xianshxng - Tumblr blog

xianshxng · 4 years ago

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cat & mouse

iwaizumi hajime || haikyuu!!

byr; this is a (not so small) secret santa gift for the amazing @vanille--kiss , someone i respect so much in the church community. i really hope you enjoy this, sugarcube. this was my first time writing iwaizumi, but i had a blast either way ♡ merry christmas and happiest of new years!!

cw; 18+ minors dni, looks like oik x reader and def is not, praise kink, mafia au, minor tattoo fetish, minor bondage, heavy dom iwa, sub but bratty reader, heavily implied long term mutual pining (you gotta squint), possessive iwa

wc; 9169

Consider it a pastime, consider it a hobby, consider it a real bad habit you form when you like someone and don’t have the gall to confess like any sane individual would—

But teasing Iwaizumi Hajime is always the best.

Alright, maybe it isn’t the best thing, picking on a man who has a pistol holster strapped across his chest and a pair of solid steel knuckle dusters tucked away in his back pocket ‘in case of emergencies’. Maybe you shouldn’t be attempting something as grand and wicked as this at a business dinner with another family that runs the lower side of Hyogo, where all eyes are on you and the Seijoh Four of the Johsai syndicate.

And yet, here you are, plan blooming in mind and painted nails drumming idly against the stark white of the dinner table in a show of eager anticipation. Your partner in crime is seated to your left, the curls of his hair neatly kept and the smile on his face as fake as plastic.

Oikawa makes for a pretty sight, dolled up in a crisp suit that might cost the same as a doctor’s tuition. He always did look and act more like an idol boy than he ever did the head of an underground crime family, but you suppose when the going gets tough, the tough slap on a pair of Testonis and get right on going.

He’s a damn good actor, on and off the metaphorical stage. Perfect for your little scheme.

The apple of your eye and victim of tonight’s performance sits stiff and at the ready, his eyes on the man he’s already labeled as most dangerous. Iwaizumi always acted more of a mafioso than Oikawa did, with his teeth constantly gritted and his eyes locked on the target, the nearest weapon, and the closest exit.

Ah, the idol and his trusty guard dog and right hand man; it’s a good thing Oikawa loved to tease just as much as you did, which in the end made for a deadly (and headache inducing, according to Iwaizumi) pair. Lucky for you, being the boss of an organized crime ring never managed to take the fun out of Oikawa.

Though these business dinners were never exactly the most riveting time, for you or Oikawa or any of the men seated at the table.

The don of Shiratorizawa sits just across from Oikawa, strategically placed between two men you’d never seen, and probably wouldn’t survive an encounter with. Their boss, a certain Ushijima Wakatoshi, didn’t look the type to need his own security personnel; considering the near 200cm build and jawline sharp enough to cut stone, the man seemed more than capable of handling himself. Who knew what was hidden behind the deep and cool scowl he wears, or even what he kept stashed away in the breast pocket of his well-starched jacket? Hell, did the guy even need a weapon? A passing glance from him could drop a man dead in his tracks.

You suppose that’s what’s keeping Iwaizumi so tightly wound, being the more careful and strategic of the Seijoh wonder twins. Though a glance around his side shows Makki and Mattsun also carefully eyeing the second capo of Shiratorizawa with hands likely already hovering over their stored weapons.

Yeah, it probably isn’t the best time to be scheming, but when Oikawa finally (actually) makes the first move, the plan gets set in motion with no hopes of stopping.

“The lines going through the Kobe region were disrupted by authorities, which means we need to…” The lull in conversation skips a beat in your chest, eyes pulling towards where you fidget nervously.

It’s Ushijima who speaks first, his voice doing absolutely nothing to quell your nerves. “Tooru. Can I ask what seems to have your focus that is not the problem at hand?”

Your eyes glance over to the don on your side of the table, who’s decided that his attention is better spent on you, rather than Shiratorizawa’s logistics soldier giving the report. When your eyes meet, Oikawa only shoots you a cocky wink.

You can already feel Iwaizumi bristling, though from what, it’s hard to say.

“Oh, my bad. I promise I’m listening, just not lookin’ at you is all. Not when this beauty is next to me, naturally.” Another wink your way and you’re shuddering a bit. Oikawa’s hand makes a move to slip towards yours where it rests on the table, and when you don't pull away Iwaizumi gives a testing grunt. When you steal a careful peek his way you can see he’s still looking towards the other side of the table, but his fingers are clutched harshly into his pant leg. Iwaizumi is a patient man, come hell or high water. But some things can really test it, and you’re here to toe the line and see just how far you can take it.

You’re testing those same high waters and you don’t have a lifebuoy to save you when you swim a little too deep.

God is it exhilarating.

“Tooru…” You shy from the touch, cheeks hot and eyes coy. There’s a tremor in your tone that has Oikawa perking up. Iwaizumi reaches for the wine glass wishing he had whiskey. “Not really a good place for this, y’know.” You hum, the act sticking with you easily.

It doesn’t deter the man in the slightest; if anything, it only spurs on the adventure his fingers make over the backs of your knuckles, easing over the curve of your wrist to the soft skin of your exposed forearm.

His chuckle is enough to make the room tense, yet no one speaks up; not even Ushijima, who manages to sit cool as ever in his chair.

Mattsun scoffs a short laugh, “Here he goes again.”

Makki is watching with rapt interest, though he seems to be gauging Iwaizumi’s reactions more with a knowing smirk.

Iwaizumi? Well, let’s just say he isn’t enjoying this moment all too well, if his white knuckles are anything to go by. You have the mind to warn him that his wine glass is made of just that– glass– and is ready to shatter, but Oikawa catches your attention again, just as planned.

“How rude of me! You’re all family and I haven’t so much as offered to share!” His smile is straight and clean, a far cry from his rather dirty intentions. “Ah, I should probably ask Iwa-chan first, hm? Oh, but of course, it’s not like you two are together!”

Iwaizumi’s eye twitches at the mention of his name, at the implication of what Oikawa means. Shiratorizawa can assume easily what’s going on, and why Iwaizumi has a vein jumping at the thick of his throat. There’s an invisible line drawn with a brilliant red marker somewhere between the three of you, and Oikawa looks to be smudging it with a go-getter smile on his face.

“Tooru,” you whisper soft enough that Oikawa needs to lean in. Iwaizumi subconsciously does the same, hovering dark and leering over you even as you shift closer to the boss. “Not here… it’s embarrassing.” It’s a bit of a stage act, hiding your pursed lips behind your fingers, lowering your lashes and bringing a shine to your eyes. But it’s working–

Maybe a little too well.

“Aw, but sweetheart, you’re too good to not share with the boys! Right, Iwa-chan? Easy on the eyes,” Oikawa slips a gloved hand higher up your arm, reaches the sagging teacup sleeve of your cocktail dress and presses a finger under it, “sweet on the tongue.”

“Tooru!”

Iwaizumi jumps and slams his knees into the underside of the table; the Shiratorizawa soldiers react fast, all eyes going on him and weapons likely training in on his chest from the corners of the room; on his sneering face and raised shoulders.

Oikawa only laughs, full of himself even with his best friend glaring him down. Ushijima is confused but collected, his second in command doing his best to hold back laughter at the display. “Oops, the kitten has a bit of a mewl in her! Save that for later, okay, darling?”

You’re downright shaking, and the dress you're in feels too tight, too restrictive against your buzzing skin. It may just be a little game, but Oikawa can make it feel real with only a few words, make it feel like you really are trying for something with the way his fingers move like silk against your bare skin.

