Work Text:
Iwaizumi knows that there’s something that Oikawa wants to try in the bedroom, but doesn’t dare tell him. He’s being secretive, closing his laptop when he walks into the room, and not letting him touch his phone. That or he’s cheating on him, but that seems very unlikely.
Not really because Iwaizumi believes him incapable—though, after so many years together both as friends and as a couple, he knows Oikawa wouldn’t—but more because he knows Tooru like the back of his hand. If there were a degree in recognizing patterns of behavior in professional volleyball player Oikawa Tooru, they would have to invent a higher category than phd for him only.
How his husband is behaving right now reminds him an awful lot of how he first acted when he discovered what free use meant and was hesitant to tell Hajime about it. But when he finally confessed, and they tried it, it was mindblowing. One of the top ten best sexual experiences Hajime ever had. They both enjoyed it so much that they decided to repeat it soon, and it quickly became a common occurrence after establishing some ground rules.
And now that Tooru has been acting the same as he did back then, Hajime would be lying if he said he isn’t excited to know what he wanted to try. So far, there hasn’t been a single thing his partner has proposed that he hasn’t been into. Now he just has to be patient.
***
The moment comes a week later, way too early in the morning for Iwaizumi’s liking.
“Have you ever heard of somnophilia?” is the question that interrupts their quiet breakfast.
Iwaizumi looks up from his phone and blinks. “What?”
Oikawa, on the other hand, has his eyes fixed on the screen of his own phone and is scrolling with his thumb. He shrugs. “Yeah, I didn’t expect you had, it’s not a very common kink.”
Oh.
Somehow, Iwaizumi isn't surprised that he decided to have this conversation when there are only ten minutes left before he has to leave for work. It’s his excuse to escape the situation if things go badly.
“What’s the kink for?”
“I heard it’s similar to free use, in a way.” Tooru’s eyes are now on the cup of coffee he’s tracing circles with his fingertips on. “Only that the person being used is asleep.”
Oh, fuck. He chokes on his food and has to cough a few times before recovering.
“Wait, like, actually asleep?”
Oikawa hums, still avoiding his gaze. His shoulders rise and fall in a tiny shrug, but the flush creeping up his neck gives him away. “Mhm. It’s about the idea of being touched, or…used, while you’re sleeping. Or, well, pretending to be.” He pauses, clearly trying to gauge Hajime’s reaction without having to meet his eyes. “It’s pre-consented, obviously, like free use, but it requires more trust and vulnerability and…” He cuts himself off with a nervous laugh and rubs his nape. “Sorry. You probably think it’s weird.”
Weird isn’t exactly the word Hajime would use. Over the years, he’s heard him say much weirder shit than this. It’s not the most common kink, sure, but rather than freak him out, the mental image of Tooru lying naked in bed, asleep and defenseless, brings heat to his cheeks.
“I don’t think it’s weird,” he says. He takes a sip of his coffee.
Tooru finally looks at him. “You don’t?” He looks relieved.
“No,” he repeats. “What is it about it that you like so much?”
“What?”
“You’ve been researching it,” Hajime says, matter-of-factly. He sets his cup down and leans forward. “You’ve been closing your laptop every time I walk in. So tell me what you find appealing about it.”
Oikawa’s smile softens, caught red-handed. “I’ve seen people describe it as comforting. Like, being wanted even when you’re not performing. You’re not posing, not talking, not really doing anything. Just…there to be desired.”
Iwaizumi’s heart skips a beat. He’s about to say something when his phone rings. The screen reads the name of the coworker who picks him up every day. He must be waiting downstairs already.
“Shit.” He gets up and downs the contents of his cup in one bitter go. He checks the clock. He’s usually already out of the apartment at this time.
“Sorry for keeping you,” Oikawa says, getting up too.
As Iwaizumi leaves the cup in the sink and runs to the bathroom to brush his teeth, his husband grabs his work bag from the bedroom.
“Thank you.” Hajime grabs it after putting on his shoes. “I love you.” He pecks his lips and turns to open the door.
“Love you too,” Oikawa replies.
