and reminds him that he has not come yet.
“Now I have to wash it,” Oikawa is saying with a pout, hands moving to undo the clasp at the back.
“Leave it,” Iwaizumi says, far too quickly.
Oikawa pauses. A wicked grin stretches across his lips. Iwaizumi is fucked.
“Iwa-chan really does like it,” Oikawa hums as he pushes Iwaizumi’s t-shirt up to his armpits and ducks down to trail kisses up his chest. Iwaizumi takes this hint, hastily pulling his shirt off and throwing it blindly to some other corner of the room.
Oikawa is never shy about his love for Iwaizumi’s body or the sheer strength it contains, and this time is no different. He hums with delight at the newly exposed skin, teeth catching on a nipple before sinking lower. He runs his hands down Iwaizumi’s arms, clutching greedily at the thick muscle of his biceps while his mouth worships Iwaizumi’s abs. It's desperate, obscene, bordering on pornographic.
When Oikawa finally drops to his knees and noses at the line of hair at the elastic of Iwaizumi’s shorts, he feels ready to explode. There's already a wet spot on the fabric, and Oikawa doesn't bother taking them off before he’s lathing his tongue all over it.
“God you're so hungry for it,” Iwaizumi says.
Oikawa just pulls his shorts off in response. When he finally, finally, wraps his mouth around Iwaizumi’s dick, Iwaizumi has to look away to keep from coming instantly.
Oikawa doesn't take time to get used to the girth of it. Instead, he starts bobbing his head, desperate to get the length of it as deep down his throat as he can.
“Shit - yeah, s’good,” Iwaizumi says. Oikawa looks up at him through his eyelashes and whines around his cock and oh, fuck he’s gonna-
Iwaizumi buries his hand in Oikawa’s hair and practically rips him off his lap. Oikawa lets out a gasp and then a sharp cry.
“Sorry,” Iwaizumi grunts out, eyes screwed shut and he knows he's blushing all over. “Sorry- I was- too soon- shit, you're good at that.”
From his spot on the floor, Oikawa hums contentedly and noses along the sharp v of Iwaizumi’s hips.
“You should pull my hair again,” he says, voice deep and thick like molasses.
Iwaizumi hits the back of his head off the wall behind him. “You’re gonna kill me,” He groans.
“You like it,” Oikawa says.
Iwaizumi tugs his hair once, just for the hell of it. Oikawa practically purrs. “So are you gonna fuck me or what?” He says.
Iwaizumi looks down at his boyfriend, the collar of his shirt all rumpled and his skirt, his fucking skirt, stained with cum and riding up high on his thighs, where his hands are cupped in supplication. Iwaizumi reaches a hand down to toy with the end of the ribbon around Oikawa’s neck. The bow isn't nearly taut enough to choke, but Oikawa shivers at the gesture anyways. Interesting, Iwaizumi thinks. Another time, maybe.
“Well,” he says, raising an eyebrow at the utterly debauched boy beneath him, “get up here then.”
Oikawa scrambles up onto Iwaizumi’s lap.
“Shit.” Iwaizumi remembers. “Lube.”
“Don't need it,” Oikawa says.
“I’m not prepping you dry.”
“Don't need it,” Oikawa insists.
“Oikawa-”
“Hajime,” Oikawa purs in response. He grabs Iwaizumi’s hand, deftly guides it under the skirt.
“You-” Iwaizumi chokes.
“Wanted to be ready for you,” Oikawa says. He grinds down into Iwaizumi’s palm and Iwaizumi feels where he's open and wet, already prepped. Hesitantly, Iwaizumi presses two fingers in. They go in easy, barely any resistance. Oikawa groans, and there's an obscene slick noise as Iwaizumi scissors his fingers inside him.
“C’mon, Hajime. Fuck me.”
Iwaizumi fucks three fingers in this time, harder than he probably should, and curls them as best he can. Oikawa lets out a gasp and collapses onto his chest.
“You okay?” Iwaizumi asks, rubbing his free hand up and down Oikawa’s thigh in a soothing gesture.
“Yes,” Oikawa moans.
“Okay then,” Iwaizumi says, drawing his fingers out slowly. He takes a deep breath, then grips his cock. “Sit on it.” His tone is part command, part challenge, and he knows there's nothing in the world that turns Oikawa on more.
