Chapter Three: Lock Your Doors

Chapter three: Lock your doors

Word count: 3.8k

Category: hard angst, smut

Chapter warnings: drugs, mentions of medicine, light smut, guns 

Summary: There are three hot guys who want to be with you, however, there are a few problems along the way. One of them is a plug, another one wants to keep you all to himself and the third one - a med student who deals drugs on the side. Your main problem, though? You have a terminal illness that has a very low life expectancy. Spiraling down a dangerous path seems like a fun way to spend your last years.

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Maybe your mind-set of "you only live once" finally did you some favours, because now you have a date set with one of the hottest guys ever.

Friday comes fast and after swallowing down a bunch of medicine you’re sitting in an expensive car of none other than Kuroo Tetsuro.

The dark of the night swallows the blurry autumn sun and speckles the sky with stars. Your nerves are fried, fingers twitching and leg bouncing up and down, up and down.

"You’re nervous," Kuroo hums, but it’s not a question, merely an observation, "Your leg keeps bouncing up and down." The steering wheel is left in one of his huge hands, while the other one finds its way to your knee, gently squeezing, "Do I make you nervous?"

His hand is pleasantly warm. It reminds you of the most delightful things – early summer mornings, apple pie with ice cream and bear hugs.

And how could you not be nervous? Kuroo Tetsuro - the guy you had this dumb crush on for literal months - all 6’4 of his is sitting next to you, with that charming smile on his handsome face, navigating through the streets of busy, light-polluted Tokyo as if it’s as easy as breathing.

"I’m sitting in a car with a guy who’s basically a stranger and is refusing to tell me where we’re going. But yes, your handsome face is the problem."

The salon of his expensive car is filled with tension and the scent of sandalwood.

Kuroo lets out a laugh, "You’re trying to be snarky and shit but you still called me handsome, so thank you."

Your face burns as you scramble to make a witty come-back. Kuroo makes you way more nervous than you would like to be. It’s as if every time you see him your mind goes blurry.

"Well, you are," you finally settle on a response, "But aren’t there enough girls who tell you that?"

Kuroo gives you a look, turning back to the busy road to drive around slower drivers.

"Is that your way of asking me about girls?"

Your eyes fall to your shoes, as if they’re the most engrossing thing ever and your hands begin to mindlessly toy with your skirt.

"You sure you didn’t wanna study psychology or something?" you groan, still feeling a bit embarrassed that your intentions, expressed in a form of what you thought was the most flawless way of acquiring the answers you needed, being uncovered that easy.

He reminds you of a certain charming brunette from your past - the reason for most of your happy memories. They’re both too good at reading people.

Kuroo’s laughter is surprisingly higher in pitch than his voice, but it’s not unpleasant to listen to. You might even call it cute in a way.

"Babe, you’re just too easy to read, no need for me to study psychology," he finally says, slipping in the nickname without any further thought, a sly smirk playing at his lips when he notices the way you react to his words. His hand is still resting on your knee and he playfully squeezes it, making you almost jump up in your seat.

"You do know that I want to be here as much as you do, right? It’s not like you’re the only one nervous."

The sincerity of his words is hidden by a wide smile, but it’s reassuring. It’s hard to believe that a guy like Kuroo would go out with you and for you to refuse the urge to pinch your arm for the n-th time tonight.

"I know that, but somehow my brain," you wildly gesture to your head, raising your eyebrows, "Doesn’t connect the… dots, right?"

"What dots?" he swiftly turns into an intersection and turns right, slightly speeding up when the green light begins to blink.

"You wanting to go out with me..." you mutter, slightly awkwardly. For some reason, when you’re talking to him you’re like an open book. He has this aura around him that just makes you want to look into his golden-brown eyes and trust him.

Kuroo frowns, the corners of his lips going slightly downwards, "Why would you even say that? Who wouldn’t want to go out with you?"

Your thoughts are filled to capacity with Issei Matsukawa. That’s who wouldn’t want to go out with you. He’s like your own personal moon – only showing up when you need him the most, fucking you until you forget everything, but never letting anyone know who you two are; only a slight smirk when his friends ask if you two had fucked and a casual nod when they ask if you’re good in bed. That’s what you’ve been reduced to.

