![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lysapadinTitle: One Good Turn
Characters/Pairings: Shuutoku/Midorima
Summary: Midorima owes his teammates a selfish request.
Notes: So there was this prompt over at the KuroBasu anon meme at Tumblr, looking for a Shuutoku orgy with Midorima on the bottom. And y'all, I am only human. 3888 words of filthy Shuutoku locker room orgy smut.
~~~~~~~~~~
One Good Turn
This is how it works: every day, Midorima is allotted three selfish requests to use as he sees fit, no more and no less. They do not roll over from one day to the next, but as long as he exercises a certain amount of restraint and forethought, three selfish requests is sufficient to his needs without trying his team's patience too excessively. It is an eminently practical system for managing the whims of a slightly erratic first-year ace, and as all such systems, it only works when there are consequences for exceeding the set limits.
"That's one," Takao says when Midorima indicates that he does not feel like conveying himself to their practice match against Kamata under his own power. Midorima ignores that and arranges himself in the cart like a king on his throne, and there's nothing for it but for Takao to pedal him over to Kamata for the game since they have missed the bus that the rest of the team took. It's not a long trip, but it's the principle of the thing, Takao feels.
"This is two," Miyaji says when he gets back from his quest after a vending machine stocking shiroku (it requires canvassing three floors and five confused Kamata students to locate the damn thing, and when he finally does find it, he realizes that the cost of Midorima's refreshment is going to come out of his own pocket). He shoves the can into Midorima's hand and stomps away to brood over his wrongs.
"That's three," Ootsubo says when Midorima requests that they give him the ball all during the second quarter so that he might test the accuracy of his shot from the half-court mark. Everyone breathes out then, relieved that their ace is done being unreasonable for the day and that they can get down to business, and they gladly pass the ball off to him all during the second quarter. He sinks basket after basket, the points mount up fast, and Kamata's team starts to look like they want to cry.
When the buzzer sounds at the end of the quarter, Midorima walks back to the bench and stretches out his legs and says, "I'm done now."
As he begins taping up his fingers again, the rest of them exchange looks. "Done testing your shot, or done-done?" Kimura ventures, because with Midorima, it can be difficult to tell.
"Done for the day," Midorima clarifies, winding tape around his fingers without a care in the world.
There is a little silence before Ootsubo, in the tones of a man who wishes to be sure that he is making himself understood, says, "That will be four."
Midorima does glance up then, his expression blank as a mask's. "Yes." He goes back to his taping, winding it around his index finger, and that is all there is to say about that.
Everyone plays the second half of the game against Kamata in a different, distinctly thoughtful frame of mind while Midorima lounges on the sidelines and drinks another can of shiroku, to all appearances completely unconcerned with the bounds that he has overstepped. Kamata eyes him in open trepidation, apparently demoralized by the first half of the game, but rally enough in the third and fourth quarters that the final score isn't as disparate as it could have been.
They're Shuutoku; one scheduled practice match isn't enough to keep the core of the first-string from putting in some extra time training afterwards. Takao pedals Midorima back to Shuutoku without saying anything, and Midorima takes his ease in silence.
(But they're not going back for the sake of more practice; Takao knows it and Midorima knows it and it hangs in the air, unspoken but true.)
Some of the second-string is still around when they get back, but not too many of them; they start drifting out by ones and twos when the first-string gets back and takes over the main gym, Kimura and Miyaji practicing lay-ups and drilling against one another and Ootsubo with his claim on one of the hoops and the steady way he shoots again and again, almost as relentless as Midorima is himself. Takao and Midorima fall in with them like usual, until Ootsubo looks around and says, "I think that's enough for one night."
It’s only the five of them left by this point; even Nakatani-kantoku has left for the day, willing to trust Ootsubo to lock up after the last of them. Everybody lends a hand in rounding up stray basketballs and sweeping the court before heading for the locker room. Midorima walks among them, holding his head high and unconcerned, as if he were not aware of the current of tension running through the group of them or the way his teammates glance at him, at one another, then away again.
No one says very much as they strip out of sweaty gym clothes and hit the showers, not even Takao, normally a reliable source of idle chatter. The locker room is quiet, emptier somehow without the rest of the team to fill it; the noise of the showers echoes off the walls like static from an untuned radio. Ootsubo winces a little at the squawk the taps make when Kimura shuts the last of them off and joins the rest of them in toweling off. For a moment after that, the only sound is the water dripping from the showerheads and gurgling down the drains as they avoid looking at one another.
