This drabble is simply to channel some of my current PTSD. It deals with the sometimes belated, psychological effects rape and its aftermath can have on the body. This is short, and kind of dark. It’s a lot different than my usual humorous stuff, so I apologize if it makes anyone uncomfortable //Sweats
Summary: His mind beckons to be persecuted. Oikawa tries to take comfort in the familiar.
Rating: M
Pairing: Iwaizumi/Oikawa
Oikawa still couldn’t remember their names, even now, as he lay in bed with his legs spread wide and his hand wrapped around his flaccid member with trembling urgency.
He found it humorless. Pathetic. But he’d been feeling just as humorless and pathetic when their girths slipped inside him, adequate in size, but intolerable in a mouth whose tongue was often the perpetrator of sharp quips and smooth commands.
【…Completely unwelcome against the backdrop of firm praise and tentative whimpers for a shrewd, childhood friend.】
Oikawa pulled his hand away and stared at the precum between his fingers, face split into a nasty, weakened grin. His hair was matted with sweat, and his other hand lay buried in Iwa-chan’s shirt, fisting it tightly—uncaring if he wrinkled the tee that Iwa-chan had always labeled his ‘favorite’.
Because he was frustrated, and he deserved to be.
At three in the morning he couldn’t even get himself off to the musky, familiar scent of the Iwa-chan that he knew and loved, conscripted to simply stare at the ceiling; begrudgingly recalling events that were insignificant to him or his beloved climax.
Oikawa simply moved to slide back under the covers, snuggling his pillow. He somehow felt warmer, more comfortable this way, but his mind was restless as he brought the fabric of Iwa-chan’s shirt up to his nose and deeply inhaled.
For a brief moment, he stopped seeing the outlines of anomalous, moving bodies against the lid of his eyes. He stopped hearing the rough slap of skin against skin in his ears. Guttural, animalistic murmurs of right there and don’t you like that, were almost immersed in white noise, and all Oikawa could feel, with unwelcome difficulty, was Iwa-chan.
His fingers tentatively brushed against his length and it twitched.
Iwa-chan. Iwa-chan. Iwa-chan.
He stroked himself sloppily, urgently. Oikawa rolled onto his stomach and gyrated his hips. The moan he let out was neither authentic nor compulsory as he tried to imagine Iwa-chan’s lips smoothing over the nape of his neck, and Iwa-chan’s coarse hands insistently kneading his cheeks instead of theirs.
He rolled his sack with a shaky, saliva coated palm.
Iwa-chan’s chest would heave, exceptionally hard, as he’d run his hands through Oikawa’s hair. Tugging on it. Worshiping it. Burying his nose in it in that endearing, Iwa-chan sort of way, that showed him he was just as obsessed with Oikawa as he was with him.
Then he would pull down his pants.
Oikawa arched his back at the thought.
Iwa-chan would free his cock and it would swell red. It throbs like Oikawa’s hands after a long, onerous volleyball practice. It grows against his backside. It drips like honey onto the sheets.
And Oikawa would quake with need as Iwa-chan positioned himself at his entrance, the head inching its way inside with excruciating slowness. Take it. Take it.
Of course, of course he does.
He would push his hips back, allowing blunt nails to dig into his skin. To draw blood. To cruelly shove a cock through his tight threshold with an unbearable fullness until…
Oikawa’s breath hitched as he came with a pained cry.
It was no longer Iwa-chan inside of him.
“You’d like that wouldn’t you, you fucking slut?”
Oikawa shook.
Liquid fire dripped down his cheeks in streams.
Of course, of course he does.
THAT SASS THOUGH.
New update tomorrow!
CapturedByNoodles 