4play Matsukawa Issei, Hanamaki Takahiro, Oikawa Tooru, Iwaizumi Hajime/reader (haikyuu!!) word count: 8.2k rating: E (18+, minors DNI) tags: gangbang, dry humping, oral f!receiving, edging, unsafe sex, creampie, mentions of alcohol, consensual sex while mildly under the influence, voyeurism kinda?, makki and mattsun are bad roommates a/n: this is the filthiest thing i've ever written! sorry!
CROSSPOSTED TO AO3
Through the trials and tribulations of first-hand experience, you’ve come to the conclusion that there is no such thing as a good roommate or a bad roommate — instead of a binary, it’s more like an ever-fluctuating spectrum that exists between the two.
Some roommates are tidy but loud; others are messy, but beyond the disaster they leave in the kitchen after every meal they cook you hardly notice they’re there; some roommates respect your privacy and belongings, but insist on keeping their lube in the fridge next to your orange juice.
In short: it’s never black and white.
Ultimately, living with roommates is just an unfortunate inevitability — though if you could afford to live alone as a broke university student, you would — and you have to learn to adjust your lifestyle to cope with it.
Living with strangers is a bit weird, like your first roommate freshman year: a tiny girl who was perfectly pleasant to cohabitate with, and said almost nothing beyond the absolute nightmare fuel she used to mutter in her sleep on the other side of your shared shoe-box of a dorm room. You, decidedly, preferred living with friends whom you knew and trusted not to tell you they were going to kill you in their sleep.
Which is precisely how, after moving out of your dorm first year after realizing residence just wasn’t for you, you ended up moving in with two of your best friends from high school: Hanamaki Takahiro and Matsukawa Issei.
Living with members of the opposite sex presented an entirely new spectrum of difficulty, to be sure. But you knew Makki and Mattsun, you’d been friends since you were 15, and you’d long grown used to their antics and eccentricities. So all in all, the three of you made a pretty solid trio of housemates — so solid in fact that your cohabitation somehow managed to endure all the way through to your senior year.
Which is how you find yourself on the phone with a friend in the kitchen of your three-bedroom apartment just off campus in the early afternoon, AirPods in, tidying up some dishes that someone (probably Makki) left out that morning before heading to class. Your lab that morning was cancelled, and rather than make your way to campus for the one other class you had scheduled that day, you decided to treat yourself and play hooky for once.
“His name was soooo long, too,” your friend’s plaintive voice sighs from the other end of the call, in the process of regaling you with the story of a dating app hookup gone wrong the evening prior. “And I only called him ‘daddy’ because I didn’t know if we were close enough to nickname him, and somehow that felt less personal!”
You huff out a little breath of air, halfway to a chuckle, twirling the slightly damp towel that you’d just finished drying the dishes with between your hands. “What’s the point of a boy even having a name if it isn’t moanable?”
Your friend’s tittering laugh resounds through your headphones and you giggle along with her, a sly smile pinching at your cheeks at your own joke.
Movement in the corner of your eye startles you, and you whip around suddenly to see Hiro (aforementioned dish-leaver and everyday bane of your existence) leaning in the doorway as though waiting for you to notice him, both hands tucked down the front of his grey sweatpants. He looks at you with a single eyebrow drawn up.
“Jesus christ, make your presence known you creep — No, not you,” you assure your friend on the other line when she makes an indignant, confused noise. You roll your eyes after tossing a brief glare at the boy still standing in the doorway, looking as pleased as ever. “Makki was lurking behind me.”
You quickly end your call with your friend once you realize that your nosy roommate has no intention of going anywhere anytime soon, popping your headphones out from your ears and turning to look at him with an unimpressed scowl on your face.
The corner of his mouth quirks up, the exact opposite of your own.
“So, moanable names, huh?”
You huff, annoyed that not only was he eavesdropping but now he was trying to make some sort of group discussion of the indignity. “Fuck off.”
“No, no. Tell me more.” Makki slides a little further into the kitchen, grinning down at you. “Is my name moanable?”
“Makki, I swear to god,” you try to sound threatening but it just comes out exasperated. You’re used to his antics — you’ve been friends for long enough that you’ve simply become acclimatized to the garden-variety chaos he seems to exude at all times, but this conversation felt like it was toeing a lie that you didn’t want to cross.
“I didn’t even know this was something girls care about, so help me out here,” he said, cajoling you further. “Friend to friend, I gotta know. Tell me.”
“No.”
“No as in it’s not moanable? Or no as in you won’t tell me?” he pesters on, and you only get more flustered and annoyed as he bullies you a little further into the corner of the kitchen where the counter meets the stove in an L-shape.
“No as in there’s no way in hell I’m having this conversation with you.”
You hit him with the dish towel in your hands, though not hard enough to do any real damage, and he yelps but he’s still grinning all the while.
“Now what’s going on in here?” a deep voice full of mirth pries your attention away from the strawberry blonde crowding over you, and your gaze lands on your second roommate.