Then Miyaji says, loud and a little rough, “Oh, fine. Midorima, get over here.” He drops his towel and plants his hands on his hips as he scowls, daring any one of them to take issue with his command.
Midorima pauses in the act of toweling his hair dry, only for a moment, before he rakes the hair out of his eyes and wraps the towel around his waist. He turns toward Miyaji—his face looks naked, Takao thinks, naked without the lenses that normally shield his eyes—and raises his eyebrows just a bit. “Was there something, Miyaji-san?”
“You owe us a selfish request.” Miyaji raises a hand and beckons him. “Now get your ass over here.”
Midorima’s expression gives nothing away, but he takes a step away from his locker, and another, and another, until he is standing before Miyaji. He lifts his eyebrows again, the barest upward tilt of them asking the question—now what?
Miyaji plants a hand on his shoulder and presses heavily enough to make his intentions clear. Midorima folds up, sinking to his knees before Miyaji and angling a glance up at him. He manages to be arrogant even like that, somehow, supremely confident even on his knees for his senpai. Miyaji growls, irritated, and sinks his fingers into the wet tangle of Midorima’s hair as he delivers his next command: “Suck it.”
For a moment, no one quite dares to breathe, not when the air is taut with expectation. Then Midorima leans forward and slides his mouth down the length of Miyaji’s cock (already half-hard and filling rapidly) and closes his lips around the head. Miyaji grunts, deep in his chest, with the sudden slick heat of his mouth, and everyone exhales at once as the tension in the air dissolves into something else entirely. Miyaji wraps his hand around the back of Midorima’s head, holding him for it as Midorima sucks on him, and takes deeper breaths as pleasure twines up his spine.
Kimura snorts softly and comes closer. “I guess that’s one way to do it.” He snaps his fingers at Midorima, who slants a look at him from the corner of his eye, and points to his own cock. “C’mon, genius, show us what you’re made of, why don’t you?”
Midorima makes a sound around Miyaji’s cock, something muffled as Miyaji rocks into his mouth and slides over his tongue, but lifts his hand to fold his fingers around Kimura’s cock. Kimura’s already most of the way hard and gets all the way there as Midorima fists him, and utters a low sound as Midorima slides his fingers back and forth, managing to do so to a completely different rhythm than the way Miyaji is sliding back and forth between his lips.
Maybe there’s something to that genius thing after all.
Takao is the one who laughs and looks at Ootsubo, who is watching and palming his own cock thoughtfully. “He has another hand, Captain,” he points out, full of mock deference, and flourishes a hand in Midorima’s direction. “Age before beauty and all that.”
“Wisdom before idiocy, you mean,” Ootsubo tells him, which only makes Takao laugh again. He looks away from Midorima and Miyaji and Kimura and turns to his locker instead, rummaging out a foil tub that he then tosses to Takao. “Get him ready,” he says as Takao catches it, and strides over to take his place next to Midorima.
Midorima reaches up to him without missing a beat and slides his fingers over Ootsubo’s cock, working him slowly. Ootsubo groans with it and still manages to send a pointed look in Takao’s direction when he just stands back and looks at them.
“I love this team so fucking much,” Takao sighs, grinning, and saunters over to join them. He crouches behind Midorima and tugs the towel around his waist loose—it’s adorable, really, that Shin-chan makes these little bows in the direction of modesty—and slicks his fingers with the contents of the tube.
“Stop running your mouth off so much and get busy,” Kimura tells him, though it’s difficult to be properly irritable with Midorima sliding clever fingers up and down his cock, striking just the right balance between pressure and speed and sending pleasure dancing up his spine.
Takao laughs again, because he’s an impudent little shit, and reaches under Midorima to stroke slick fingers against his entrance.
Midorima makes a sound, low, when Takao presses the first finger in; his eyelashes flutter over his eyes as he arches against the stretch of it. Miyaji groans, breath coming faster as Midorima’s mouth vibrates around him, and swears with the extra layer of sensation. “Fuck,” he breathes, rocking his hips into the wet heat of Midorima’s mouth, fucking him faster as heat twines through him. “Aw, fuck, fuck—”
Takao pushes a second finger into Shin-chan and twists them against the tight grip of his body and Midorima groans, too.
Miyaji gasps as that strikes sensation up his spine, pulling back a fraction of a moment too late—the heat already has him and is throbbing through him, long pulses of it. He comes across Midorima’s mouth and chin and throat as he swears, inarticulate and hoarse. Midorima kneels there and takes it, lips parted on the sounds he’s making as Takao works behind him and his stupidly long lashes hanging heavy over his eyes.
He licks his lips.