Before exiting the apartment, he turns back to face him. “We’ll talk about this kink of yours later.”
The last thing he sees before leaving is his husband’s blushing face, which has him smiling on his way down the building.
***
It’s almost seven when Iwaizumi gets home. The sky outside is painted in a beautiful, deep pink and orange glow that always makes him smile and want to take a million pictures. When he opens the door of the apartment, the smell of freshly-baked meadialunas greets him.
Oikawa is sitting on the balcony table, with his laptop closed in front of him, the mate set next to it, and a plate of sweet medialunas. There’s a towel around his neck, and his hair is still dripping from a shower. He’s wearing one of Iwaiuzmi’s old shirts, with sweatpants underneath.
“Welcome home,” Tooru says, puckering his lips for a kiss that his husband compliantly gives. “You’re later than usual.”
“Traffic,” he explains, letting his body weight fall on the empty chair in front of him. “And Raúl wouldn’t shut up about the tournament schedule.”
“Ah, the joys of being a coach.” Tooru refills the mate with hot water and hands it to him. “You should’ve called me to drive you. We finished practice a bit early today.”
“Last time you picked me up, we almost died because you wanted to change the playlist mid-turn.”
Tooru gasps, fake offended. “Excuse me, I was curating the vibe.”
Hajime snorts and takes a sip.
They fall into easy silence for a few minutes, the kind that only comes after years together. The only sounds are the faint city hum below, the rustle of the wind, and Oikawa nibbling absently on a piece of pastry. Iwaizumi can feel him watching, waiting. And when he finally sets the mate down, the man’s eyes flick toward him.
“So,” Iwaizumi starts, “about what you said this morning.”
Oikawa’s fingers tighten around the electric kettle’s handle. He bites his lip. “You’re not mad about it, right?”
“Why would I be? It’s not that different from what we already do,” he says, quirking a brow. “I’m more curious about it than anything.”
Tooru exhales through his nose, shoulders relaxing. “I’m glad you don’t think it’s creepy, or that I’m…fucked up.”
“You’re not fucked up, don’t be stupid,” Hajime replies honestly. Normally he would tease him, but this is not the time to do so. “And I don’t think it’s creepy either. It’s not like I don’t understand how your head works. You like being in control so much during the day that when you let go, you really let go.”
That earns him a quiet laugh, but there’s still a blush rising high on Oikawa’s cheeks. “You make me sound like a control freak.”
“You are a control freak.”
“Rude.”
“But true.” He smiles. “So, basically, you’d want me to touch you when you’re asleep, right?”
“Not every time, obviously,” Tooru says. “Just, if you ever feel like it. Like with free use, kind of, only that consent is a bit trickier since I can’t use a safeword while asleep.”
Hajime hums, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, that’s the part that worries me. What if you wake up and freak out? Or if you’re not actually okay with it and I don’t realize?”
Tooru tilts his head, thoughtful. “I think… if I ever wake up and I’m not okay with it, I’ll tell you. We can make that a rule. You stop, no questions asked.”
“Of course I’d stop,” he says, firm. “But still, I don’t ever wanna make you feel like I’m taking advantage of you. Even if you said it’s okay.”
“I know.” Tooru smiles softly, then reaches out, brushing his thumb along Hajime’s jaw. “You wouldn’t. I trust you.”
Hajime looks at him for a long moment. “Still. I need to know what’s off-limits. Like, do I just touch you? Can I fuck you? Do you want me to wake you if you don’t naturally, or not?”
His husband blushes at the bluntness of his words, but his voice stays steady. “You can do anything you’d normally do when I’m awake. But don’t wake me up unless you really want to or something happens. I like the idea of being completely gone. It’s kind of the point.”
“Right,” Hajime mutters, still thinking it through. “So, if I try it and something feels off, I’ll stop. Even if you don’t wake up.”
“Good,” Tooru murmurs. “That’s fair. And if I ever feel weird about it afterward, I’ll tell you.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
There’s a quiet pause, then Iwaizumi grins a little. “I don’t know how your inner control freak goblin doesn’t freak out about these kinds of things.”
That earns him a laugh. “Maybe it just knows the only person I’d ever trust with that kind of control is you.”