Mattsun is leaning against the doorframe in much the same way Makki had been only a moment prior, still wearing his jacket — he must have just gotten back from his morning class, though you hadn’t heard him come in.
If you’d been hoping for salvation in his sudden appearance, the smirk on Matsukawa’s face all but dashes that aspiration.
Once Makki gets him up to speed, he all too delightedly joins in.
“It’s really not that hard of a question,” Mattsun drawls, cocking his head to the side. He’s still on the opposite end of the room, a full six feet or more away from you, but his presence is just as stifling as if he was hovering over you like Makki presently found himself. “We’d tell you if you were the one asking, you know.”
Your lips part a little, and a terrible, treacherously inquisitive voice in the back of your mind tells you that you should ask — that you want to know if they think your name is moanable.
You bury the thought as quickly as it surfaces, choking it back with your indignation.
“Well I’m not asking, and I have no plans to — now or ever,” you shove a little against Makki’s chest to give yourself a bit more space. He hardly budges.
Why are your friends all so fucking tall?
“Well, it is.”
You blink, eyes flickering up towards Hiro who had said the words.
“Your name,” he explains, pressing the tip of his pointer finger to the furrow that had made itself known upon your brow, reading the signs of your confusion without you needing to openly express them. “Super moanable.”
“Agreed,” Mattsun pipes in unprompted from the doorway, and your eyes flicker over to see his smirk had given way to a full-on grin — wolfish though it may be.
You snap out of your stupor and smack Hiro’s hand away, throwing your dishtowel right in his face as you shoulder by him towards the door, glowering at Mattsun on your way past for good measure.
You storm off, footfalls heavy on the floor of the hallway as you go, and slam the door behind you once you make it into the sanctuary of your own bedroom.
You’re mad at both of them — borderline fuming as you throw yourself down atop your unmade bed.
Because it’s awkward.
And annoying.
And unnecessary.
They both have perfectly moanable names.
You know it.
They know it.
Hell, you hear their hookups do it often enough through the paper-thin walls of your three-bedroom to say it with an almost unfair degree of certainty. Walls so thin it’s like you can see through them — can see all the ways the two boys you’ve known for years are making those girls you’ll never actually get the opportunity to properly meet scream.
Admittedly, you hear cries of Issei more often than Hiro, but the latter is always more ragged, more desperately obscene than the former. The sounds echo through the apartment so clearly that not even your noise cancelling headphones are enough to drown them out some nights, and you find yourself falling asleep to the mortifying thought of what it might be like to be the one who was screaming their names.
You bury your burning face in your pillow at the thought and resist the urge to shriek.
The rest of your day is spent hiding in your room; watching Netflix on your laptop, taking sporadic naps, and rationing the water in the bottle you kept on your bedside table to stave off the need to leave your bed for as long as humanly possible.
There’s a bit of noise that drifts into your room throughout the afternoon, specifically in the evening as two familiar voices join the other two that had been in the apartment for most of the day. Oikawa and Iwaizumi were supposed to come over to drink and play video games that night, and their arrival had crept up on you faster than anticipated.
About half an hour after they land, you get a text from Iwa asking if you’re gonna come out and join them, but you ignore it and pretend to be asleep.
Eventually the water bottle goes dry, and you can’t ignore the grumbling of your stomach any longer, and when you think the coast is clear — shouts in the living room telling you that the boys are likely distracted by whatever game they were playing —you slink out of your room to grab a snack from the kitchen.
You’re quiet as you pry open your bedroom door, careful to avoid the parts of the floor along the way which you know are a little creaky and might give you away. You’re so focused on where you’re stepping that you don’t notice a figure stepping out from the bathroom until you’re colliding with a broad, muscular chest that smells like expensive cologne and fabric softener. You squeak in surprise, looking up to see Oikawa grinning down at you.
“Going somewhere, sleeping beauty?” he teases you, and you stumble back from him.
“I was just, uh, I just wanted to get something to eat,” you say quietly, nodding towards the doorway to the kitchen at the other end of the hall.
Oikawa takes a step forward, bullying you with his much larger frame back towards the living room.
“We’ve got plenty of snacks to share,” he says with a knowing smirk that makes your skin prickle, and you wonder just how much of your altercation earlier in the afternoon Mattsun and Makki had already shared with him. “And now that you’re awake you can join us!”
You sigh in defeat, following along behind him to where the other three boys are waiting in the living room.
The coffee table is already covered in empty beer cans and bowls of half-eaten snacks, and your eyes immediately hone in on a bowl of the pretzel sticks you’d been hoping to snag from the kitchen on your pilgrimage that had been unceremoniously derailed.
“Look who finally decided to join us,” Oikawa chirps as he flops himself back onto the couch next to Issei, whose attention remains focused on the screen in front of him as he and Hiro (who was seated in the chair beside the sofa) went 1v1 on some combat game you never really got into.