You look at Iwaizumi; he isn’t looking at you. Instead, he’s burning holes into the table and keeping his jaw wired shut. Are you glad for the fact, or terrified? You don’t really know.

Finally, a break; Oikawa takes the awkward tension in the room and weaves it into something more tolerable, something more akin to what the dinner was actually arranged for.

Wine pours smooth and red, the most expensive offered in the restaurant; Iwaizumi has opted this time for a dark amber whiskey, downing it in harsh gulps that makes his throat bob and his cheeks warm with something that isn’t anger. Nothing remotely close to letting him get drunk, but he’s definitely tipping a few back.

It’s when you’re sipping your own wine that you feel it; a slow crawl up your thigh that hikes your dress higher. The fabric is catching against the chair where your thigh presses down, but it doesn’t stop the hand that moves with such purpose.

It’s not Iwaizumi’s, but he damn well notices. Notices when your breathing hitches, when the wine in your glass ripples with your shaking hand.

Anyone at the table can see the smirk that pulls at Oikawa’s lips even as he discusses the route of the next weapon haul, the next shipment listing of black market class fours and weapons that definitely aren’t allowed in the country, let alone in civilian hands. He doesn’t have to have his full attention on what he says to say it well, which means he can easily run a firm hand up and down the length of your thigh without a problem.

Except there is a problem, and that problem has a name and raging anger issues.

Said problem is on your other thigh in an instant, grabbing the meat of it and holding tight enough to shift your attention. But he still isn’t looking at you; he’s still focused on Ushijima responding to Oikawa, talking about some blockade or whatever; in truth you’ve completely lost interest in the happenings of the meeting.

The words are going over you now, too much of your attention on the hot and cold of the two men holding onto you. Oikawa is teasing and soft; Iwaizumi is harsh and bruising. The jealousy is easy to see in his touch, yet when you look at his face he still seems collected.

Just as planned is what you want to say, except Iwaizumi hasn’t really done anything to show he’s jealous. Not really– not yet.

It isn’t really in the course of action, but if it really gets Iwaizumi’s clock ticking, then you guess it’s time to get things rolling. The dinner will only last so long, and you’re nothing if not timely in your endeavors.

So you lean a bit towards Oikawa, sigh softly as you grab his hand where it rests against your thigh, and drag it higher.

Oikawa actually jumps a little, looking your way with wide and dark eyes. A curl of brown droops down over his forehead, so you reach up with a shaky hand you hope isn’t too shaky and push it back up into the rest of his perfectly styled hair. With a pouty lip, you lock fingers with his and keep your hands high, too high on your thigh to be friendly. “Hurry, Tooru. I’m bored n’ I wanna play with someone.” You keen at him under your breath, soft enough to have him shake.

Even Oikawa looks a little nervous, questioning you silently over just how far you’ve lept. He looks to be wondering just how far you’re willing to go to get to Iwaizumi.

Not that you need to go any farther.

The sensation comes before the shock; a chill of something wet and the sharp stench of whiskey as the contents of Iwaizumi’s glass tip into your lap. There’s the feeling of something grabbing at your wrist and tugging hard, tipping you to the side until you’re being lifted up and into a broad chest.

The heat coming off of Iwaizumi is dizzying, the smell of him so suddenly close has you inhaling deeply even as the whiskey quickly staining your dress sours in your nose. You’re probably breathing hard from fear, but hey, it looks like you’ve gotten what you’ve wanted.

You finally, finally got to him.

“Shit, c’mon. Damn dress’ll stain or some shit.” The room blinks at you two silently. “I’ll get her out of here and clean her up.”

Iwaizumi does nothing to staunch the anger bleeding from every fiber, shooting the last of the whiskey in his cup before the glass slams down harshly on the table. No one flinches, but no one looks amused either.

Well, maybe Oikawa does, just a little.

You can just hear the beginnings of apologies from Makki, the second most responsible after Iwaizumi, even over Oikawa’s sighing chuckle of “Won’t see them til tomorrow~”

The last you get to hear as you’re shoved into a car is Iwaizumi grumbling to a personal driver to take you both to the nearest hotel– something big and glitzy that could run a bank account dry within the night. He has Oikawa’s card, anyway; serves the bastard right, or so he grumbles from his spot beside you.

The drive is tense, and your skin is prickling and sticky with drying liquor. Hotel, angry Iwaizumi, and anticipation oozing heat into your core makes for the best and worst combination. It feels like ages pass with him just watching you, his glare scathing. But he says nothing, not a single word the entire drive. His arms fold over his chest and the material looks ready to burst where the fabric strains against his muscles.

You might be drooling.

By the time you’re at the hotel (something big and glamorous and definitely not within the average price range), Iwaizumi is absolutely prickly. He hands the driver a few bills and barks at him roughly to be back by noon tomorrow, and to ignore whenever Oikawa is bound to ask where you two ran off to.

You don’t even have time to apologize to the driver for his behavior before he’s dragging you into the hotel, easily buying the penthouse package and making doubly sure the wet bar is fully stocked.

The price has you blanching; it has Iwaizumi smirking.

“Just charge it on this,” he hands over the little metal card that definitely is not under his name without so much as a flinch. You make a mental note to apologize to Oikawa when he balances the books later.

You had to admit it, though, the penthouse was gorgeous; a sunken couch around a firepit, mounted flatscreens big enough to be movie screens, the promised fully stocked wet bar, wingspan windows that take up the entire outside wall of the living room and let you look out over the city.

It’s beautiful, and definitely worth the small fortune Iwaizumi just used underworld funds for.

Iwaizumi is already at the bar handling a decanter of golden bourbon, but he isn’t pouring any into the glass he’s set out. The liquid swishes inside the crystal, shining glittery and smooth. You’re nervous, of course, but you’re mostly curious. Ready and waiting for Iwaizumi to make that first move that you know he’s dying to make, has been dying to make.

It takes a minute for him to speak, and you almost wondered if he was as lost in his thoughts as you were. “You really have eyes for that shiny bastard Oikawa?” He finally huffs, and it almost sounds lost, forced.

You’re really looking at him now, taking in everything head to toe; the soft gelled style of his hair, the curls of black ink poking out from the collar of his shirt and where his sleeves are rolled, the hug of his belt around his waist, the way his legs look so long in those dress pants. Everything.

You wet your lips, finding it a little hard to speak. “If… If I did? What then?” It’s working, the plan is working. Just a little more, you’re sure of it. It seems like enough to get Iwaizumi back into the moment, enough of a push to move the moment forward.

He sets the decanter down without pouring so much as a drop; this is a moment he needs to be sober for, though his peeved annoyance is enough to get him to seem emboldened without even a drop of liquid courage.

“You know you aren’t his. I know you aren’t his.” Every step he takes towards you is measured and precise, his pace set just exact, enough to have you shaking. He looks like a predator; you feel like prey, like a little rabbit stuck inches from the maw of a wolf. Your blood surges with an energetic heat that goes right to your core.

Deep breath in; it gets stuck in your throat and doesn’t come out. “Who said I was anyone’s?” You don’t sound confident, you sound wheezy and high. Iwaizumi smirks when he sees you shudder, watches your hands clench the fabric of your dress at your sides.

“Don’t gotta say it, doll. I’m not Shittykawa; I don’t need some fancy words and shit to get you on your knees.” God he’s close; you can smell his cologne, smell his own personal musk. You want to choke on it, you want to feel it fill your lungs like water.