"Hey, doll, I think you’re dozing off on me, hm?"

You come back to reality; to the city lights that are now few and far in between, to how Kuroo’s hand spreads warmth through your body and to the smell of sandalwood.

"Yeah, just got lost in thought, sorry,"

"No worries," he nods, expression radiating relief and the usual self-assured smirk returning once again coming back to the black-haired man’s face, "Y/N, do you want to play 10 questions?"

You’re watching the lights of the bustling city fade away, melting away your tension. You feel safe with Kuroo, however dumb and naive it may sound. The fact that he didn’t push you to answer his question just a moment before only proves you right.

"Isn’t that for teenagers?" you lift up your eyes, finding Kuroo already looking at you and instantly ending the eye-contact, suddenly finding your shoes outstandingly interesting.

"It is… But I need an excuse to ask all the questions I want without seeming intrusive," 

"Okay, Mr. Thoughtful, ask away then," Kuroo chuckles at your attempts to tease him, but he knows. He knows that he’s got you wrapped around his finger. Not like he’s gonna use that. Not for now, at least.

"Okay. How many boyfriends have you had?" It seems like he had the question ready a while ago and you’re puzzled. He says most things so casually that you can only be envious of his confidence.

You’re lost in thought for a while. Well, Issei checked all the boxes a boyfriend should’ve; yet he didn’t want to be anything more, so that left you with-

"Just one, back in high school."

"What high school did you go to?" Kuroo shoots the question instantly, one finger bouncing up and down alongside the radio music, sending tingles through your body.

"Isn’t it my turn to ask?"

"Ah. Yes, I suppose." He gives you a half-assed apologetic smirk and suddenly turns right, his car tires squeaking in protest.

"How many girlfriends have you had?" you ask the same question, just reversed, but Kuroo doesn’t question it. He doesn’t even have to think before answering.

"Not gonna ask how many boyfriends I’ve had? Okay, ah, about five girlfriends."

"About-" you’re ready to find out more, curiosity getting the best of you but Kuroo squeezes your knee, like a subtle warning.

"Ah ah, my turn."

"What high school did you go to?" he asks, once again surprising you in how quick he is at making them.

"Aoba Johsai."

"Was this boy Iwaizumi Hajime?" he raises an eyebrow and seems quite satisfied with himself – like he’s got it all figured out.

"What? No! And it’s not even your turn to ask!" you couldn’t ever imagine yourself with Iwa. He was a good friend and a very handsome man, but way too serious for your taste.

"This game is stupid," Kuroo pauses for a moment. You know he’s got his next question already figured out, but he doesn’t ask straight away, "why not Iwaizumi?"

"Not my type, per say."

"Seems like your type. We have a similar face, no?"

You think for a moment. Not even a bit. Iwa’s eyes were slanted whereas Kuroo’s were lazily hooded, Iwa always carried a scowl on his face, while the man sitting beside you, favoured a confident smirk. The only similar thing about them was their height, and even then – Kuroo was more lean and with a straighter posture, "You do not," you finally come to the conclusion and Kuroo’s smiling. God, how he loves watching the wheels in your head turn, thoughts spinning and mouth opening and closing as you’re unable to make a believable argument.

"Strong eyebrows and jawline, a scowl. Don’t wanna rethink your answer?" Once again, he’s fast, pointing at his features with slender fingers, instead of looking at the empty road.

The scenery has changed and now you’re driving through empty fields, huge houses with giant fences popping up here and there.

"No, Iwa looks just like Mattsun but in italics," Kuroo searches his mind till he finds the face of Matsukawa Issei, who you so sweetly called "Mattsun" and then laughs. Holy shit, you’re right. Although, that’s got him thinking more. You two must be pretty close, if you’re calling the man by a nickname. Perhaps a former classmate? He was gonna have to look into it more, but for now, he’s got more important answers to provoke out of you, "Ok, right. Right. But who was it then?"

"Tooru."

"Oikawa Tooru?!" Kuroo almost slams on the brakes, shock apparent on his face. The resident pretty boy captain is a well-known person to him – always a beautiful fangirl hanging off his arm and a saccharine smile adorning his lips. He doesn’t seem like your type at all. Too sophisticated and fake. 

"You seem surprised."