Iwaizumi looks up from his place on the floor, spotting you hovering in the doorway and shooting you a little smile. He pats the open space on the floor beside him and you resignedly shuffle over to join him.
“Did you have a good nap?” he asks with a laugh as you sit crosslegged to his left.
You nod curtly. “Can you pass me the pretzels?”
You settle in with the bowl in your lap once he hands it to you, popping a salty snack into your mouth and risking a glance at your two roommates on the other side of the room. Neither of them appear bothered or otherwise moved by your sudden appearance, and they seem to have let your earlier conversation go. Mattsun even brings you back a beer after his next trip into the kitchen, which you accept — cracking the can open and carefully sipping the carbonation that fizzles up over the rim.
Your empty stomach from barricading yourself in your room all afternoon means that the beer hits you faster than the pretzel sticks you and Iwa were sharing, and before you know it all the tension you’d been feeling in your shoulders has fizzled away like the bubbles in the beer you’re all drinking.
You really should have seen it coming.
“So,” Oikawa drawls, draping himself over the arm of the sofa overhead, leaning towards you. “Do I have a moanable name?”
And you’re mortified.
Makki does nothing to conceal his laughter at your horrified expression. Mattsun’s smirk is thinly veiled at best. Iwa (the only one you’re leaving in your will, decidedly) tells them to fuck off and drop it, his voice gruff and firm.
“I think as a friend we have a right to know these things, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa counters his friend’s command, holding a hand to his chest. “Don’t you want to know?
“I don’t care,” Iwa bites back, but there’s the slightest waver in it, the furtive way that he steals a glance at you that betrays the comment’s sincerity.
Oh.
“God, fine!” you huff out, exasperated and embarrassed and ready to just put this entire conversation to rest once and for all. “I’m sure you all have moanable names — happy now?”
The boys take pause at that.
“But which one of us has the most moanable name?” Makki asks with a smirk, leaning forward in his seat to leer at you. The look in his eyes is predatory, and makes something in you rise like panic, but without the actual fear of any danger.
Anticipation, you realize. That’s what you’re feeling.
Their video game has been abandoned now, one controller dangling loosely from Makki’s hand while Issei’s has been discarded on the coffee table.
Their eyes are all on you.
“I- I don’t know that, you perv!” you squeak out, heat climbing so quickly in your cheeks it’s making you dizzy, and you’re uncertain if it’s the beer or the blood rush that’s to blame. Maybe both. “Who am I to judge that?”
“Could you?”
Your eyes flicker to Mattsun.
“Judge it, I mean,” he adds when he sees the blank look on your face.
“Wh- how?” you squeak out, your heart thumping wildly in your chest. The atmosphere in the room has changed, become charged, in the few moments since the subject had come up.
“Moan for us,” Oikawa says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
You blink, absolutely bewildered by the request.
“Moan for us, please?” Oikawa stretches forward, his hand cupping your cheek. He looks so sweet and beseeching as his thumb presses down into your bottom lip.
“Why me?” you manage to ask through the pulse pounding in your throat.
“You’re the only girl, so you’re the only one who can do it, y’know, authentically,” Makki says from his seat. Your eyes flicker over to him, Oikawa’s thumb still prodding against your mouth. “Plus you’re hot.”
You roll your eyes, but you undeniably feel a shiver run through you when none of the other men in the room make any efforts to dispute his claim.
“So?” Mattsun asks, and the single word is so loaded that you feel like it sucks all the air from the room.
Oikawa finally pulls away from you, and the five of you sit quietly for a moment.
“Okay.”
You have no idea what makes you say it. Maybe it’s the alcohol in your bloodstream, maybe it’s something more depraved that was already inside of you long before you brought the can of beer to your lips that evening, the same thing that occasionally had your fingers creeping into your panties on the nights that your headphones aren’t enough to hide the sounds coming from your roommates’ bedrooms.
Something shifts in the room the minute you agree, like a spark catching on a pool of gasoline.
Oikawa laughs, the sound absolutely delighted and conniving, from his seat on the sofa.
“How far are we taking this?” Iwa asks gruffly, your eyes flickering over to him as he sits beside you. He looks reluctant.
“That’s up to her,” Makki says, nodding in your direction.
“Whaddya say?” Mattsun asks, eyes trailing all the way up your body before landing on your face. A little twitch at the corner of his already smirking mouth, ticking upward to make the curl of his lip a little more feral. “It’s your call: how far will you let us go, sweetheart?”
Your mouth feels too dry to form a response.
“First base?” Oikawa asks sweetly, leaning over the edge of the sofa once more as his fingers skirt up your arm. His touch ghosts over the swell of your breasts, right where the neckline of your tank top dips down, but only grazes you lightly enough to leave you squirming and unsatisfied.
Your breath hitches as you feel the warmth of his lips on your neck, your head lolling to the side instinctively — but the touch is so brief that you’d almost consider it chaste if not for the way his hand had slithered down to cup your pussy through the material of your leggings, brazen and self-assured.