He doesn’t seem to care about you looking ready to collapse under his gaze. Rather, he just keeps going. “That was quite the show you put on there. Someone likes the attention, huh?” You swallow and shake your head just barely; Iwaizumi doesn’t believe you, and he lets you know that with a rough laugh.

“You two aren’t slick; using Oikawa is like hiring a street performer to work in a circus.” Was he always this tall? You can’t think straight; your head is spinning.

He towers over you where he stands inches from you, sending a shadow over your frame and ripping desire through your nerves. He’s big, he’s built, and you want to see just how low that tattoo goes where it dives under his shirt. Would he let you trace the pattern with your tongue? Lay back as you give his body worship meant for a god?

It takes a few swallows and a short mental cheer to finally bring your wits about you to speak. “Seemed to work to me, you looked ready to blow your top back there.” You hope you sound cocky and not at all as shaky as you feel. A gesture to your dress actually has him looking a little guilty. “Ruined my pretty dress too– you know how expensive this was? I don’t think the dry cleaners have a whiskey coverage option.”

You pluck at your dress a bit, tugging the fabric where it sticks to your belly and chest. Two can play this little game of cat and mouse, and you’ve been playing cat all night.

“All that because of a little crush, huh? The proud and powerful second in command for an underground weapons dealer and mafioso, all jealous; pretty cute if you ask me.” When you look away from your dress and back up to your ‘little mouse’, you go cold.

You’re dead.

You’re so very, insanely dead.

Iwaizumi’s eyes go dark, his body leaning in and devouring the space between you two until there’s nothing. “Me? Liking a runt like you?” He stops, so close that you can feel his breath fan over your lip. Every sense is filled with him; he smells like gunpowder and danger and excitement. You want to know if he tastes the same. “And what if I do?”

That’s all it takes before you’re grabbing that damned collar hiding those damned tattoos and shredding through the distance, slamming his lips to yours in an emotional flurry of teeth and tongue.

Iwaizumi always had a reaction time like lightning, quick to draw and quicker to shoot. That went double for now, with his hands going right for your cheeks and holding your head steady, shifting you where he needed you to make full and hot and downright blissful contact with his lips.

They’re a little dry, with his lower lip plumping beneath the heat of your kiss. The kiss is rushed and pouring with the pent up feelings of pining for far too long. And it’s absolute heaven.

It’s like you two don’t know where to keep your hands, both of you driven to explore and map areas you’d only ever dared to look at, but never touch. The kiss mimics the touch mimics the emotion; pent up and finally able to bubble over the lip, you two are a mess against each other.

Even a mess of finally realized need, though, Iwaizumi moves with a purpose. Left nothing more than a puddle without bone or structure, you can only follow where he pushes and pulls your body, giving into the way his hands mold you, shape you into what he needs. You’re moving, and he’s the one moving you. The one guiding you blindly through the dark of the suite, through unseen hallways and doorways.

You’re drunk off the taste of his lips or the whiskey on his tongue or both, not that any of it matters. Not when he’s touching you like he’s going to lose you, letting you feel the deep grit of the calluses on his hands that hold guns just right, that have been shaped by the handles of knives.

Iwaizumi really does taste like how he smells; like gunpowder and whiskey and danger and thrill. It’s more intoxicating than liquor and tobacco and whatever the hell else someone gets addicted to. Fuck that, you’d rather get addicted to this.

And god you just might, with the way he won’t let up. You’re breathing through your nose and sucking in barely seconds worth of air before he’s back on your lips, again and again and again. There’s enough passion to knock you sideways, enough strength to do it literally. The same hands that can kill man and beast hold you fully, carefully; his fingers scratch across your midriff uncaring of the tackiness left there by the whiskey (the dress probably won’t be on for long anyway).

His nails catch on sequins and diamonds embedded in the fabric, the sound and feeling of him drawing closer to where your breasts swell in the fabric bringing you to near tears. Finally, finally, fucking finally. He’s touching you and you’re touching him, he’s grunting your name and you’re mewling his like he’s already brought you to orgasm.

The tips of his fingers are so close to where you’re pearling beneath your dress, to the shudder of your chest as you wait so impatiently as you have for months or years or decades.

And without a care in the world, he–

He doesn’t touch you. His fingers skim up the sides of your breasts like a bug on water, completely bypassing where you crave his attention and instead going for your jawline. Thick fingers pinch at your chin, pulling your lips into his for one last heated exchange before he pushes you back entirely.

There’s a fire in his eyes that burns through the distance he’s just recreated between you, a distance that has you crying for him without shame.

“You think,” he pants and wipes his chin of the drool you’ve smeared there and god if that isn’t unbelievably attractive. “You think that I would just let you have your way after acting that way? Not a chance, doll. Not a fuckin’ chance.”

It’s a little awkward, standing there in the dark of what is obviously the master bedroom with the lights of the city outside swimming in the corners of your vision. Soaked beyond belief through your thin panties and wondering if that massive bulge in Iwaizumi’s slacks had always been there, had always been searing a line hot and big down his left thigh.

Guess the big part about Iwaizumi stays true no matter what part of him it is.

But standing there having a stare-off is getting old and you aren’t getting any less horny, so you shuffle your body and twist so the strap of your dress slips off your shoulder. “So…” Is he awkward at sex, or is this just him edging? Either way, you’re getting a little impatient.

“So–”

“Knees.”

The word rings through you like the toll of a bell. “Sorry?”

There’s the scuff of his shoes against the floor, the shift of his pants as his legs spread just the slightest in his stance. “You ran your mouth pretty well during the meeting, so you’re gonna put it to better use here.”

He doesn’t need to point to where he means, he doesn’t need flashing lights and cute curling arrows. You aren’t some innocent little girl.

It’s a sort of itch in the back of your head to put up at least a little bit of a fight, maybe draw out the moment a little more and continue that bratty streak you’ve held close to your chest all night. Be a brat, cross your arms and huff out a sigh and turn your chin up like an indigent child. It might look cute, might annoy Iwaizumi in the way that you love.

And you don’t do any of it.

Instead, like a good girl being led by her cunt and not her head, you make your way forward on teetering legs and with an airy head. It’s comical when you try to tip down onto your knees and are stopped halfway by your dress, the stupid thing catching at your waist and putting you into a lock.

A minute passes where Iwaizumi lets you fuss with it for a moment, lets you tug and groan and mutter how insanely cheesy the moment is. And a minute later Iwaizumi is grabbing at your waist to move you closer before snagging the dress at the hip and ripping.

It’s loud and it sounds like several thousand yen down the drain as the fabric tears up the entire side of the dress all the way through the skirt, but it works and lets you move enough to be pushed down at the shoulder so that you’re seated cute and small at his feet.

He doesn’t look the least bit sorry as he chuckles a small ‘oops’, a cute smirk on his lip that shows the faintest sliver of teeth. Talk about an every day Adonis.

“Need me to hold your hand?” He remarks when you take a minute to just stare at his slacks, snorting at the dumb look on your face. You don’t, but a little incentive wouldn’t hurt because holy fuck, the man is massive and you haven’t even pulled him from his slacks yet.

His cock gives a throb, something you see even through the fabric, when you gape and stare so openly. You might even make him self conscious at this rate.

It’s like getting a bike over a hill, but eventually you get there and find your hands again. The muscles of his thighs flex where you run your hands over them, shifting with enough power to carry a man of his stature, of his strength. Some drool puddles at the corner of your lip; your eyes lift to catch his to make sure he watches the way you lick your lips.

As much as you want to sit there in the remains of your dress, soaking up the smell of him and the feel of his body, you have much, much bigger things to be getting around to. Like the thing burning a thick line in his trousers, for instance.