“I am.” Kuroo nods, collecting his composure, putting his usual smirk back on, “Are pretty boys your type?”

“Didn’t you tell me my type was Iwaizumi and you, a moment ago?”

“Yeah,” Kuroo hums, nonchalantly, “That was before I knew Oikawa fucking Tooru was your ex,” he shakes his head, as if it’s hard to connect dots in his head, “Was he good in bed?”

You almost choke on your saliva and his hand pats your knee calmly. Oh, how he enjoys making you embarrassed.

“Interested in sleeping with Tooru?” you retort, but it’s way too late to have any real bite. 

Kuroo doesn’t acknowledge it, only noting that you still call Oikawa by his first name.

“Nah… Nah, just wanna know what I’m competing with.” 

Your head spins from the idea of what he’s implying, mind travelling to what his touches and kisses would feel like on your heated skin. 

But before you spiral out, Kuroo moves his hand from your knee and does a sharp turn, suddenly stopping and turning off the car, stretching in his car seat. You instantly miss the comforting warmth of his hand.

“We’re here.” 

Your eyes widen, trying to get used to the dark. Little by little, details come into your vision – you’re parked near a huge field of lavenders, surrounded by giant oak trees. It looks like a scene straight from a Studio Ghibli movie. 

“Are you going to murder me and hide my body in a lavender field?” 

Kuroo steps out of his car, instantly coming to open yours, it’s like an instinct for him, “Yeah. Gonna give you to a cult. ‘Children of the Corn’ and shit.” 

You chuckle as you step out of the car, following him without any question. Kuroo feels safe – like getting to sleep in your bed after a party, a ring that fits perfectly around your finger and holding hands when it’s cold. 

He leads you through a path in the field, the smell of lavender filling your senses. Kuroo reaches out for you and you grab his hand without thinking, which brings a smile to his face.

“When I was younger, uh, in my first year of high school, my dad died and it was just me and my grandparents left. They couldn’t afford a house in the city, dad left a lot of debt, so we moved away to the outskirts of Tokyo. When I felt like it was just me against the world… I used to come here.” 

The story Kuroo tells flows freely into the night air as he leads you through the small paths, to the biggest oak tree in the field. You don’t say you’re sorry for his loss. Traumas like that never heal and adding a band-aid to a gaping wound only adds insult to the injury. 

“So this is your safe place. I get it.” you give his hand a gentle squeeze and look up at him. The confident smirk is exchanged for a more gentler, genuine one, “I appreciate you taking me here.” 

Kuroo stops, if only for a moment, gazing down at you, “I know it’s corny and shit, since it’s our first date, but ah, I’ve treated girls shitty in the past. Don’t want to treat you like that, I want this to work. Even if it’s only a few dates.” 

“O-oh.” 

Kuroo laughs and spins you by your shoulders. You’re staring at a wooden ladder, attached to a blue treehouse. The paint is chipping away.

“I love the fact that I make you so nervous,” the words are spoken right into your ear, as he gives it a little peck and then gently pushes you towards the ladder.

“Are you letting me go first cause you want to stare at my butt?” you turn to him with judgemental eyes before you take the first step. 

“That, and the serial killers up there. Wouldn’t want them to kill me first!” 

You roll your eyes as you start climbing up and up, until you reach the opening to the treehouse, crawling in. 

It’s not like you imagined at all – the walls are painted, there’s a rug and a big mattress with pillows and thick blankets,

“Don’t tell me you used to sleep here, too.” 

“No, it was an old mattress my grandparents wanted to throw out. Figured it would make the place more cozy,” Kuroo pauses for a second and then sits down, encouraging you to do so too. He instantly pulls you close, “Easier than having to wait until my grandparents went somewhere, too.” 

You stare up at Kuroo, shaking your head, “You said you didn’t sleep here!” Kuroo chuckles and kisses your forehead, sending warmth all over your body. 

“Yeah, that’s right. I never slept here, just used to fuck girls here.” 

He’s so crude and straight-forward, but you can’t help but laugh.

“So we’re probably sitting on old cum stains?”

“Nah, probably not,” Kuroo grabs your waist and lays you down. He’s on top now and you turn your head to the side. 