“Second?” he poses a another question, murmuring the words directly into your skin, even though you’d never responded to the first.
He pulls away when you say nothing, your thighs clenching unconsciously to trap the pressure of his hand where it rests between your legs. His eyes are alight with something entirely too devious to look so tender as he locks gazes with you.
“Oh, you’re letting us go all the way,” he breathes the knowing words out like a prayer, honeyed and exalted.
“Don’t assume things, pervykawa,” Iwa snaps, but his voice is tighter than it had been a moment prior.
“Go on then,” Oikawa urges you, nosing at the edge of your jaw before pressing another featherlight kiss to your throat. “Tell us.”
You let a little noise out at way he presses his hand down a little firmer between your legs, your hips rolling against the pressure instinctively. Your eyes flutter closed, and when they open again, you’re acutely aware of the four men whose attentions are intently focused on you.
You swallow hard, fixing your eyes on the floor to avoid their esurient gazes.
“You can do whatever you want.”
They draw pretzels to decide the order. Four broken sticks held tight in Iwaizumi’s curled fist for them to pick from. Longest stick goes last, and the shortest first. You feel the blood drain from your face when you see who’s holding up the fated stub to start the endeavour off.
Matsukawa seems far less hesitant than you as he beckons you over into his lap. You shakily crawl a bit closer to him across the floor and then pause.
You’ve made out with Mattsun a few times over the years, mostly when you were high or a little tipsy — but it was always lazy and pointless and just for fun.
This was different.
There was a purpose to this — a goal that effectively erased all of the boundaries that normally existed between you and your friends.
“You, I-I… you can’t go first,” you say, your tone panicked as you slowly process the facts in front of you.
Mattsun smirks at you from his place on the couch, leaning down so his face is closer to yours.
“And why’s that?”
Your eyes widen, flickering to the other boys around the room who are watching you squirm with varying looks of interest - Oikawa’s smirk in particular is acutely sadistic from the other end of the sofa.
“You’re too big,” you say quietly, too much breath behind the words to make them anything more than a whisper.
You’ve heard the conversations they’ve had about the size of Mattsun’s cock over the years, and though you’ve never seen it in full view, you’ve caught him half-hard in his sweatpants first thing in the morning enough times to know they weren’t exaggerating when they called him massive.
“What was that?” Issei feigns ignorance, holding a hand up to his ear. “Repeat yourself, so we can all hear you a bit better.”
“You can’t go first,” you repeat yourself adamantly, but it’s not the part that Matsukawa wanted to hear you say, and he clicks his tongue admonishingly.
“Sure I can,” he drawls, holding up the piece of pretzel that he’d pulled, by far the shortest of the four that had been tucked into Iwaizumi’s curled palm, “it’s the luck of the draw.”
Issei extends his hand to you, and eventually you take it, allowing him to guide you up onto the sofa so you’re straddling his lap. His hands settle on your waist, thumbs dipping under the hem of your tank top to brush against the skin underneath.
“There you go,” he says, smiling up at you toothily as you brace yourself on his broad shoulders. “That wasn’t so hard was it?”
This is familiar enough. You’ve sat on his lap before, felt the way his palms flatten and slide down down down to palm your ass through the material of your leggings. He’s not smiling anymore as he peers up at you — no, that look has been replaced with something hungrier as his eyes flutter down to your lips.
You lean forward and kiss him.
Issei is a good kisser.
He has been since the first time the two of you made out in the backyard of a house party in high school when you were both drunk off of pitifully meagre amounts of liquor you’d convinced one the boys’ old volleyball senpai’s to buy for you. His lips are just as soft as they were back then, and he takes his time — focusing on your lips for what feels like an eternity before even thinking to swipe his tongue forward, pressing into your mouth gently in a gesture you’re all too happy to reciprocate.
Your lips start to burn from the way Issei nips and sucks at them, pulling away and watching with a heavy-lidded fascination as he lets your swollen bottom lip snap back into place as it slips from his teeth. You writhe in his lap.
You feel hot.
Too hot for someone who lives in a drafty apartment and isn’t wearing that many clothes to begin with.
You feel like you’re melting when Mattsun leans forward and presses a kiss to the hollow of your throat, his teeth biting down into the skin.
“Issei,” when his name finally slips out from your parted, stinging lips, it’s a whimper more than a moan. You head lolls back as your eyes flutter shut.
“Come on, that doesn’t count and you know it, sweetheart,” he says, the words smug and smothered by your skin between his teeth.
“He hasn’t even touched you yet and you’re this whiny,” Oikawa chuckles breathlessly from the other end of the sofa, and for the first time you remember that the two of you aren’t alone. Your eyes flash over to the young man only a few feet away from you, watching your face carefully.