His belt isn’t too tightly done, your fingers making quick work of the expensive leather and tugging it from the loops of his slacks. Before you can toss it away, though, Iwaizumi is taking it in his own hands and slinging the strap over his shoulder to let it dangle.

“For later, yeah?”

You swallow; are you even going to survive tonight? That’s a problem for later, though, because right now you’re far too preoccupied with how to start gorging yourself on the fine meal spread before you.

A quick brush of your knuckles along the length of him through his pants is enough to have Iwaizumi sighing, a finger twitching just within your line of sight. Sensitive, from the looks of it. A look up at his face reveals the toned skin of his cheeks dark with blush, but his eyes are still so bright, so watchful.

Just as eager as you are to get started, it seems.

There isn’t a need for fanfare or pretty words to color in the details, no need to use your fingers carefully or watch him under heavy lashes. You’re both too excited, too worked up over a span of months to be gentle about things.

Your fingers make quick and easy work of the button, quicker still over the zipper as you rip it open and tug the flaps apart just enough. His cock presses hot and heavy through the thin fabric of his boxers, close enough to your face that you can smell the musk rolling off of him, feel the heat of his body radiate between the space.

It’s mouthwatering, it’s thrilling, and it has you moving without a second thought to tug the tight band of his underwear down.

The motion takes Iwaizumi by surprise, his hips jumping as his cock springs free and aches in the chill of the air. He groans at the feeling, and you can only watch and maybe even drool at the sight of him; long and thick at the base with a patch of dark hair that was neither tidy nor unkempt. A vein throbs along the side of him, following base to glan and adding a definition to his girth that has your throat feeling dry.

“Getting nervous, sweetheart?” You’d normally be a bit peeved at the rather rare show of cocky confidence in Iwaizumi, but with his cock resting inches from your nose, you’re out of place to say much.

So you don’t say anything; you only do.

A hand around his base has him jumping, cock mocking the motion. He’s heavy and solid and firm, a weight that brings a fog to your mind as your vision zeroes in on the task at hand.

You spit on the tip, the saliva slipping thick and bubbly down the burning skin and leaking with the pre built there to slide down the shaft. Iwaizumi is already breathing heavy, looking a little out of focus in your vision where you stare up at him to gauge his reactions; so far so good, going by the red on his cheeks and the building sweat on his brow.

Your thumb catches the thick bead of fluid that’s pearled close to your hand, so you swipe it across the skin and use it as lube to aid in your hand’s new-found pace.

But a quick handjob isn’t nearly enough to satisfy a man who’s craved your touch for months, and before long he’s rocking his hips up, tipping the curve of his cock towards you and closing the distance. “That’s it? That’s all you can do?”

It’s a challenge that hangs in the air, the words left unsaid. His eyes flash down at you over the curve of his nose, a hand moving to rest over the crown of your head.

The skin of his palm is hot; it burns where his fingers take up strands of hair, curling just enough that there’s a guiding tug. Looking up his forearm shows the spread of ink that’s been taunting you all night, taunting you all year. Your fingers slip up his leg and make sure to give a teasing squeeze over his thigh before you’re taking his arm in your hand. Nails trace the pattern of the tattoo, following the deep black curves of ink and wondering how high they go, what picture they create atop his skin.

There’s only so much you can touch before your fingers are slipping under the cuff of the sleeve where it’s bunched above his elbow, hooking into the fabric and holding. “I like these,” you pant softly and watch the length of his cock twitch from the heat of your breath.

“Yeah?” Iwaizumi sounds smug; the tone rolls through you like heat from a bonfire.

“Yeah… yeah, I do.”

He hums and looks at the edges of the tattoo you admire so openly, sucking his teeth and using a finger to pull down the sleeve a bit. All ink is effectively hidden from sight, and you actually sigh a little, disappointed.

The hand on your head, however, doesn’t really give you the time to miss the ink, because it’s pulling you nose first into Iwaizumi’s pubes.

“It’s cute, seeing you sad and all. But you haven’t touched my cock once–”

“I’m literally holding it!”

“And if I’m being honest, I’m a little impatient right now.”

You’re held there with your nose against his pelvis, inhaling the thick scent of him and coming to realize, slowly, that Iwaizumi isn’t going to let you up until you do something. Your vision crosses where you try to look at the shaft, eyes blurring and watering as you inhale, then inhale again. The scent in your nose bleeds through whatever bratty façade you’ve been trying to hold.

Maybe it’s his own impatience that gets to you, or the way his nails have started to scratch at the sensitive skin of your head. You both think you’ve held out long enough.

With a shaking inhale, you shut your eyes and let your lips land on the base of his cock. The skin burns the plush of your lips where you leave thick, wet kisses. A bit of the previous saliva mixes over your lips, leaving the taste of salt and sex to tingle over your tongue. You groan, tongue coming out fully to catch against the soft skin and drag around the base.

He’s thick, too thick to let your tongue even reach the opposite side, so you use the hand keeping him steady to rub whatever spots you can’t touch. The hand in your hair lets up enough that you can finally pull away, finally follow that vein that colors the skin of his cock with a dark line all the way to the solid tip.

The pre is steady where it leaks, pretty and silvery as it drips thick and gooey; it’s not a moment you’re ready to pass up, so with a quick tongue you catch a pearl that’s ready to drop to the floor between your knees. The taste alone is enough to have you shuddering, eyes rolling and mouth watering.

You want more of him, you need more of him. More of that heavy weight on your tongue, more of the heat he radiates like a burning star. You want to hear more of those short grunts, feel his nails curl and scratch through your hair, telling you how much he likes what you’re doing.

Lips parted and tongue out, you swipe a broad stroke over the tip to catch more of him. His taste is everything, the feel of his cock as you slowly take him in making your toes curl. But he’s thick… god, he’s so thick. It’s actually hard to take him too far, the girth quickly becoming overwhelming the deeper he slides in past your lips.

The gagging comes fast, his blunt head reaching the back of your throat sooner than you thought he was going to. You try to make up for it with measured sucks, cheeks pulling in and lips pushed out and pouting. There’s spit building around your lips where they hug his cock, helping your hand when you try to stroke and tug whatever remaining inches you can’t fit.

It’s a nice and easy rhythm of back and forth, even sneaking in a few presses of tongue over his leaky slit. His cock feels at home in your mouth, or at least, what all you can fit.

Every few passes, you try to take him deeper, try flattening your tongue and opening your jaw wide. Tears decorate your waterline like diamonds as you take a deep breath through your nose and sink down on him; no matter how many times you do it, he just can’t fit. You aren’t a quitter, but you are a realist.

There’s no way his cock can fit fully.

And that’s unfortunate for you, because no matter how much you pout and whine up at Iwaizumi, he still isn’t letting go of your head. His touch has gone from passivity to something much more aggressive.

“That can’t be it.” He snarks above you, tipping his head to look at you boldly. There’s a scratch of nails against your skull that rings through you; it’s gentle, it stinks of ulterior motive.

Iwaizumi takes his palm and flattens it against the back of your head, just above the ticklish skin of your neck. “C’mon pretty baby, that mouth can take so much more than that, we both know that.”

The thick of his tip hits over the back of your tongue and you lurch, but his hand doesn’t let you go far. “Nope. You got a big mouth, so you’re gonna put it to better use. Come on, open your mouth, open your fuckin’ mouth.”

You’re trying.

There’s a throb of his cock that makes him feel fuller for that split second, and you have to steel yourself, have to stop and breathe through your nose and just let a few tears slip through your lashes.