Oikawa is flushed and breathless, but he still manages to smirk down at Iwaizumi as he rises onto his knees. He keeps one hand on Iwaizumi’s shoulder and reaches the other one behind himself, and then he’s sinking down and everything is hot and tight and Iwaizumi is so in love with this man.
“Tooru,” he groans, not daring to let his eyes shut. He keeps his gaze intent on Oikawa, the blush on his cheeks, the gentle heaves of his chest, the flex of his thighs beneath his skirt as his rises and falls on Iwaizumi’s cock.
Oikawa’s eyes are intense on his, gaze searching. He tilts his hips and leans closer to Iwaizumi so their chests are pressed against one another, and then they’re kissing. It’s sloppy, not so much kissing as mouthing, but Iwaizumi can’t be bothered with finesse when Oikawa feels so good around him, tight and hot and made for him.
“Fuck, yes,” Oikawa whines as he sinks down, and Iwaizumi realizes he said the last part out loud.
Iwaizumi lets Oikawa do most of the work, content to run his hands up those thighs, feel the drape of the skirt and the flex of his muscles while Oikawa pants above him.
“You gonna come again?” He asks.
Oikawa grinds down against him in response. “I don’t know, you gonna make me?”
“I don’t know, you gonna be good?”
They’re both too damn competitive for their own good, but Iwaizumi can’t find it in himself to mind. He hooks his hands under Oikawa’s thighs and hoists him up, flipping them around and throwing him back down on the couch. The moment of separation if totally worth the look of awed arousal on Oikawa’s face as he stares up at him.
“Hands and knees,” He says. For once in his life, Oikawa scrambles to comply, turning over and draping himself over the arm of the couch. He’s completely on display like this, skirt riding up his thighs as he tilts his hips and pushes his ass out. Iwaizumi takes a moment to appreciate the view, running a hand up his thigh, under the fabric of the skirt and then to the cleft of his ass. He presses his thumb against the tender skin below his hole and Oikawa buries his face into the couch to muffle a whine.
Iwaizumi pulls his hand back. Silence hangs between them, and then the sharp crack of his palm against Oikawa's ass.
"Fuck," Oikawa breathes out.
"Too much?"
"Never."
Iwaizumi smirks, lets his hand feel the heat the impact left behind, the pulls back for another quick slap.
"How many can you take?"
"Do you really have the patience to find out?" Oikawa taunts, arching his back and sticking his hips up higher.
"Next time," Iwaizumi says (promises), and then he's sliding back in, and it knocks the breath out of both of them.
This time, Iwaizumi's in charge. He sets a brutal pace, fucking Oikawa until he's clinging to the arm of the chair and letting out these little gasping noises. The skirt gets caught up between them, texture sliding rough against Iwaizumi's stomach. Iwaizumi shoves it up and out of the way, so he can get his hands around Oikawa's waist, dig his fingers into the sharp jut of his hip.
Oikawa matches his pace, rocking back to meet each thrust. "Please- I need-"
"What?" Iwaizumi grunts. He's getting close, stomach coiling tight with pleasure.
"Just-" Oikawa shifts, and then brings a hand down to grind against his cock.
"Want me to jerk you?"
"No, I want..." He chokes off with a whine, and Iwaizumi's next thrust grinds him down against the rough texture of the skirt.
Iwaizumi huffs out a laugh even as he drives himself in deep. "You're so dirty."
"You love it."
"Well come on then," Iwaizumi grunts, punctuating with a sharp thrust. "Come all over your sister's skirt."
Oikawa does.
He’s beautiful like this, gasping and sweaty and gross and his. Iwaizumi groans and pulls out to get a fist around his cock. It’s only two quick jerks before he's coming, painting Oikawa's thighs and ass and skirt. He still panting, buzzing through the afterglow when Oikawa turns around to look up at him with a grin.
"So you like the skirt."
Iwaizumi snorts. "Idiot. I like you." He leans down for a kiss, bringing his clean hand up to cup Oikawa's cheek.
Oikawa sighs in contentment as they pull apart, then squirms and scrunches up his nose. "It's sticky."
"And whose fault is that?"
"You," he says. "You're the older one here. You've corrupted me."
Iwaizumi rolls his eyes and steals another kiss. "Come on. We both need a shower."
Oikawa pretends to think it over. "I suppose," He says. "But only if you promise to corrupt me some more."
Iwaizumi smiles. "Always."