“Hey,” a hand on your chin guides your face back towards the boy whose lap you’re perched on top of. Issei’s dark eyes bore into yours, his lips pink and swollen in a way that you’re sure yours also mirror. “Why are you looking at him when I’m right here? You distracted or something?”
Issei places the hand not holding your chin on the small of your back, pulling you forward at the same time that he ruts his own hips up. You gasp as you feel the pressure of his hard cock pressing against your clothed cunt. Even through the layers of clothing separating you, you can feel just how big he is.
“O-Oh my god, Issei, you’re…” you let out a strangled yelp, your train of thought lost as he repeats the same roll of his hips as before.
“Seems like I’ve got your full attention now,” Mattsun laughs, but his words are a little hoarser than they were before, a little more laboured. He grunts as you press your chest into his, wrapping your arms around his neck to kiss him again, your hips continuing the same steady pace that he’d set for you both.
You should be embarrassed how quickly the knot in your stomach builds up while you grind against Matsukawa’s lap, or at the very least embarrassed that you have an audience to the entire spectacle, but the heat thrumming through your veins makes you shameless and desperate. Mattsun moves with purpose and an almost inhuman precision, riling you up so fast that you find yourself on the brink of cumming and all of your clothes are still on.
His teeth bite down into the flesh of your shoulder at the exact moment the outline of the head of his cock ruts directly against your clit.
“Issei!” you throw your head back, gasping at the feeling.
“That was a moan!” Oikawa says with a sudden sharp clap of his hands, shattering the intimacy of the heated moment.
Before you know what’s happening you’re being pulled off Issei, who can only groan in response, his hands trying to cling to you as you’re pried from his lap.
“No, no, please I-“
“Don’t worry, I’ll make you feel good, too. Better even,” Oikawa smiles at you as he cuts off your desperate babbling, but it’s sharp and predatory as he lays you out on the sofa, flat on your back.
Your thighs are shaking, panties sticking between your legs as he crawls over you.
“Isn’t that right, Cherry-chan?”
You have half a mind to kick him off the couch just for the nickname, and call the whole thing off.
You dated Oikawa in high school, much to both of your dismay now that you’re older and wiser and not virgins. And he’d started calling you the pet name not long after you’d started seeing each other — citing the way your cheeks would always flush a telling, rosy hue at the slightest bit of provocation. You’d actually found it sort of sweet, until you learned (way later than you should have) that the nickname came from the fact he popped your cherry, not because you looked like one.
But you’re too worked up to do either of those things, and instead you fist the material of his t-shirt and pull him down towards you to crash his lips to yours.
Oikawa shows none of the patience that Mattsun showed in the preamble, immediately working the waistband of your pants down over your hips, underwear along with it. Before you know it, you’re naked from the waist down and Tooru is sinking to his knees on the floor between your parted thighs.
He wastes no time. Oikawa Tooru is a man who knows what he wants, and he has been for as long as you’ve known him.
Driven.
Unyielding in the pursuit of his goals.
And what he wants right now?
To break you apart.
Maybe it’s because of how worked up Mattsun had gotten you, maybe it’s the skillful way Oikawa uses this mouth, but in no time at all you find yourself on the edge.
“Oh my god, oh — haa — my god,” you’re babbling as the boy between your legs sucks your clit into his mouth. You’re trying your best to be quiet as you speak, all things considered; not quite moaning yet, though you’re uncertain as to whether or not it’s because you don’t want to give him the satisfaction, or that you know the moment you do you’ll be denied yours again.
“You taste so good.” Tooru licks a long stripe up your pussy with his unfairly talented tongue, flicking the tip against your sensitive clit as he reaches the top. “So sweet.”
You keen, back arching up off the sofa as he curls two long fingers inside of you without much warning beyond the brief glimpse of him wetting them with his mouth.
You’re going to cum.
You’re going to cum.
“Then do it,” Oikawa says, peering up at you lustfully from his place between your thighs, his tongue flicking out to lave against your clit again. You didn’t even realize you’d said it out loud.
Tooru spits into the hand that’s not currently three knuckles deep inside of you, and shifts slightly as he reaches down out of sight. The slick sound of him pumping his cock fills the room along with the obscene noises of him lapping at your cunt. The fact that he’s getting off on this as much as you are makes you feel even more unhinged.
When you finally cum, you feel like you’re going to die.
“Tooru!” you cry out, unable to hold the moan back any longer even in spite of your best efforts. Your thighs clamp around his head as your hips buck up against his face, back arching like a bow string drawn taught. Your hands tangle in his soft brown hair while you ride out the wave of heat that rips through your body.
You’re too far gone to worry that you’re going to be interrupted, but it doesn’t matter: the boys around the room are watching with such a fascinated intensity that none of them dare to interrupt.
“Look at that,” Makki breathes.
“Shit,” Mattsun grunts out an agreement as you struggle to catch your breath.
Oikawa’s hand has sped up it’s frantic passes along his cock, and when he shifts up to his knees on the floor below you, you catch sight of it for the first time since you were a teenager: still long and curved and nicely pink at the head, glossy with the precum oozing out of it.