Iwaizumi’s breath hitches. They don’t try it that day, but he does fuck his husband slow and hard, just how he likes, for being such a flirt.
***
At first, the idea seemed simple enough. Iwaizumi figured he’d just wake up earlier than usual, roll over, and let the beautiful and peaceful sight of his asleep husband do the rest. Easy.
However, reality turns out less straightforward.
The first morning after they’d talked about it, he woke up before sunrise, proud of himself for managing it…only to find Tooru already sitting on the edge of the bed, checking messages with bleary eyes and mumbling about an early strategy meeting.
Strike one.
A few days later, he tried again, but an alarm on Oikawa’s phone went off before he could even move. Oikawa stretched, smiled, kissed him half-awake, and went to the kitchen to prepare their breakfast.
Strike two.
He’s always known Oikawa’s sleep schedule is far from healthy, even after moving together and getting married. The man stays up until two in the morning, going over footage and strategies, then wakes up at seven sharp, bright-eyed and alert, functioning on sheer willpower and caffeine. No matter how many times Iwaizumi scolded him throughout middle and high school, he didn’t change. Iwaizumi, on the other hand, is a zombie if he doesn’t sleep at least eight hours. The unfairness of it makes him want to laugh and strangle him in equal measure.
So the idea remained just like that, like an idea—a quiet possibility hovering in the back of his mind.
Then, the day finally came.
Tooru had flown back from a week of matches in Europe, and the time difference hit him hard. He came home at four in the morning, barely managing to strip out of his travel clothes before collapsing into bed beside Hajime.
So when Hajime wakes up at nine in the morning, just as he does every weekend, his husband is still sleeping. The light filtering through the window is soft and golden, dust motes floating lazily in the air. And for once, Tooru is still. Not twitching, not mumbling, not half-awake scrolling on his phone. Just breathing quietly, the lines of his face relaxed in a way Hajime rarely gets to see.
He props himself up on an elbow and watches him for a moment.
This is it, he thinks.
His heart rate picks up. If he had his smartwatch on, it would alert him that it’s dangerously high. It beats so loud against his ribcage that he’s scared that the mere sound of it will wake the other man up.
For a moment, he doubts. Tooru must be dead tired from all the matches and the trip, his body exhausted and in need of recovery. Then he remembers all the times Oikawa straddled his lap and demanded to ride him when Iwaizumi wanted nothing more than to lie down and sleep, and he gets over it. If all, it gives him more reasons to enact his revenge now.
He looks at his husband, at the way his chest rises and falls in an even rhythm. He’s wearing an oversized shirt he put on after taking a quick shower, too tired to waste time doing anything else. It reaches long enough to cover the upper part of his thighs.
After a week of not seeing each other, the marks on them are barely visible anymore, and there’s nothing Iwaizumi would like to do more than give him new ones to replace them, but doing so now will likely wake him up. He’ll have to wait for later in the day. He doesn’t want to ruin the moment after searching for it for so long.
With that in mind, he sits on the bed and reaches to touch him. He caresses his legs, trailing his fingers around the shape of his knee, then moves to his face and pokes him a few times. Nothing, Oikawa doesn’t even flinch.
Perfect.
He exhales quietly, half in disbelief, half in anticipation. The whole room feels suspended in that fragile space between dream and wakefulness, and his hands shake a little when he brushes his thumb along the side of Oikawa’s jaw.
His thumb drags down, tracing the slope of his neck to his collarbone, feeling the slow pulse under warm skin. It’s grounding, that steady heartbeat, the faint hum of life beneath his fingertips. The thought that Tooru would willingly put his life in Hajime’s hands, give him permission to do as he pleases with his body, sends shivers down his spine and makes his clothed cock twitch in interest.
Trying to avoid making a sound, he moves so that his knees are on each side of his husband’s body. He pauses and searches for any signs of stirring. None. Oikawa’s face stays relaxed, mouth slightly open, lashes fanned out against his cheeks. The sight makes Hajime’s chest tighten, not just from arousal, but from tenderness so raw it almost hurts. Even dead to the world, Tooru looks like he’s posing for a damn magazine. It’s unfair, and Hajime’s half-tempted to wake him out of envy.