Iwaizumi gives you the moment, his fingers petting gently through your hair. You bubble and moan around him, something he greatly enjoys if you can read the shake in his hips correctly. So you do it again, then again. The fourth time you try to hum and swallow around him, Iwaizumi jerks hard, his balls shifting and smacking wet and sticky against your jaw.

Your eyes fucking roll.

It’s like a popping sensation the moment Iwaizumi sinks past the spot in your throat that put up so much resistance; a wet and solid slide of his cock down your tongue, down your throat until you can smell the sweat caught in his pubes, feel the barely there tickle of the curly strands.

He groans heavy and loud in his chest, his empty hand coming to settle next to the other so he can hold you steady where you are. “That’s it baby– ohh, fuck– that’s it, breathe through your nose, c’mon. There’s my baby, there she is.”

The words of praise have you trilling and cooing, bubbles of spit collecting at your lips and sticking in thick rivulets down his cock. Veins bulge thick and hot in his arms as he holds you, trailing like roots from wrist to elbow below his tanned and toned skin. You swallow hard around him again just to watch those veins jump.

“Think you can, doll?” His voice is deep, it drips with something akin to impatience. There’s another vein jumping in the line of his throat, another far lower and pulsing on his mound. Not really being in a position to nod, you can only hum and hollow your cheeks tight enough to make your teeth ache.

It's good enough for him.

With both hands linked at the fingers behind your head, Iwaizumi starts up at quite the pace. You feel like bones are rattling in your skull, like your tongue might catch fire with the friction, like your throat is going to come out nine shades of purple and blue. It probably will, if you’re being real about it.

His balls smack against your chin with a wet pap pap pap, the skin soaked through with your saliva. He’s deep, deep enough that your head is starting to feel a little too light, filled with a little too much cotton as your eyes cross and your jaw starts to ache.

It feels weird having him in your throat, feels weirder still knowing exactly where the thick head pushes, where your throat stretches and burns to accommodate. It’s weird, but it’s also…

Amazing.

You’re soaked through your panties, the thick honeyed strands of your slick wetting the skin of your inner thighs. Every shift and grind of your hips as you seek out some form of relief has you literally squelching, the wet sound of your skin sticking and unsticking unsettling you, making you feel hotter, making you feel wetter. You whine through your nose, look at Iwaizumi through teary lashes.

There’s barely any relief on your side, nothing but your own slick and skin touching your pussy. It aches like hell, makes you grind down onto the floor and pray your clit catches something, anything.

Either he doesn’t care or doesn’t notice, but Iwaizumi does nothing to aid you as you so unceremoniously begin to dry hump the floor.

So you do what any rational, reasonable, horny woman would do.

You take your own fingers to your clit and you twirl. And boy, does Iwaizumi notice then.

Not only does he see the way your eyes roll or how your shoulder is now shifting with the movement of your hand, he feels how your throat buzzes with moans, hears the hiccuping sobs as you finally find some relief.

And really? Iwaizumi is anything but nice.

So without much warning, he’s pulling himself from your mouth, long before even he can reach his peak. The hands remain tight on your head though, which spins from the whiplash of having his cock so abruptly removed from your already bruising throat.

There’s a condescending tut from him, and you feel his nails scratch almost comfortingly through your hair. Almost.

“What the hell are you doing down there, huh?”

You blanch. A cocky game of 20 questions plays out in your head; I don’t know, what was I doing? What do you care when you were so busy anyway? Why did you stop?

“Nothing.”

He scoffs at you, hands going tight against your cheeks and squishing them. “Bullshit. Who the fuck gave you permission to touch yourself? Cause it definitely wasn’t me.”

You smirk up at him, though the bratty look is probably ruined with the way he’s pressing your cheeks like pieces of mochi. “Oikawa.”

There are a few emotions that flicker across his face, the first being shock at the turn of tongue. It’s quick to melt, ice under the heat of the anger that scorches in his eyes. “Aren’t you so fucking cute.”

It’s a messy blur, what happens next; his hands are on you, pulling you up fast enough to make your head spin with hands big enough to break bones and hold rifles like they’re cap guns. Those same hands tear the seams from your dress stitch by stitch, popping them loose until the garment is dropping from your body with a whisper. You don’t even have time to yell at him and say that the next one comes out of his next hit, because he’s already hoisting you up and shoving your weight back onto the bed. You hit the plushtop hard, gaining no traction when your hands fly out to catch at least some of you.

“Hajime, what the–” You nearly bite your tongue when you freeze, eyes blowing wide and jaw slamming shut.

Every button of his shirt pops quietly, silently. His fingers make quick work of them, right down the column until he’s finally shuffling the button-up off his shoulders.

No one should look that hot with tattoos; then again, no one should bring a wave of slick pouring from your pussy this way, but here you sit dripping like a leaky faucet.

The ink covers everything elbow up, thick and dark in shades of black and grey. Images woven over his skin show shadows and scales of fierce dragons that twist up his arms and meet over his pecs. The ink even slips over his shoulders, likely over his back to color an ornate painting of ink and history.

The tattoos of a man with stories of blood and bullets, who’s only ever known a world where it’s kill or be killed. There’s a single silver bar decorating his right nipple that catches the light for a minute and has you drooling. You’re terrified, you’re painfully aroused; you’re already spreading your legs wide for him.

But he has other plans, apparently. His hand catches the belt still slung over his shoulder just before it slips away with his shirt, knuckles going white as he grips the leather tight. “Talk about a whore. I can smell how wet you are from here. Maybe Oikawa is the better match, you both have no shame.” He snaps the belt a few times and you think he’s ready to spank you with it until he’s grabbing your ankle and twisting you to your belly.

“On your knees, arms behind your back, shoulders squared.”

“Yes, officer Iwaizumi.”

Another scoff, a sneer you can’t see. “Drop the shit.”

You’re wrestled onto your knees with your face planted solidly into the mattress, mercy granted on your neck when Iwaizumi takes your arms and holds them both at the wrists. The leather of his belt is cold where it slides against your forearms, looping around them several times until he can slide the latch home and keep your arms pinned tight behind you.

“Bondage? I didn’t take you for the type.” You laugh into the mattress and pretend that his massive frame hovering over your much smaller, much weaker body doesn’t have you shaking in your metaphorical boots.

He tests the leather, fits a few fingers against your pulse point and pulls it. “Think of it as a way to tame eager little brats like you.” When it doesn’t release or slide too much, he changes gears and starts for a new approach.

Thick fingers trace the curve of your spine, skin hard and calloused, too hot against your already worked up and heated flesh. He groans when your back arches, when you pant and whine even though it's just a few fingers at your back.

Lower, lower, lower… the fingers take a detour around the curve of your ass, going instead for your thighs to mold and grope. Your whines are going from aroused to annoyed, limits being pushed as he consciously, purposely avoids where you drip, where you ache.

“Iwa… c’mon already.” Your ass sways in the air and you wonder if doing so will help catch a finger at least a little closer to your pussy. Your panties have ruched up against your clit, but the feeling is more uncomfortable than relieving. The fabric is sticky and cold with all that’s leaked from you; you whine and move a little more, try to snag the back of them with your thumbs and shimmy out.

It doesn’t work at all. Instead, it catches Iwaizumi’s attention.

He grabs the fabric you’d managed to catch and tugs, pulling the fabric so it rubs fully against your split pussy lips. “You’re fuckin’ full of it tonight.”

You hiss as the fabric passes over your clit and smears a new round of slick around it. “‘S what you get for confessing, Iwa-chan.” You laugh a little like you’ve won something, like you’ve won this little game.