“Like what you see?” he rasps out when he catches the way your eyes have travelled down to his dick, the muscles in his abdomen clenching to make them even more defined in a way that you’re uncertain is intentional or instinctive.
You nod weakly.
“Cum on me, Tooru.”
His muscles tense again.
“Where?” his pretence of nonchalance is fractured by the way his voice cracks, a pretty hand wrapped around the base of his equally pretty cock to keep himself from cumming before you tell him exactly where you want it.
“My tits,” you breathe, eyes flickering up to his feral gaze, “cum on my tits.”
One of his hands wraps around your knee, tugging you to the edge of the sofa where you’re still lying flat on your back. Your shirt rucks up slightly in the scramble, but his other hand tugs your tank top the rest of the way up over your chest, positioning himself over you between your spread legs as he pumps his hand hard and fast one, two, three times more before you feel the first spatter of cum hit your sweat-dampened skin.
You watch as he rests back on his haunches, reaching up to push his ruffled hair back from his face.
Tooru smirks, dragging a long finger through the mess he made on your chest — probably writing his name in it — as he speaks again.
“I don’t remember you being so lewd when we were in high school, Cherry-chan.”
“I don’t remember you being able to make me cum when we were in high school, either. Guess things change,” you say, and your words would have been more cutting if you were a little less breathless. Your hand reaches up and cards through Tooru’s impossibly soft hair, but what could have been a tender moment turns cutting when you curl your fingers in the tresses and tug hard — Oikawa looks like he’s holding back a moan. “And stop calling me that.”
“Here,” a voice says softly from beside you, pulling your attention away from the obnoxious boy who’d just made you cum. You let your head loll to the side to see Iwa handing you a bit of tissue. You have no idea when or where he got them from, but you thank him, watching the way his eyes follow your careful motions as you clean yourself up.
“You missed a spot,” Oikawa says, dipping down and dragging his tongue across your breast, maintaining eye contact with his best friend while he does it. You whimper a little at the way his teeth graze you when he suckles your nipple into his mouth — just for the hell of it.
“Alright, enough rekindling that old flame,” Makki says, eager for his own turn, before grabbing Oikawa by the collar of his shirt and dragging away from you. The brown-haired boy makes an indignant squawk as he’s so unceremoniously uprooted, but you have virtually no time to process it before Hiro is pulling you up to your feet and maneuvering you over to his seat, flopping down and pulling you into his lap along with him.
“Take this off,” he says, tugging at the shirt bunched up over your chest. He helps guide it up over your head properly and then he appraises you for a moment, moulding his hand to the shape of your breast.
He sighs, and it sounds soft and almost dreamy. You don’t trust it at all.
“Perfect.”
If Issei and Oikawa had been determined to unravel you as quickly as possible, Hiro is the opposite — he touches you like he wants to drive you to the brink, but never quite allow you to go over.
“‘Atta girl, just like that,” Hiro breathes as his thumb rubs infuriatingly slow circles into your clit, his other hand guiding the thick head of his cock through the slick of your slit. His shirt is long gone, but his sweatpants had only been tugged down around his knees — unsurprisingly he’d not been wearing underwear beneath them.
He’s been teasing you like this for what felt like an eternity, painstakingly circling your clit, rolling your nipples between his teeth, laving his tongue over the bite marks he’d littered across your collarbones to match the one’s Issei had made while you mewled. He appeased your needy whines with the occasional dip of his tip pressing into you, a little bit of a burn each time as you adjusted to the intrusion, you still feel too empty.
“H-hiro, please. I need it,” you’re almost sobbing as you plead to him. Hell, you are sobbing — the words mangled and watery as your fingers tangle their way into Makki’s perpetual bedhead.
“Nah, you don’t,” Makki says. “You can cum like this.”
“I don’t want to,” you warble, fingernails raking bluntly over his scalp. “Wanna cum on yo-on your cock.”
That makes him falter, slipping a little bit further inside you due to nothing but pure shock. You feel his cock twitch as you sink halfway down it.
“Oh I felt that,” you keen, tossing your head back and dropping your hips down onto him as much as his vice grip on your waist will allow — which isn’t much. “Please Hiro. I know you want to.”
“‘Course I want to,” he groans, thrusting shallowly into the tight heat between your legs. “But you’re so pretty like this, all wrecked and desperate. Who’re you begging for?”
“You,” you murmur, kissing up his throat to his jaw, sliding little pecks all the way across to his mouth. “It’s for you Hiro — so please just fuck me.”
“I don’t have a condom on,” Hiro hisses out through clenched teeth. “And I’m out.”
“I’ve got some,” Mattsun drawls from his spot on the couch and your half-lidded gaze lands on him. He licks his lips as you make eye contact, your walls clenching around the tip of Hiro’s cock that’s still half-inside you.
