Iwaoi one shots

Russian Roulette pt.4 (Heavy smut)

Warning: Heavily violent smut, blood, slight non-con, Stockholm syndrome, cussing, top Oikawa, younger Iwa.

The hours ticked by like decades, each deep tick of the grandfather clock, hidden in the dark, threatening corner of the lush room, drove Iwaizumi's sanity strikingly closer toward collapse. His weakened windpipe crackled as he cleared his throat, acidic saliva scorching its fleshy ridges.

Agony wasn't the word. 

Oikawa had left the room an eternity ago, tightly locking the oak barrier once again, the only instance of his whereabouts being 'Business'.

Hajime, to pass the hours, studied the board-length, gold-crested mirror hanging effortlessly from the towering, crimson wall, for the twelfth time in a minute, feeling a sort of resonance at how it's strung, exhibited to everyone and anyone, carved and sculpted to be presented as what people wish to see. 

All Iwaizumi sees is an unfamiliar reflection, clouded eyes boring into him. Purple hues of aggression taking up a significant portion of olive skin. He could feel the sharp sting of pain flashing through his twin's eyes. It's expression distant and apathetic, no twitch of emotion for miles and miles of pummeled skin. The raven silently downcast his scrutinizing orbs, fixating his harsh gaze on the declarative blemish blossoming billowingly on the forefront of it's innocent throat. The reflection's hand hesitantly trailed towards the spectacle, light, nimble pads, faintly tracing the irritable mark and its nauseating meaning. His echo remained unmoved, when silky skin came into excruciatingly sensitive contact with the blistering heat, tracing over the spongy sack, risen as though it were cake mix. But the more he examined the brand, the more pleasing it was to the naked eye, dare he say pretty, as the lonely room's mellow glow, cast itself upon numb characters in a quiet shimmer, letters glistening in the near dark. 

Hajime's heart swole with unprecedented emotion, he felt ill. 

The door gently swung open behind his mirror image, he made no attempt to greet the guest, but silently hailed at the sight of the suited elder. 

Silence...Not like Iwaizumi could say much anyway. 

Things took a turn.

Unwanted hands roamed the hazy image before him, hot liquid of confusion glazing his eyes, as pleasure chased the distinct hands. The way the elder was caressing him was more than just a simple greeting. 

He wanted this to repulse him.

He wanted this to repulse him.

He wanted this to repulse h|

He wanted this to re|

He wanted this.

The sickness dissipated, along with the tears, as the line of morality blurred and through the discomfort burst need, clawing at his brain like a craving. Hajime's doughy eyes, flickered up to the brunette, watching vaguely at the adoration written on the man's forehead in giant, red letters, like Hajime's very own claim over Tooru. 

Barely seconds in and the white drawstring hung loose, those sinful hands harshly tugging, and jerking motions seen distinctively in the joggers of his indulged reflection. Heavy breaths steamed the reflector, his mirror-image gone like a puff of smoke as the raven lay his forehead against the cool glass. Long, satin fingers drug tauntingly against the intensified stretch of skin of his erect dick, sliding to thumb the slick ring of flesh at the throbbing tip, provoking a shudder from the younger, as raspy whimpers invaded the mirror's perfection.

Hajime's ears perked at the clink of a belt, a guttural moan ripping from his smarting throat, the sheer thought of all the things Tooru could do to him. The sheen of the black, liquorice belt, flashed in the mirror, before looping around Iwa's vision, sensually being feathered over his nose, before being roughly forced into the younger's mouth.