He presses a kiss to his temple. “You’re too pretty, you know that?”
Still no reaction.
A quiet laugh escapes him, more breath than sound. He really is out cold.
Iwaizumi touches his thighs. He knows Oikawa is sensitive there, but he just can’t help it. It’s one of his favorite parts of his body. The skin is soft, deceptively so. It hides the strength underneath, the sheer power packed in every muscle. His thumbs glide up the inner side, feeling the faint give before meeting the hard curve of the vastus medialis, perfectly sculpted from years of jumps, lunges, and landings.
He hums quietly, a mix of admiration and hunger curling low in his gut. God, he could crush my head between these thighs if he wanted to. His cock hardens at the thought, more affected than it should.
He presses his thumbs in just a little, tracing the edge where muscle meets tendon, and feels the subtle twitch of Oikawa’s leg in his sleep. He stills, afraid this might be impossible after all, but the man doesn’t react further.
So Hajime kisses the inside of one thigh, then the other, and slides higher. And fuck, he knows he shouldn’t, but he’s like a starving man in front of the most delicious food he’s ever laid eyes on, and he can’t resist. He bites him. Lightly, just enough to leave a faint mark that won’t take too long to fade.
He pulls back to admire the spot, the red imprint standing out against pale skin. It’s nothing compared to the ones he’ll leave later (when Oikawa is awake and pliant and moaning for him), but right now, it’s all he’ll risk to have.
He leans in again, running his tongue over the mark in apology, in adoration, in something he can’t quite name. His hands roam up, massaging the muscles he knows so well, every flex and curve catalogued in his trainer’s mind. Rectus femoris, adductor longus, semitendinosus. All perfect, all his.
When he reaches the hem of his shirt, his breath catches, and he almost chokes in his own saliva.
Fuck.
Tooru isn’t wearing underwear.
The last drops of self-restraint jump evaporate. It’s probably a bit stupid of him to do this since he’s trying to avoid waking him up, but he cups his balls with a hand and licks down his soft length. Even if the man isn’t awake, Oikawa’s body reacts, his cock twitching at the sensation of his husband’s tongue against the hot skin.
Hajime hums, content, and continues to lick up and down, from base to tip and back. It doesn’t take long to get him to full hardness.
When he does, he deposits one last kiss on the head and moves lower between his thighs so that his mouth is right against his entrance. He gives it a first lick, checks for a reaction, and when he doesn’t find it, he keeps going.
Tooru’s skin tastes like soap, and smells like lavender, and Hajime wants to devour him. He licks from his entrance to his balls, and then back downwards again. The position is kind of uncomfortable, and he hesitates for a moment before deciding to shift him gently, hands warm against the soft give of his husband’s thighs as he bends his knees. The weight of him, pliant and heavy with sleep, makes Hajime’s chest ache with something too big for words.
A soft sound of complaint escapes the man’s mouth, but he doesn’t wake.
Good.
Now more comfortable, Iwaizumi goes back to eating him out until he’s dripping saliva onto the bedsheets, and he can slip his tongue inside his hole. He misses the feeling of Oikawa’s hand in his head, pulling at his hair, but he won’t miss the opportunity to have him like this. Pliant, quiet, at his complete mercy.
Oikawa’s breath hitches, just a fraction, as Hajime’s tongue traces his entrance. It’s not enough to wake him, but it's enough to make Hajime’s pulse spike.
Fuck, he’s so hard.
He pulls his tongue away and replaces it with his middle finger. He eases it inside, slow and deliberate, feeling the tight resistance of his body. A week without this, without him, has left Tooru’s muscles taut, unconsciously clenching around the intrusion like they’re reluctant to yield.
Iwaizumi’s breath catches at the sensation, his own cock throbbing painfully in his boxers. He’s always loved the paradox that is his partner’s body. Soft and pliant on the surface, but with unyielding strength beneath, a testament to years of discipline and relentless drive.