“Maybe you really are made for Oikawa.” He swipes a finger up your slit sharply, suddenly. It has you keening, has you dropping your weight fully onto your upper chest. Ass up, head down, arms bound. You must be quite the sight to him right now.

But his words irk you, and you chew on what to say. “You think so?” His fingers work on your clit now, making it exceedingly hard to focus on anything that isn’t the scratch of his nail over the nerves.

“Sure. You’re both a pain in my ass, you both don’t know how to keep your traps shut, and–”

“You’d be hopelessly lost without us?”

“And you both have real shit timing. During a meeting with Shiratorizawa, of all times? I oughta put you both in a hole.” Even as he’s talking, even as he curses you and Oikawa to hell and back, you can feel where his fingers trail, how they catch at your hole and prod, pull, push in.

You’re jumping from your skin now, struggling against the belt as you’re forced to try and maintain balance. Your need to stay at least half erect in your position on the bed forces your legs to spread, forces your knees to plant deep into the comforter, forces you to open yourself wide for him.

It doesn’t take long for Iwaizumi to stretch you, granted his fingers are a stretch all their own (his cock is an entirely different story). He takes his time, lets every knuckle sink into you with a pop; first it’s one finger, then another, then another. His thumb keeps you on the edge, works your clit with ease until your hips are actually trying to dodge him.

“Jumpy…” You hear him remark behind you, but your ears are full of water and static, your head too jumbled to form a proper response that isn’t a rambling babble of more, more, more. “Who knew Oikawa’s whore was so free to use.”

Your eyes roll into your skull when he takes the three fingers inside you and crooks them, scratching the blunt of his nails along your walls. “N-not– not his!” Stringing words together is difficult to do around a fat tongue, not that Iwaizumi really cares.

“Yeah? The way you were basically in his lap during the dinner meeting, I’d think otherwise.” Another twist of his fingers, another flare in your lower tummy. You’re close, too close. If he goes just a little faster. “Tell me then, whose whore are you? Maybe Mattsun’s, maybe Makki’s.”

You’re ready to scream; your hands buzz from a lack of blood flow, your head buzzes just the same. Desperate little humps of your hips give you nothing, no traction found and no ground gained in trying shamelessly to get yourself off.

“No! No, no! Not theirs, Hajime, please–”

The shuffle of fabric has you near tears. From the corner of your teary eyes you can see him, see the way his biceps bulge as he starts to work his pants just low enough, barely even hanging off his ass. His cock is free, balls hug snugly from below by the elastic of his boxers. The drip of his precum has you drooling, has you whining and wishing this stupid belt wasn’t there, or you’d be jumping his bones like you should have done ages ago.

“Use your words, pretty thing. C’mon, tell me.” He’s closer now and you can feel the heat of his cock against your ass and you’re losing your fucking mind about it. The shaft smacks against the meat of your ass once, twice. You can feel his fingers where he holds himself steady, where he squeezes the base and keeps himself roped in.

The electricity in your veins shoots through you in a complete circuit; you wonder if he can feel the shock of it, hear the hum of it beneath your skin. There’s the heavy press of his tip right over your hole, just a simple swipe that catches gleaming pearls of arousal.

You fall apart at your very seams.

“Yours! Yours, Hajime, always always always!! ‘M not Mattsun’s, not Makki’s, not Oikawa’s– just yours, all yours.” You continue on and on even as drool collects over your cheek and stains the sheets, even as Iwaizumi takes your belted arms and pulls you up just enough. His hand comes into view just as it snags your mouth and smears the saliva over your lips

Two fingers slip into your mouth just as he begins the maddening slide of his cock inch by torturously amazing inch inside of you.

His other hand comes around to hold your forehead, pulling you just enough to get your back to bend and arch, effectively trapping you as close to him as you can possibly manage in this position.

He leans forward and presses his lips to your ear, lets you feel the sharp pull of his smirk. “That’s my good little bitch.”

His hips teeter forward and press flush into yours; your body goes into shock and every vein fills with gasoline. Like the strike of a match, he pulls out and slams back in, length full and thick and burning you so perfectly, filling you until there isn’t a breadth of space left. You burn under his touch and melt into his very being like candle wax.

It’s a perfect little game of cat and mouse, though neither of you really know who wins at the end.

It’s a blur of back and forth, of teeth that sink into your skin and tattoos that wave in and out of your vision. His endurance is so much, it’s inhuman; he doesn’t even bother with the sweat on his face anymore, just lets it drip steady and cold against your burning skin. A barely there relief that evaporates all too soon, leaving you clamming and sticky.

Rounds of his cock shaping you pass, twisting your insides to fit him and only him. You’re pressed open in different positions, left to his devices and desires. If he wants you on your back for a round, then you’re on your back, mewling and shaking.

You don’t ask for him to stop, though. You wouldn’t even dream of it. Instead, you open yourself further, you push your chest out more so he can lean down and catch a nipple between sharp teeth. You lift your hips when he tells you to, watch scars flex over his chest and arms, trace tattooed skin with eager eyes that look through overstimulated tears.

Everything he gives you, you take with a fucked out smile on your face and the marks of his teeth on your throat, right up until you’re stuffed full of cum and dripping for the rest of the night.

#ollie.writes #.iwaizumi hajime #.haikyuu!!#iwaizumi hajime #haikyuu iwaizumi #haikyuu smut #iwaizumi smut #iwaizumi/reader #iwaizumi hajime/reader #iwaizumi x reader

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xianshxng · 4 years ago

Text

little one

arataki itto || genshin impact

cw; 18+ minors dni, size diff, rough, petname fetish, slight denial, super minor breeding mention

wc; 3677

Too much. Way, way too much.

It won’t fit, there’s just no--

“Aw, c’mon little one. Ya aren’t losin’ spirit already, are ya?” He’s laughing, and there isn’t so much as a trace of exertion on his face. No sweat, no bottom lip swollen with bites, barely so much as flushed cheeks.

Rather, he looks a little too relaxed; a little too much like you aren’t actively ripping yourself a new one trying to force his monster of a cock inside of you.

Your eyes roll for reasons not limited to the way your hole flutters around his girth, or how your walls are throbbing desperately. It takes a little more effort than usual to ignore his movement and focus on the rather large task at hand.

Itto is big; everyone in Inazuma knows that from so much as a glance in his general direction. You’ve known from the get-go that the oni blood circulating in his veins acts like a goddamn steroid; increased stamina, increased passion, increased size.

His cock, of course, was not something to be left out in the size department.

Archons, it’s just too much—

“Yer shakin’ again, flower~”

There’s a twitch of your eyelid. “Shut up.”

Your hands are anchored against his chest, the smooth tips of your nails digging deep into the meat of his breast. The marks you’ve clawed over his skin look like poor, thoughtless additions to the red ink that marks him.

Another inch sinks in; another welting line burns him, this time over his nipple. His hiss is far from pained.

This is agonizing; this is terrifying. This is exhilarating.

How many more inches do you have left? You feel like you’ve been at this for hours, maybe even days. It was a workout alone prepping yourself to even make an attempt to take him in, to stretch yourself wide enough that you don’t literally tear at the seams.

But the act of actually taking him? That makes the prep seem like child’s play.

The joints of your hips and legs ache, and there’s sweat on your brow that chills your overheated skin to the point of being clammy, uncomfortable. How much have you even taken in? Are you nearly to his base, or just barely past the head?

You don’t have the heart to look.