Kimura elbows Miyaji as he hunches over their ace, breathing hard. “If you’re gonna be in such a damn hurry, move over.” Miyaji flips him off but steps out of the way, still looking kind of dazed; when Kimura glances at Ootsubo, he shrugs a shoulder, apparently satisfied to wait until Takao is done opening Midorima up to get his. That’s fine by Kimura.
Midorima turns to him easily and takes it when Kimura slides his cock in between his lips. He opens wider when Kimura keeps going, until Kimura hits the back of his throat. He shudders then, closing his eyes, making a sound that is muffled around Kimura’s cock. Kimura cups his jaw in his palm, holding him, breathing harder with the softness of Midorima’s mouth around him and the pleasure of it twisting along his nerves. “You can take it,” he tells Midorima, who makes another of those sounds and does, opening up and swallowing him down.
Ootsubo takes a deeper breath as Kimura groans and Midorima presses forward, leaning into Kimura until he’s as close as he can get. His cock twitches in Midorima’s fingers as he watches that; Midorima tightens his grip and strokes a little harder, the friction of it just enough to tear a gasp out of Ootsubo’s throat. He’s not one for profanity, really, not like Miyaji who is also watching this and muttering husky obscenities, but even so. “Damn,” he says, low, and glances at their other first-year. “You done yet?”
Takao twists his fingers inside Shin-chan and watches the fresh sweat as it breaks out across his shoulders and doesn’t answer right away. Midorima is beginning to move against his fingers now, grinding his hips down a little every time Takao presses his fingers into him. “I guess we’re getting there,” he says when Ootsubo clears his throat, all impatient-captain about it. “You in a hurry?”
Ootsubo manages to cuff him, not that it really does much apparent good when Takao just laughs at him, irrepressible. “I’m tired of waiting,” he says. “Pass that stuff up this way.”
Takao hands off the lube and watches, open appreciation on his face, as Ootsubo slicks his cock and Kimura fucks Midorima’s throat. Miyaji wonders about that kid sometimes, he really does. Then Takao pipes up with, “Hey, can we take this to the bench? He owes me a favor, too,” and Miyaji just has to shake his head in disbelief.
Kimura grimaces at Ootsubo when he shrugs and says, “Sure, why not?” but pulls off of Midorima anyway. The air feels cool on his cock and pulls him back down a little, which is maybe just as well—maybe Miyaji doesn’t mind getting off fast, but what’s the point in rushing through a selfish request? It's not like this happens every day.
Midorima moves much more slowly, like he’s dazed, when Ootsubo nudges at his shoulder. He’s getting hard, too, and settles on the bench gingerly, reclining against it, at least until Ootsubo steps between his knees and pushes his legs up. He sets his teeth against his lip as Ootsubo pushes into him, and even so he makes a sound, a thin whine to match the way he arches off the bench as Ootsubo sinks home. Ootsubo leans over him, gasping for breath against the way Midorima’s muscles ripple and work around him and heat braids up his spine; beneath him, Midorima pants, open-mouthed and soundless.
“This is the best team in the world,” Takao confides in Miyaji as he retrieves the lube and slicks his fingers again; Miyaji gives him a funny look for it, but whatever. It’s not like he can disagree or anything. Besides, even if Miyaji has a hair trigger, he’s got a pretty short recovery time, too, by the looks of it, so he's enjoying it too.
Kimura hangs back and watches Ootsubo spread Midorima out and slide into him, cupping his own cock and stroking it lightly while Ootsubo begins to move. It makes for a nice show; Ootsubo flexes against Midorima steadily, slow and sure, and Midorima pants beneath him, none of that genius arrogance of his evident now. He looks different like this, open somehow—but that would make a kind of sense. Considering.
Miyaji mutters something crude and full of disbelief, drawing his attention away from Midorima and their captain—Kimura has to blink when he looks, a little thrown himself. Takao has one knee propped up on the other bench and a hand tucked up between his thighs, working busily. He manages to toss of one of his cheeky grins when he catches Kimura looking, even though he loses it a second later as he flexes his wrist and his expression turns distant and vague. Kimura looks at Miyaji, who shrugs at him, clearly at a loss.
Their rookies this year really are something else.
Takao rolls his eyes at his senpai, though they’re not really paying attention any more, and works a second finger into himself, humming a little in his throat with the burn of his muscles as they open up around his fingers. The problem with them is that they don’t think broadly enough about the different shapes a selfish request can take, which is kind of a pity in his opinion. Well, that’s their loss, far as he’s concerned. He presses his fingers deeper and hums again as Ootsubo rocks against Midorima and Midorima groans, reaching up to wrap his hands around the edge of the bench and hold onto it while Ootsubo fucks him. He’d flagged a little when Ootsubo was first getting started, but it looks like he’s recovering pretty nicely now.