“Fuck you,” Makki spits, not to you, and you all know why. Mattsun is the only man in the room that would fit into the king size condoms tucked into his bedside drawer.
“I don’t care,” you keen, head lolling back.
He’s halfway in already, no condom in sight. Was it your finest hour? The most shining example of reason you’d ever set? No. But you were three quarters of the way through letting your four best friends have their way with you, so it’s fair to say that logic and reason were well beyond you by that point.
“Really?” Hiro’s voice is comically pitchy as he croaks the question out, desperate and hopeful.
“Just don’t cum inside me, ‘kay?” You nod, leaning forward and resting your forehead against his. He rolls his hips a little deeper than before, not all the way, but fuller than he’d been filling you up until that point.
“You got it, princess.”
Makki’s cock may not be the most impressive in the room, but god does he know how to use it. The first thrust to the hilt he makes has you crying out — a pitiful, broken sound that rips from somewhere deep in your chest.
“Fuck you’re so tight,” Hiro moans, pulling out just to repeat the same toe-curling accuracy he’d executed on the first thrust. Three more and you’re ready to snap, and the softest pressure of his thumb on your clit has your eyes rolling into the back of your head.
“Hiro, H-Hiro, Hiro!” you moan his name as you come undone, nails digging into the soft flesh of his shoulders as you scrabble for purchase in the pale skin.
“Fuck, fuck,” Hiro chokes out, managing two more sloppy thrusts through your orgasm before he’s pulling out of you and cumming all over his own tightly-drawn abs.
You crumple forward, hands gripping the back of the chair as your sweat-slicked chest meets Makki’s. His hands immediately reaching around to stroke your back as the two of you struggle to catch your breaths.
It’s an unusually gentle gesture, and you find yourself melting into his touch — though careful not to get the cum splattered across his skin onto yours.
“Wow,” he says with a huff of a laugh, the warm breath fanning against your ear. “Your pussy’s unreal.”
You pull back, looking at him through narrowed eyes.
Way to ruin the moment.
You flick him on the forehead, right between his brows.
You stand up onto unsteady legs and almost immediately stumble, but a strong arm around your waist keeps you upright.
You turn in the aforementioned grip to see Iwa supporting you.
“Hi, Iwa,” you say softly, for lack of anything better to say, a delirious smile on your flushed face.
“Hi,” he repeats the greeting with a sweet chuckle. He says your name quietly, and you feel something stir in the pit of your stomach. “You good?”
“Mhm,” you hum, with a little nod, very aware of the way his stiff cock is pressing into your hip as he holds you.
You wait for a second before stretching up to press your lips to his.
He freezes momentarily — like even after everything he’d just witnessed he wasn’t quite expecting it — before responding in kind, kissing you deeply and holding you a little bit tighter.
You stay like that, making out in the middle of the living room, before Iwa sweeps you up into his arms. Your legs wrap around his waist as he holds you like it’s effortless and carefully he leans down, laying you out across the floor — hardly breaking the kiss all the while.
Iwa steals a pillow off the couch — you think it’s Oikawa who hands it to him but you can’t be sure — nestling it under your hips to angle them up and protect them from the hard floor underneath.
“Is this okay?” he asks, though he barely separates from your mouth to speak the words, so soft and quiet and close that it’s like you’re the only person in the world who’s meant to hear them.
You nod a little bit, your fingers tracing through his short hair while he’s hovering over you.
“We can stop here, you know,” he says, brushing his nose against yours. “You’ve done so much already.”
You panic a little, your grip on his hair tightening.
“No,” you say, voice pitching up in your fluster. “Please, Hajime. I want you to fuck me.”
Iwa swallows hard, leaning back on his knees as he tugs his sweatshirt up over his head.
You’re wet and more than ready for him when he finally presses in — but there’s still a delicious stretch as he carves his way inside of you that has you arching up underneath him, grabbing his corded shoulders to ground yourself.
“Oh,” Iwa gasps out as he feels the way you’re wrapped around him, sucking him in.
You whimper as he pulls back only slightly before rutting into you again, sending you sliding up on the carpet, the burn against your shoulder blades little more than a dull ache even if you know you’ll feel it acutely in the morning.
“More, Iwa,” you plead to him breathlessly. “I want you.”
“You’ve got me,” he replies hoarsely, but he still obliges your request readily, looping your knees over his forearms and bending you in half. The change forces a sound out of you that’s so carnal it even takes you by surprise.
He’s so deep at this angle, you swear you can feel the tip of his cock hitting your diaphragm — anatomical possibilities be damned. Your throat is tight, breath hitching with every slow, calculated thrust inside of you as he takes his time.
“Ha-“ your moan is cut off before you can say his name, his hand pressing against your swollen lips to trap the word behind them unspoken.
“Sorry, baby,” Iwa murmurs, eyes tracing over your wrecked face. “I just don’t want this to end too quick, okay?”