Itto has to hold his cock still for you, your hands too busy balancing your shaky body over his. Every now and again, his fingers dance up his length, bumping the head against your walls, and every now and again, you have to snap your teeth down on your already swollen lip and beg him silently to stop fucking moving so much. He’s an antsy man, he can’t help it, and he reminds you of this with a fanged smirk and a wink that knocks the air from your lungs.

It’s when you’re starting to think that he isn’t feeling much of anything from this regular tumble in the dark that he finally shows some signs. You’re however many inches down on his cock when his hips twitch and his eyes narrow, sharp and focused and darker than before.

The hand not steadying the base of his cock comes to your waist, his touch like electricity where he rubs your skin. There’s the steady presence of his nails running thin lines where he pets you slowly, gently, coaxing you forward.

“That’s it, thaaaat’s it, little one. C’mon— a cock as big as mine is a gold badge you can wear, ya just gotta take charge and conquer it.” You’re shivering, and you can’t tell if it’s because you’ve just hit that thick centered curve of his cock that holds the most girth, or that pet name he seems to enjoy using.

Little one, little one, little one.

Something as simple as that shouldn’t turn your blood to molten metal, but here you are anyways, melting like candle wax into a sticky, gooey puddle in his lap.

Unfortunately (or maybe fortunately) for you, that same sticky gooeyness is starting to affect him a little more with each passing moment.

Unfortunately (most definitely fortunately) for you, Arataki Itto isn’t known for his patience as much as he is his ungodly size.

By this point, he no longer has to hold himself steady for you to sink down on. A good chunk of his cock is seated tightly within your cunt and held steady enough for you to swallow further. This means he now has the ability to let his hands wander.

And wander he shall.

It starts with a second hand on your waist, five more clawed fingers petting and smoothing your heated flesh, rubbing circles and heat in with his touch. The scratch of his nails sounds through you like a bell, tingles up your spine and raises the fine hairs at the base of your neck.

It tickles; it feels good, just barely there at the border of dangerous. You’ve seen what those claws can do, seen how easily they tear through things a lot thicker and a lot stronger than something as soft and pliant as your skin.

It’s a promise of something you might ask for later, if you survive the first round.

Or the first two… maybe three. Itto seems more than just a little pent up tonight, if his jumping leg and bared teeth are anything to go by.

The joints of his fingers pop and snap, you can feel the way they flex into your hips; he’s holding back, refraining from really doing some damage, from giving in to that urge that darkens the red of his eyes and fills his mouth with drool.

You’re curious to give in, to let him really take control and snap in that fun way that leaves your joints achy and your skin sensitive with bruises kissed into your neck and chest.

Itto’s hips jump when you sink a little more, take a little more. There’s a vein that runs thick and hot along the edge of his cock, one that gives a throb against you, one that makes you groan and has your tongue slipping out juuuust a bit.

Your hips roll a little, a whimper falling short on your lip.

Itto notices it, of course. Notices how dark your eyes are when you glance curiously, shakily at him. You’re holding back, even if you don’t necessarily want to. Your nails are scratching more often over the peaks of his nipples, catching on the simple black studs pierced through them (your favorite jewelry on him, or so you’ve told him during the few moments you’ve had them in your mouth).

That same curiosity, that toeing of the line between dirty fantasy and spectacular reality, is something Itto seeks to shatter tonight.

The hands on your hips tighten, those dark nails settle deeply within the divots they create, and in a moment so short you can’t even take a breath, Itto thrusts up.

Hard.

The stars that burst behind your eyelids burn hot, but your focus is stolen entirely by the deep deep deepness of Itto’s cock. The deepest he’s ever been, ever.

He’s in your stomach. He has to be, there’s no way he isn’t. He’s in your stomach or your guts or maybe even your lungs or— “Fuckin’— that’s it, baby! Holy ffffuck,” The look on his face is downright feral. His eyes would be glowing if you weren’t both in the lantern-lit room of the resistance barracks, looking a little too much like the foxes that roam the fields and hide in the cover of night with their too-bright eyes and their too-sharp teeth.

Waiting to pounce. Waiting for that little mouse that will take the wrong path in the flowers at the wrong time.

You don’t really know what you’re babbling right now— hell, you can’t tell if you’re even breathing. His cock is throbbing and pulsing inside you, and that alone feels like enough to snap your very consciousness. Every time you try to open your eyes, to look through the tears that stick like snow in your lashes, your sight blurs and you start tilting in whatever direction his rapid thrusts push you in.

He finds it funny, of course. The fact that he’s already fucked you stupid only a few minutes into actually, finally, fucking you.

There’s a few pats to your ass, just a few grounding smacks that make you tighten and him groan. “Teyvat to little one… anyone home?” That same hand comes up to wave amusedly in front of your eyes, big and daunting even without the usual decoration of knuckle dusters. You try to focus on his fingers, try to look at the tattoos encircling each digit.

The color sways in your vision; you sway to the left with it, only to be caught at the arm by the very man causing your slow plummet into sex-fueled hell. Your tongue lolls out subconsciously, something he seems to have taught your body to do automatically, and without thinking you’re surging forward to try and catch those fingers in your mouth.

Anything to feel something more to ground you, to reform your brain before it can melt any further. It’s hard scraping the goo that is your brain from the cracks it's dripped into, really.

It works for as long as Itto doesn’t laugh. Which is to say, not very long at all. His chest heaves and bounces beneath your shaky hands, his eyes lock onto the way you’re drooling over the two fingers that barely seem to fit in that little mouth of yours.

A fang catches on his lip when he speaks, “Havin’ some trouble? Poor baby, look at you! Already fucked out on my cock… Little one, we haven’t even started. Look, look,” he’s edging your vision down with fingers hooked against your tongue, forcing you to look down until you can see where you’re connected, where you can clearly see the puffiness of your clit exposed and swollen against the sharp dip of his mons pubis.

His fingers scissor in your mouth, and some spittle drips thick and warm from your lip to land just shy of his belly button. “Look how messy you made me, little one.” He’s mocking you right now. He’s mocking you and honestly, you can’t bring yourself to actually care. “See that? That’s your cum that’s makin’ me all sticky ‘n shiny. Makin’ a mess outta me... doesn’t that mean it’s only fair if I make a mess outta you, too?”

You groan, eyes fluttering, skin buzzing with an energy that almost hurts. Did he really have a Geo Vision? There’s no way, not with the way he makes it feel like you’ve touched the lightning of the Electro Archon herself.

Where did your words go? It feels like your tongue is made from metal, feels like your throat is too tight and there isn’t enough air in your lungs.

And it… it feels good.

It feels really, really good. Too good, in fact— your brain is still melting and your muscles are starting to follow.

Not that it really matters, you suppose, not with the way Itto is letting your top half collapse and meet his own halfway. Not with the way his arms are wrapping around your back and pinning your own so he can use your body as leverage, as a way to fuck you harder, faster.

You bounce in his lap like a bunny, up and down and up and down, left to his control. His thighs smack hard against your rear, the skin there going raw and hot with each painful smack! smack! smack!

You’re panting, but not nearly as loud as he is. He sounds like a dog in your ear— hell, he fucks like one too. Quick and fast bursts of his hips that pummel into yours and bruise them, anything to dig as deep inside as he can, to shove that fat, swollen head of his cock that you love so much into the soft sponge of your walls.

“That’s it, that’s it, that’s it. God, you’re tight, gonna choke my dick off, little one.” You howl in his ear, choking back cries when your walls clamp down and sucks him deeper, holds him tighter. He catches the pulse and flutter and squeeze of your walls real good that time. “Oh. Oh fuck, that’s what ticks your clock? Yeah?”