“Look at me, y/n,” Kuroo gently grabs your chin and turns your face to look at him, you could explore his amber eyes for hours upon hours, trying to find out all the secrets within, “Can I kiss you?” 

You nod, giving him the permission, which he immediately uses. His lips are surprisingly soft against yours and his kiss bleeds desperation. One of his hands is still on your face, while the other finds its place in your hair. 

You try to lift yourself up, to get even closer to him, but he pushes you down by your hip, forbidding you from doing so. 

“Don’t move, baby,” he stops you with another kiss, this time biting your upper lip and dragging until it snaps back. He laughs and then kisses you again, “You’re so fucking beautiful.” 

You pull back and kiss him all over the face – he has little tiny freckles all over his nose. It has the most adorable little bump, encouraging you to kiss his nose once more. 

“You just gonna kiss me all over my face?” Kuroo raises one of his eyebrows and you reward him with another one. Then you reach for his jawline, then neck, making his breath hitch. 

“I want to undress you,” Kuroo says and you nip at his neck, giggling. 

“Then do so, don’t fucking ask me for permission,” you mumble into his skin and inhale more of the enticing sandalwood scent. Your mind is spinning. You’re about to fuck a man you’ve crushed on for months. Will it be different from having sex with Issei and all those random hookups? Is it too soon? Will you seem too easy?-

“Don’t have to tell me twice,” Kuroo chuckles and then he’s undressing you – your skirt and shirt are flying off, shoes too and you’re left before him only in your bra in your panties, “Aw, you put on a matching set for me. How sweet of you. You’re so sweet… I almost feel bad for what I’m going to do with you.” 

Your breath hitches. Issei was never gentle, he took and took and took. You had a feeling Kuroo would be different. He admires the set for a short moment, before tearing it off. You yelp, but Kuroo instantly silences it with a hungry kiss. He takes but it’s so different. 

“You’ve got nice tits,” he smiles and then he’s kissing all over them, making your words stuck in your throat when he bites. Hard, “Am I being a red flag if I want to give you hickeys and bite marks,” he kisses lower and lower, “all over your body?” 

“Might-“ your voice gets a pitch higher when Kuroo finally reaches your pussy, giving it a gentle kiss and separating the folds. There’s an unreadable emotion swimming in his eyes, “Might not have enough turtlenecks to hide them all.” 

“Oh, baby,” Kuroo laughs and gives an experimental lick to your clit, making your back arch, “I plan on letting everyone see.” 

And then he’s eating you out like it’s his last meal. One of his hands finds your hip again, squeezing hard and preventing you from lifting yourself up, “You just can’t stay still, yeah?” His words cause vibrations, making you let out a loud whine. 

“You sound pretty. Real pretty,” with that, you finally let out a loud, angelic moan. And that’s enough to get Kuroo going. Oh, how he craves to hear more and more and more.

Two of his slender fingers slide inside you and you keen at the stretch. It’s been a while since you’ve last had sex so every calculated touch of nimble fingers feels euphoric against your skin, pleasure coursing through the slight pain. 

“More,” you ask. No, you beg. You look at Kuroo like he’s your god, ever so loving and forgiving to grant you one wish. One wish for not being sinful. One wish because he gets to be the one to make you sin. 

“You don’t know what you’re asking for, baby,” Kuroo grunts and then, suddenly, adds another finger. You yelp, trying to grab at his wrist, but his hand stops yours, “Be a good girl. Don’tcha wanna be a good girl for me, mm?” 

“Want to! Wanna be a good girl for you, daddy!” 

Kuroo tilts his head back, groaning, “You don’t know what you’re starting, fuck-. You just squeezed my fingers so fucking hard,” a smirk plays on his stupidly handsome face, “Want me to get rough? Baby wants me to get rough with her soft, perfect body?” 

You nod, and with that, Kuroo gets all the confirmation he’s ever needed from you. His fingers find the spot inside you, the one many guys would’ve struggled to find and with a few curls of his long fingers, you’re coming undone, juices spreading all over Kuroo’s fingers. 

He’s smiling in blissful delight, sticking the fingers into your mouth as you eagerly lick them clean, tasting yourself. Kuroo pats your heated cheek in approval and then quickly removes his sweater and shirt, revealing a silver chain that has a small black cat charm hanging on it. You chuckle and Kuroo tilts his head, until he catches where your stare landed. 