He moves his finger gently, curling it just enough to test the give, and fuck, it’s tight. It’s been a while since he’s been like this, and a thrill of delight travels down Hajime’s body. He’s going to enjoy being inside of him.
His free hand traces the curve of Tooru’s hip, marveling at the smooth dip where thigh meets pelvis. “You’re unreal,” he murmurs. If the man were awake, he would smirk and tease him for it, but he remains still, chest rising and falling in that same steady rhythm.
Hajime adds a second finger, slower, and reaches for the lube on the nightstand drawer. The quiet click of the cap feels deafening in the stillness of the room, and he freezes, glancing at Tooru’s face. Nothing. Just the faint twitch of his brow, a fleeting sign of disturbance that melts back into peace. Hajime exhales, slicking his fingers generously before sliding them back in, working them in small, careful circles to loosen the tension.
He is a patient person. He’s always patient with him, but especially now, with Tooru like this, so vulnerable and trusting, it makes his chest ache.
His fingers go deeper, scissoring, and he can’t help but stare at the way Oikawa’s body takes him. The faint sheen of sweat on his skin catches in the morning light, making him glow like something divine. Iwaizumi has always thought Oikawa is too beautiful for his own good—too beautiful for anyone’s good, really.
The sharp lines of his jaw, the soft curve of his lips, the way his hair falls messily across his forehead. All effortlessly perfect, like all the gods and buddhas crafted him just to drive him insane.
“You don’t know what you do to me.” He presses a kiss to the inside of his knee, soft and reverent.
Oikawa’s body responds, even if his mind doesn’t. His walls clench around Iwaizumi’s fingers, a subtle pulse that makes his cock hurt with need. He works his fingers faster now, stretching him open with a tenderness that borders on worship. Every flex of muscle, every faint twitch, feels like a gift, a reminder of how much his husband trusts and loves him.
He brushes over the sensitive skin of his perineum with his thumb, and Tooru’s breath hitches again. A soft, innocent sound that sends a jolt straight to Hajime’s groin. He could stay like this forever, lost in the warmth and tightness of his body, but the need to be closer, to be inside him, is overwhelming.
He withdraws his fingers slowly, almost reluctantly, and reaches for the lube again. His hands shake as he slicks himself up, his cock so hard it’s painful.
Hajime takes a second to just look at Tooru, sprawled out beneath him, legs spread, shirt tucked up to expose the muscles in his abdomen. “God, you’re perfect,” he breathes.
It’s not just the heat of the moment, but the truth, carved into every memory he holds of Tooru’s serves, his smiles, his stupid late-night rants about volleyball and movies and aliens and everything in between. He falls more and more in love with him each day that passes.
After taking a deep breath and exhaling, he positions himself and guides his cock to Oikawa’s entrance, while gripping his thigh for balance with his free hand. He pushes in slowly, and fuck, the tightness is almost too much. He has to grit his teeth to keep himself from groaning and waking him up.
Oikawa shifts slightly, and his lips part in a soft, unconscious whimper.
Iwaizumi stills, buried to the hilt. His heart pounds so loud he’s sure it’ll wake the other man on its own. He leans down to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, then another to the curve of his jaw. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispers like a mantra.
Then he starts to move. It’s slow and shallow at first, savoring the drag of Oikawa’s walls against him. His body is warm and still adjusting to his width after a week without sex, and he fights the urge to thrust harder, to chase the heat building in his gut. Instead, he focuses on Tooru, on the way his chest rises with each breath, the way his fingers twitch against the sheets. Hajime’s hand roams up, slipping under the oversized shirt to trace the ridges of Tooru’s abs and reach his chest.
“All mine,” he whispers absentmindedly as he circles a nipple with his thumb. He swears he feels Oikawa shudder under his touch, just a little.
Iwaizumi can’t help it. He grips Oikawa’s hips tighter, pressing his thumbs into the sharp bones he’s mapped a thousand times, and starts fucking him harder. The bed creaks beneath them.
His husband’s body takes it all, pliant, muscles clenching around him in a way that drives him wild with lust. Iwaizumi’s eyes roam over him, drinking in the sight of the flush creeping up his neck, and the way his abs tense with each thrust.