Your whimpers are choked, but they tumble into his ear nonetheless.

“Oh baby, that’s real dirty of you. Why didn’t you just say so? My little one likes knowing they’re my little one, hm?” You’re sobbing, nodding, begging him for more, for him to call you little one again and fuck you deeper.

You hold him tight inside of you, more your hips down against his with purpose and meet him halfway. ”Fuck!!” He sucks in a sharp breath through just as sharp teeth, “Tightened up real good there, mm that’s my little baby, that’s my little cock hungry bitch.” His thighs hit hard against your ass, all muscle and stone granted from the Archon of Geo. Every hot and hard hit turns your skin raw, the sound wet and slick where your juices have managed to drool down past the thick, heavy swell of his full balls.

You’re nodding along to his words, hums of admittance pitching with the staccato of his thrusts. Mhm!-- mhm!-- mhm!

Quick, short, breathless. He’s stealing it all from you, snatching your energy and forcing it all into his movements. You’re honey in his arms, melting over him and covering his body. The smell of sex and earth and the metallic blade polish used by soldiers sticks to his skin where your nose is buried, where your face thumps into his neck with each shove of his hips.

You’re addicted. You’re drooling against his skin and scraping the flat of your tongue over your own spit where it builds and drips. Sight is beyond you at this point, your hands blindly grabbing what you can of his body and scratching, tugging, pulling. Teeth scratch the soft dip where his jugular sits, where the thick tendons of his neck pop and strain.

Itto’s fingers graze through your hair, nails scratching your scalp. One scratch, two scratches— his fingers go tight, twisting through the locks of your hair and pulling. Your head snaps back with the not-so-delicate guidance of his hand, and your exposed throat bobs with the moan that tears from you.

The full body shudder he gives rips through your own body like rebound, your eyes crossing and staring blindly into space while he uses you like you’re nothing but a toy to be held and used and filled and fucked.

“It feels good it feels good Archons it feels so good—!!” His cock hits a spot in you that has you shouting, has your nails biting into the meat of his sides, an awkward spot you can barely manage to grab with the way he’s keeping your arms so tightly pinned beneath his own.

He sneers hotly at you, enjoying the way you babble and bubble at him. “That so? M’ cock feels real nice, don’t it? Thickest one you’ve ever had, thickest one you’ll ever have.” One arm slips down your body, over the curve of your ass and right to where you two are joined. A nail scratches just barely against the rim of your hole, pulls at the already abused skin and smooths some of the slick dripping thick as pearls down his shaft.

His hips roll up fast and hard, but they don’t pull back in the same pace he’d built up. Instead, they freeze, holding still right up into the apex of your thighs. Keeping his cock deep inside, fat head held right against a spot that tugs you tight as elastic.

“Hey, I asked you a question, didn’t I? Doesn’t my cock feel so good, little one? C’mon, tell me. Use that pretty little mouth and tell me.”

How does he expect you to talk when you can’t remember how to close your mouth, how to move your tongue to form anything that isn’t a groan? How does he expect you to do anything but drip down his balls and whimper for more because why the fuck would he stop now, of all moments, in the middle of fucking you.

“I-I… Itto, I—”

The nail still trailing round and round your stretched hole slips in over the rim, aided by the mixture of yours and his precum, and a finger dips into the first knuckle. It shouldn’t be much more of a stretch than what you’re accustomed to, but it is. It is and you’re at your breaking point and you can’t stop the flapping of your tongue.

“I, I, I,” Itto snaps his head back with a laugh, and you spot the pink of his tongue with how loud he barks. “Little one, I haven’t even gotten close to fucking you enough to lose your words. Let’s go, let’s go! Tell me how well my cock stretches you out, how deep you can feel me hitting. Lemme hear it, or I might think I’m not doing good and just—”

His hips pull back, his girth slipping slick and wet from your heat until barely the head remains resting inside.

“—stop.”

You’re too scared to move, to even tremble for fear that he’s going to slip right out of you. The whimpering pleas that tumble from your lips are quiet, hardly even qualifying a whisper. There’s a tremble in your legs, a twitch in your fingers, a hiccup in your throat. Maybe that isn’t a hiccup… no, that might actually be a sob.

Nothing gets to Arataki Itto, though. Nothing moves a mountain, not even the adorable, breathless cries that spill over your cheeks in the form of crystalline tears. “I-Itto— Itto please, please keep moving, I was so—! I was so close, please move!”

He’s focused on the way your tongue moves, how your eyes can’t really focus on his as you beg him. But you’re begging him with words he didn’t ask for. “Little one, I’m not gonna say it again. Tell me, or we can stop right now and you’ll just have to suffer and watch me get off. Wouldn’t that just suck? Poor little baby, wouldn’t be allowed to touch themselves either.”

It sounds like he’s cooing praise, but his words are mocking, taunting. You know how badly he wants to keep fucking you, can feel the steady drip and drool of his thick cockhead that leaks inside of you, fills you with a sticky warmth that feels gooey and perfect inside you.

But Itto doesn’t bluff. Itto doesn’t back down from challenges, and he certainly does not lose them .

The moment you can feel his hips raring to pull back, feel his head slip that much further from your cunt, you’re howling with sobs.

“Please, oh please Itto!! It feels so good— Archons, your cock feels so amazing! It’s so thick, fills me so good, so good so good so good—” Your babbles are thick with spit and tears, there’s drool dripping to your chin and tears reflecting candlelight on your cheeks.

You don’t stop even when you bite your tongue mid-cry and taste copper, even when some of your spittle lands on his lips, and especially not when he licks it away and meets your eyes with a look so feral, you think you might cum right then and there.

“Need your cock so bad, need to feel it again. Please lemme feel you stretch me out again, fill me so good like always! Fuck—!” you try to wiggle down on him again and fail when his arms squeeze you tight to his chest and keeps you painfully steady. “Fuck!! Just breed me already, Itto, please!”

Just as it took a mere mention of little one from him to get you worked up, it takes only a single, simple word to send Itto into a frenzy.

Breed.

You can feel the way his legs tense below you, how he sucks in a deep breath and holds it. Feel how his cock jumps.

“Don’t you just have a way with words, little one.” He bites through a smirk, flashing you those fangs you’d love to have buried in your shoulder right now. “Alright, I’d say you did a pretty good job begging for your favorite oni cock! I guess I can be nice and give you just what your greedy lil cunt wants!”

And with little to absolutely no fanfare, Itto shifts his hands over the meat of your ass, clutches enough to sink his nails in deep, and finally— finally!— drops you back down on his cock.

And Archons does he drop you hard.

Your head tosses back harshly, jaw dropping with a choked gurgle as an orgasm rips through you violently. The tip hits deep enough to curl your toes, to knock into your belly and push against your organs because nothing gets in the way of his cock. Your walls milk him for anything he can give, though he’s far from his own orgasm.

Itto smiles down at you sweetly, terrifyingly, deliciously. The way your body shakes in his hold is perfect, the look on your face as you try to find yourself after being thrown head first into an orgasm is adorable. He always did love how you looked when you were reeling from the mind-numbing orgasms he always seemed to bring you to.

His nails cut a little deeper into your skin, holding you down and letting his cock rest as deep inside as it can go.

“Let’s see how much this pussy can be bred before you’re beggin’ me to stop next, alright, little one?”

#ollie.writes #.arataki itto #.genshin impact #fic.little one #arataki itto #genshin fic #genshin writing #genshin smut #itto smut

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