“Don’t make fun of me, princess, yeah? You’re about to learn what happens to good, perfect girls like you,” he smiles and it makes you burn. You want him to touch you, kiss you, ruin you until the only things you remember in this world are his name and face. 

However, as soon as his soft, warm lips land on your neck, there’s a noise outside. A car engine coming closer and closer with each passing moment. 

Kuroo stands up instantly, pulling you up as you stumble to get onto your unsteady feet. The floor of the treehouse is cold, and so are you. 

“Get your shoes on, quickly”, his voice is laced with concern and hints of confusion so you don’t hesitate - doing as you’re told as quickly as possible. He dresses you in his sweater - the material soft and comfortable against your skin, pulls his own shirt on and gathers other clothing left. You see it in his eyes - no time to put on your clothes, you have to go.

He climbs off the ladder and almost pulls you off of it, when he deems your speed unsatisfying. 

“No one is supposed to know this place, except a few people, fuck!” Kuroo pulls you with him and you only ease his worries by not stumbling, which requires huge effort, actually, “I am almost sure of who that is though, what bad timing… Fuck, I really just wanted to take you on a date where no one could find us,” he’s seething, grabbing your hand in a grip that tightens with each passing moment. 

You don’t dare question Kuroo. Everything - from his words to his seething need to get you somewhere safe - screams danger. 

When you’re about a few meters from his car, Kuroo pulls you closer and takes a long inhale.

“Please, sit in the car, don’t make a noise and don’t open the door for anyone besides me,” the words take a few short moments to register in your scared mind, which makes Kuroo grab you tighter, “Say you understand, y/n.” 

“I-I understand,” the words leave your mouth as another car pulls into the side of the beautiful fields, that gave you such calmness and serenity just a while ago. No more of that today. The calmness and coldness of Kuroo’s voice make shivers run down your spine. 

There’s a flash of recognition in Kuroo’s eyes as he observes the car that’s pulled over. His brows furrow and he ushers you quickly towards his own car, hand tightly wrapped around yours. 

“I’ll be back as quickly as possible, okay?” with that, you’re sitting in the passenger seat, your knees pulled to your chest, mind spinning. You watch his tall silhouette disappear into the darkness and then close your eyes. You would appreciate some pain medicine right now. If only you had some on you. Hopefully, Kuroo is back soon and you’ll get away with an excuse of a headache. 

You’re still only in your shoes and Kuroo’s sweater when someone taps on the car window. Your skin raises in goosebumps, heart about to jump out of your chest. Slowly, you look up and are met with a barrel of a gun and an icy stare looking straight into your soul. Only one thought runs through your head – Kuroo hasn’t locked his car.

Sorry for the long wait, been super busy!

Taglist: @heizenka​ @icelyn20​ @strawbberyys @creepykawass​

prompt: post-apocalypse ghost/reader fic where ghost and the rest of his team come across the feral, blood-soaked reader who stabs first and asks questions later. (on ao3 here)

-

The world ends on a Monday.

Abysmal timing; they’re on leave by chance, the whole lot of them. Soap and Gaz are playing cards in the barracks when they get the call. Price is still in his office when a phone in the corner of the room that never rings suddenly does (he stares at it for a time before picking it up). Ghost is someplace, no one knows for sure; what they do know is that when he does finally answer their calls, he’s out of breath and there’s a thread of panic in his voice that makes the blood in Soap’s veins run cold. 

He’s never heard him sound like that. He never will again.

The virus rages across the country, hopping borders like they melt away into the ether. Country after country toppelling to this unnamed virus that demolishes society so completely that there was never a chance for the military to contain it. That chance evaporates before even the faintest spark of hope is lit. 

Soap is used to killing, but what he never gets used to is the sight of those things that take human shape. Calling them zombies is easy at first, but even that name comes with a sense of distance; it evokes things seen in films and tv shows, not the real flesh-and-blood of it all, not sitting in a caravan speeding down the motorway with bodies torn apart and scattered across the road. He learns to bite his teeth and hold his bile down at the sight of one of those creatures hunched over the masticated remains of a person. 