Perfect.
Ootsubo drives against Midorima, breathing deep against the build of the pleasure that rises higher every time he sinks home, savoring the way Midorima flexes under his hands and the beat of his hips and mostly ignoring the other three, at least until Takao sidles over and reaches down to fondle Midorima. “What—?” Ootsubo says, startled by this sudden deviation of his.
Takao flashes a grin at him as Midorima groans, bucking between Takao’s hand and Ootsubo’s cock. “Just getting my own back,” he says, cheerful. “Shin-chan owes me a ride, you know.”
And with that he moves, straddling Midorima’s waist and settling over him, sinking down on Midorima’s cock with a sound that resembles nothing so much as a purr.
Midorima groans as he does, flexing between Takao and Ootsubo helplessly, hips jerking between the fullness of Ootsubo’s cock and the tightness of Takao’s body around him. He arches against the bench, head tipped back and his eyes squeezed shut, panting for breath. Miyaji inhales deeply at the picture Midorima makes like this, and sighs it out when Kimura steps forward and slides his fingers into the damp tangle of Midorima’s hair, guiding his face around again. “Fuck,” he says, heat twisting through him as Kimura presses his cock between Midorima’s lips again. “Fuck.”
Takao presses himself down on Midorima—all the way down, until he’s gasping with how full he is—and grinds against him, shuddering at the sharp, aching pleasure of it as he does. Ootsubo is moving behind him; every time he drives against Midorima it rocks him up and sends a ripple of sensation through Takao, too. Best of all, Shin-chan is stretched out beneath him, expression shocked and open, at least until Kimura steps in again. But that’s good, too, as good as any filthy video that Takao’s ever seen—better, maybe, because Shin-chan looks good with his mouth wrapped around Kimura’s cock and Miyaji’s come still splattered across his chin and throat. He sounds good, too, with the hoarse, desperate sounds he makes as Takao rocks himself up and back down again, finding his way into a rhythm that is compatible with the steady way Ootsubo is fucking Midorima. It’s enough to put Takao into perfect charity with the world, which is why he grins at Miyaji and crooks a finger at him, inviting him closer.
Wouldn’t do for anyone to be left out, would it?
Miyaji doesn’t entirely trust the way Takao is grinning, bright-eyed and flushed and a little crazed, but what the hell? Might as well see what the kid has in mind, or so he tells himself as he steps closer—close enough to be in arm’s length, anyway, which is all the invitation Takao seems to need. He’s got a pretty good grip, one that’s heavy and firmer than Miyaji would have expected, and his hand is still slick. It’s almost too hard, really, but it’s hard to care about that when pure sensation is screaming up his spine. “Fuck,” Miyaji says again, rocking into Takao’s fist almost in spite of himself. “What the fuck, Takao?”
“It’s a freebie,” Takao tells him, somehow managing to sound breezy in spite of the way he’s fucking himself on Midorima’s cock and delivering a casual handjob at the same time.
“Where the hell did we find these brats?” Miyaji demands, hoarse with the heat coiling through him again.
Kimura doesn’t have the breath to answer him; the angle is different, but Midorima’s mouth is still hot around him, humming with the sounds he’s making, guttural moans around the head of Kimura’s cock as he swallows it down again. Kimura can’t think of anything but the pleasure twisting through him, much less answer stupid questions. He rocks against Midorima, short, desperate thrusts of his hips as the tension of it winds tighter and tighter, until the thread of it breaks. He shouts as he comes, right down Midorima’s throat, shuddering as pleasure rakes through him and Midorima’s throat works around him as he swallows.
Ootsubo doesn’t answer Miyaji either, because the heat is pushing his hips faster and harder, until he’s pounding into Midorima and groaning with it, shuddering on the edge. Pleasure is singing over his nerves, building rapidly—it crescendos and he comes apart, hips jerking against Midorima's as his orgasm slams into him, relentless as a strike of lightning, leaving him seared in its wake.
Miyaji’s question just makes Takao laugh as he grinds himself against Shin-chan, ignoring the burn of lactic acid in his thighs and calves in favor of the way each rock of his hips rolls heat through him. “Think we found you, senpai,” he retorts, breathless, just before Kimura cries out, just before Ootsubo jerks and shudders behind him, slamming into Shin-chan with hard, wild strokes that make Midorima groan, and that’s really too much hotness for Takao to stand. He loses track of everything but sheer sensation for a little while, snapping taut as he comes. His body wrings down around the thickness of Shin-chan’s cock where it holds him open as Shin-chan rocks up against him, little jolts of his hips as he moves beneath Takao, and fuck, that's perfect.