You can only nod underneath his palm as it covers your mouth, tears of exertion gathering along your lash line and dripping back towards your temple.
“Be good for me,” his words are strained, tendons in his neck flexing as he swallows hard and rolls his hips down into yours once more.
If any of the boys want to complain about how this is breaking some unspoken rule, they don’t. A silence so profound has settled over the room that you wonder if they’re even breathing.
Iwa fucks you languidly — tenderly. Like he’s savouring every slick slide into your cunt for all the moment is worth. He’s groaning openly, the sounds occasionally muffled by your skin as he presses hot open mouthed kisses to every inch of it he can reach - your mouth is still covered by his heavy hand, so he focuses his attention on your jaw, your throat, your tits.
He doesn’t care about the competition, the way he’s taking his time makes that clear, but when he finally removes his hand and you moan — properly moan — it’s a sound so high and sweet you can almost feel the shiver that runs down the length of his spine.
“Hajime.”
“Shit,” the grunted curse isn’t from Iwa, who is still rocking his hips into yours, but rather Makki — who had begun shamelessly jerking himself off again on the other side of the living room.
You cum for the third time that night, but it’s no less impressive than the first two. Your vision goes from black to white with how hard your eyes squeeze shut, and Iwa moans your name out when he feels the way you clench around his cock — so tight he can barely keep fucking you through it. Your legs wind themselves around his hips and keep him still as you writhe through your peak.
“‘M gonna cum,” he grunts out through clenched teeth, hands moving to try and pry your legs away, “baby, I’m gonna cum, you gotta-“
“Inside,” you keen, “cum inside me, Haji.”
With a defeated, wanton groan he nods, rolling against you again— it’s harder this time, more frantic.
“You sure?” he manages to bite the words out though it seems to take every last ounce of resolve he has, hands pressed into the carpet on either side of your head as he leans over you fucking you into the floor.
You nod frantically, tears still rolling down your cheeks. Your hands press weakly against the smooth planes of his chest as you feel the first pangs of overstimulation, your fingers scratching into the skin beneath them a little more on every thrust. You loosen the lock of your legs, allowing Iwaizumi a bit more leeway to fuck you harder, and after only a few more bruising thrusts you feel him cum, cock throbbing and filling you up so well that you feel on the verge of bursting.
Iwa collapses on top of you, his face tucked into the crook of your neck as his heavy weight bears down and crushes you into the floor — but you don’t quite mind it.
He gets his bearings soon enough, as though realizing for the first time he might be harming you, rolling onto his side.
His eyes are a little hazy as they rake over your features, a look of concern pinching his handsome face. You can tell without him saying it that he’s worried he went too far, so you reach up and cup his face in your palm with a weak but genuine smile.
You feel a pressure on your knee unexpectedly, gently nudging your legs apart. You look down to see Hiro’s foot coaxing your thighs open, eyes fixed to where Hajime’s cum is dripping out of you. He’s tucked his cock away and pulled his sweatpants up again, meaning he must have finished again at some point, but his lip is stuck out in an obnoxious pout as he looks at you.
“How come he got to nut inside you but I didn’t?” Makki whines, and Oikawa reaches out and smacks the back of his head lightly — shooting him a look that you don’t quite understand.
“I’ll go get a warm cloth to clean you up,” Iwa says to you, pulling your attention back to him as he pushes himself up into a sitting position. He clears his throat a little. “Okay?”
You nod weakly, your exhaustion having finally crept up on you.
“Iwa-chan, get one for me too! My face is still all sticky!” Oikawa calls after Iwa’s retreating form.
“Get it yourself!”
“But Iwa!” Oikawa complains, standing and shuffling after his friend, grumbling about the injustice all the while.
“You need some water?” Makki asks, standing from his seat and peering down at where you’re still laying flat on the floor of your living room. He stretches his arms up over his head, the muscles of his upper body flexing under his skin as he does so. You nod, hissing a little as you pull yourself upright.
“Yes, please,” your throat is hoarse so you say the words a little weakly, and you wince as you feel more cum seep out of you and smear along the tops of your thighs. Makki nods and saunters off towards the kitchen, but you could have sworn you spotted a little blush along the tops of his cheeks before he left.
You sigh a little bit, blinking away some of the residual wetness in your eyes.
A figure appears in the periphery of your blurry vision, and you turn, peering upwards.
Mattsun grins down at you, his towering height only amplified by your position on the floor. He tilts his head to the side.
“Kinda unfair that I’m the only one who didn’t get to cum, you know.”
He crouches down beside you, his eyes trailing all the way up your body until he reaches your flushed, tearstained face. He cups your cheek in his hand, the pad of his thumb swiping away a lone tear still clinging to your skin. He brings the thumb up to his lips, and you watch raptly as his tongue sweeps out to taste the brine from his fingertip.
Your stomach clenches.
“Think you’re ready for me now, sweetheart?”
None of you even seem to notice that the competition had been all but forgotten.