Then suddenly it’s seven months later. The core unit of them make their way across the continent, taking back roads where they’re less likely to encounter the hoards of infected. They’ve had too many close calls for them to take chances anymore—even armed to the gills and strapped in body armor (the remnants of the military efforts that collapsed within days), Gaz’s shoulder pad has crumpled beneath too sharp teeth and Roach has had his legs swept out from under him, his throat nearly exposed, nearly torn open.

Ghost’s hands are still wet with gore from taking that infected apart. If any of them make it, it will likely be him.

A part of Soap worries about Ghost. Even he feels the tender edges of his own humanity bristle at the day-in and day-out struggle that is now a luxury rather than a hardship. Just being able to survive is a miracle. Ghost just goes dark. From the little Soap knows of Ghost (which is still more than most; he’s confident enough to say that of their group, he’s the one that Ghost shows himself to the most), he knows that Ghost has already endured enough suffering for an army. Never mind a single man. 

There’s a flatness behind his eyes these days and it scares Soap, just a bit. He no longer looks like a person behind a mask but rather the sun-baked skull itself. 

His worry only fades when they come across the girl.

She’s a feral little thing, half-starved and out of her mind. They see her slip in and out of abandoned houses when they make their way through a small village in the French countryside (or what Soap thinks is France), hair matted with sweat and blood. 

It’s Ghost that pauses, Ghost that makes them stop and detours long enough to creep up on her, holding a big hand to her mouth when she howls and tries to tear his whole arm off. It takes over an hour to calm her down long enough to reassure her that they mean her no harm. She tries to take off no less than six times.

Soap has never seen Ghost look smitten, but there’s no other word for it. 

When Price tentatively suggests leaving the girl behind—not a terrible suggestion after she tries to stab Ghost—the look Ghost levels him with brooks no further arguments. They’re keeping the girl. 

She’s his problem, as far as Soap and the rest of them are concerned. No name, unless it’s Soap yelling “Girl” or “Hey, you!” when she does something stupid like actively seeking out infected to kill. Ghost chuckles all deep baritone when he sees her hack away at an infected man’s neck. It’s enough to make a man hurl. Love in a time of zombies. 

He hears them murmuring to each other sometimes, late at night when the team is holed up in a house or a barn they’ve commandeered. Doors always reinforced, someone standing guard on the roof. The low rasp of Ghost’s voice, almost susurrous, almost intimate. Her voice like a chittering wolf. 

Hovering between sleep and wakefulness, Soap doesn’t look away from the wall in front of him. He knows if he does, if he turns over from where he’s supposed to be sleeping, he’ll see Ghost hovering over the girl roughly half his size, her face blocked only by the way his arms frame either side of her head. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to stomach the sight of his friend’s hips bucking into the girl.

He hears him mutter something like, “You needed to be found. I needed to find you.” and then it’s enough. He lets his brain shut off. 

If it keeps Ghost sane and with them, so be it. 

dear god if this is not the best seijoh 4 smut i have ever read 😩

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.

bokuto is the type to ask u how much you weigh only because he wants to put that weight onto a barbell and send u a video of him hip thrusting it at the gym

JJK 236 SPOILERS BELOW THE CUT

Gojo x reader angst. Not proofred, I’m in shambles, refuse to believe this. I’m so sorry my sunshine.

It was a cold night when you both laid in the balcony of your shared apartment. It was in the suburbs, so the night sky was visible. Little by little, darkness swallowed all the rays of golden sunshine and what seemed to be millions of stars lit up his handsome face. You turned to him softly, a hand reaching out for him, yet stopping.

Satoru always had his infinity off when he was with you, yet there was still hesitation. The white-haired man turned to you, ocean blue eyes managing to fit so many emotions in just a single fleeting glance. He reached out first, carefully touching your cold hand.

"What’s on your mind?” he asked softly.

When he was with you, in the comfort of your shared home, he didn’t need to pretend. No jokes, no tricks, no faked cheery personality. He didn’t need to be the strongest when he was with you. You simply needed him. Satoru was enough, flaws and hurts, pain and suffering and all the mangled, torn up bits of him that would push away anyone else. You stayed. You always stayed. Satoru wasn’t perfect, but he was yours and that was enough.