The increasing rhythm that finally pulls Oikawa from sleep.
A confused hum escapes his lips first, his brows furrowing as his brain registers what’s happening. His lashes flutter, and his eyes creak open, hazy and unfocused, staring at the ceiling like he’s piecing together a dream. “What…?” he mumbles, voice thick and slurred. One of his hands searches for something on the bedsheets, and doesn’t seem to find it. His hips shift instinctively, pressing back, but there’s a lag, a foggy delay before awareness catches up.
Hajime doesn’t stop, can’t stop, his thrusts deep and unyielding, chasing the edge that’s building too quickly.
Tooru’s breath hitches, turning into a soft, broken moan as his gaze sharpens, realization dawning in fragments.
The heat, the pressure, the familiar weight of Hajime’s body above him.
“Fuck—ah!” he gasps, arching into it now. His hands fumble to grip Hajime’s arms, and his nails dig in. “Shit, Hajime—yes—” Tooru’s voice cracks on a curse, moans spilling out as he reciprocates, hips rolling up to meet each thrust. “I love you—fuck, I love this—wanted this so long—” His words tumble out breathless, laced with sleep-roughened affection, eyes locking onto Hajime’s with that intense, all-consuming spark. “Best—mn!—best way to wake up—don’t stop, please—”
Tooru’s words, laced with raw need, fuel Hajime like nothing else. He thrusts deeper, harder.
Their moans and groans fill the room, a symphony of curses and “I love you”s, both overcome with pleasure.
He leans down and captures the other’s lips in a messy, desperate kiss, uncaring that they haven’t brushed their teeth yet. Their mouths clash, tongues tangling in a familiar dance, Tooru’s hands finally waking fully to clutch at Hajime’s shoulders, nails scraping down his back.
Hajime breaks the kiss just enough to murmur against Tooru’s ear, voice smug and rough with arousal, “Good morning, darling.” He punctuates it with a sharp thrust, earning a gasp that turns into a laugh from Tooru. He sounds utterly wrecked.
“Fuck you,” Tooru stammers between moans, but there’s no heat in it, just affection and hunger as he meets his husband’s pace.
They move together like that for what feels like an eternity stretched thin by desire. Hajime’s hands roam over Tooru’s body in worship, tracing the lean lines of his waist, the powerful flex of his thighs, the way his abs contract with every breath. Tooru’s everything to him. Beautiful, unbreakable, his. Hajime can’t get enough.
“I’m close,” he declares. “Want me to pull—?”
“Don’t you dare,” Oikawa cuts him off.
Iwaizumi chuckles, kisses his throat, and keeps fucking him until he comes inside his husband with one last, stuttering thrust.
Oikawa whimpers. “I’m—fuck!—I’m close too,” he says.
Iwaizumi wraps his hand around his cock, stroking firm and fast to match the aftershocks pulsing through him. “Come for me,” he rasps. His thumb circles the head, wet with precum.
It doesn’t take long for Oikawa to come as well, body tensing as he spills over Iwaizumi’s fingers, a litany of moans falling from his lips.
Iwaizumi never tires of this sight. The way he unravels, beautiful, vulnerable, satisfied, is mesmerizing. He’s never been prouder of anything other than knowing he’s the only one who can see him like this.
As the waves subside, Hajime starts to pull back, but Tooru’s legs lock around his waist in an instant, strong thighs clamping down like a vice, holding him in place. Hajime freezes, a surprised huff escaping him as he looks down at Tooru’s flushed face, those brown eyes gleaming with mischief and lingering heat.
“Stay,” he pleads, still catching his breath. “That was so fucking hot, Iwa-chan.”
“Yeah,” he agrees. He enjoyed it more than he thought he would.
“I need you to fuck me again right the fuck now.”
Hajime laughs. He kisses his temple and isn’t surprised to find that his cock is already stirring again at the thought.
How could it not? He isn’t built to deny Tooru anything. Not his smiles, not his demands, not this. His creators (be it God or whatever other supernatural, superior entity) forgot to install that setting.
“Of course,” he agrees, nuzzling into his hair. “Round two it is.”