The wind blew through his hair, the strands flying into his perfect face as he smiled gently, still awaiting your answer.

“Can you promise me something, Satoru?”

He didn’t even draw a breath before you got your answer.

“Anything.”

You stayed quiet for a moment. Was what you’re about to say too much? Would someone, up there above in the night sky, mock you and laugh? A mere mortal asking for a promise from a man akin to god. You hoped they wouldn’t, granting you salvation, if even only for tonight.

“Please promise you’ll always come back to me.”

This time, Satoru hesitated. His eyes once again focused on yours and he wrapped you up in a comforting embrace. His breaths were soft and warm on your skin as you closed your eyes. Did the gods already laugh? A flash of lightning came down from the sky, illuminating Gojo’s concerned face.

Perhaps it was their warning, a sign to stop asking for so much. But was it really too much?

Satoru softly kissed you, his lips feeling like heaven on yours. It took a moment for him to pull away, a smile on his pale face, as if concern shown before was nothing but a trick of your mind.

“You know I always come back to you.”

After a while, you slipped into numb, dreamless sleep in your embrace. Gojo carried you back to your shared bed, pulling you closer to him, as if afraid that you’d disappear.

What you weren’t aware of, is that he was praying to the same gods. A life with you, nothing more would be enough for him. The sun came up slowly, and Gojo knew that his prayers would not be answered.

***

You clutched your lover’s body to yours, deep sobs wretching their way out of your throat.

The world seemed silent as your whispers of promises to fix him up, to make everything okay again, trailed off into the night.

Nobody would answer you now. For the first time ever, his body was cold to touch.

You screamed and screeched at everyone, trying to get close.

“He has his infinity off! Do-don’t! Don’t fucking touch him!”

Nothing was ever going to be fine again. No… ‘Fine’ was not the right word to use. You were never going to be whole. Tonight, the gods and monsters ripped away a part of your soul, the one that has crawled inside you and taken up so much more space than your own.

You looked up to the inky black sky, as if to say one last prayer. To make Satoru un-break his promise. To make him come back safe and sound, like he was always meant to.

There were twice as many stars as usual.

nsfw / fem!reader

surprisingly, miya atsumu knows how to not be loud; you used to think you were the quiet one in the relationship.

during movies, he’d usually lean over to tell you how he knows that actress from somewhere, a finger pointing at the screen, and the entire cinema would hear. back in college, you’d be whispering about a professor that annoyed you, and when he’d answer you, he’d speak loud enough for the whole room to know.

when he’s on the court during a game, he’d announce his team’s next strategy like it was a public service announcement. he’d laugh so proudly after too, and the pleading looks you’d get from sakusa to get your man to shut up would make him laugh even harder.

so you couldn’t believe it when you found out that miya atsumu knew how to stay quiet — well, it was really him finding out that you could be louder than him, because how could he believe it when his meek and quiet little girlfriend could moan so loud for the whole city to hear?

he’s pounding into you from behind, your hips slowly being mottled with shades of purple and yellow from the strong grip his fingers had on them, and you’re so loud; he’s already gagged you with your soiled panties and shoved your head down into the pillow, but still, you’re so fucking loud.

“be quiet for me, princess,” his voice quietly rasped, right hand squeezing your bruised hip as a warning. “don’t want the neighbors hearing how needy you are — just me, yeah? only your tsumu can hear.”

he thinks he hears a muffled yeah amongst the unintelligible babbles and groans, but he still grabs you by your hair and pulls your head back to his shoulder. his right arm wraps around your waist, pinning his chest to your back, and his left hand releases your hair to throw your panties out of your mouth before wrapping around your neck. his hips continue to piston in and out of you and he’s sure you’d collapse without his hold from how much your legs are shaking.

“you gonna stay quiet for me now?” he chuckles, right hand dipping down to play with your clit.

and as soon as you’re about to say that you can’t, your climax hits you out of nowhere. your eyes squeeze shut and tears drip down your face while your mouth opens in a silent scream.

“so good for me, baby,” he groans, watching how good you look when you cum, “so fucking good.”

but he doesn’t stop, and he continues hit that spot with every thrust, fingers unceasing in its movements.

“stay quiet for me a little more, princess? i’m not done.”