Miyaji groans as Takao’s hand tightens around him as the kid mouths off and then shudders over Midorima, coming all over the guy’s chest and moaning to match the way Ootsubo is gasping and Kimura is panting. Midorima shakes against the bench, and the sounds coming out of his mouth as Kimura pulls away from him are open, nearly desperate, until his back comes off the bench again. The sound that pours out of his throat then is nearly a wail, and fuck, Miyaji thinks as heat throbs through him again and he spends himself over Takao’s fingers, fuck, that should not be as hot as it is.
It takes them all a little while to recover, after that. For several minutes the locker room is silent but for the sound of harsh breathing as they untangle themselves from Midorima, coming down from the endorphin rush and moving slowly. Midorima rests against the bench, trembling and nearly limp, not even moving when Takao finally slides off of him with a soft groan. He lies still as Kimura picks up one of the damp towels and wipes him off, more gently than is strictly necessary, and only opens his eyes again when Ootsubo brushes the hair back from his eyes. “I think we’ll call that even,” Miyaji says then, gruff.
Midorima looks at his team and gives them something that might, perhaps, be called a smile. “Yes,” he says as Takao helps lever him up. “I suppose we are.”
end
Comments are always lovely!
Characters/Pairings: Shuutoku/Midorima
Summary: Midorima owes his teammates a selfish request.
Notes: So there was this prompt over at the KuroBasu anon meme at Tumblr, looking for a Shuutoku orgy with Midorima on the bottom. And y'all, I am only human. 3888 words of filthy Shuutoku locker room orgy smut.
One Good Turn
This is how it works: every day, Midorima is allotted three selfish requests to use as he sees fit, no more and no less. They do not roll over from one day to the next, but as long as he exercises a certain amount of restraint and forethought, three selfish requests is sufficient to his needs without trying his team's patience too excessively. It is an eminently practical system for managing the whims of a slightly erratic first-year ace, and as all such systems, it only works when there are consequences for exceeding the set limits.
"That's one," Takao says when Midorima indicates that he does not feel like conveying himself to their practice match against Kamata under his own power. Midorima ignores that and arranges himself in the cart like a king on his throne, and there's nothing for it but for Takao to pedal him over to Kamata for the game since they have missed the bus that the rest of the team took. It's not a long trip, but it's the principle of the thing, Takao feels.
"This is two," Miyaji says when he gets back from his quest after a vending machine stocking shiroku (it requires canvassing three floors and five confused Kamata students to locate the damn thing, and when he finally does find it, he realizes that the cost of Midorima's refreshment is going to come out of his own pocket). He shoves the can into Midorima's hand and stomps away to brood over his wrongs.
"That's three," Ootsubo says when Midorima requests that they give him the ball all during the second quarter so that he might test the accuracy of his shot from the half-court mark. Everyone breathes out then, relieved that their ace is done being unreasonable for the day and that they can get down to business, and they gladly pass the ball off to him all during the second quarter. He sinks basket after basket, the points mount up fast, and Kamata's team starts to look like they want to cry.
When the buzzer sounds at the end of the quarter, Midorima walks back to the bench and stretches out his legs and says, "I'm done now."
As he begins taping up his fingers again, the rest of them exchange looks. "Done testing your shot, or done-done?" Kimura ventures, because with Midorima, it can be difficult to tell.
"Done for the day," Midorima clarifies, winding tape around his fingers without a care in the world.
There is a little silence before Ootsubo, in the tones of a man who wishes to be sure that he is making himself understood, says, "That will be four."
Midorima does glance up then, his expression blank as a mask's. "Yes." He goes back to his taping, winding it around his index finger, and that is all there is to say about that.
Everyone plays the second half of the game against Kamata in a different, distinctly thoughtful frame of mind while Midorima lounges on the sidelines and drinks another can of shiroku, to all appearances completely unconcerned with the bounds that he has overstepped. Kamata eyes him in open trepidation, apparently demoralized by the first half of the game, but rally enough in the third and fourth quarters that the final score isn't as disparate as it could have been.
They're Shuutoku; one scheduled practice match isn't enough to keep the core of the first-string from putting in some extra time training afterwards. Takao pedals Midorima back to Shuutoku without saying anything, and Midorima takes his ease in silence.
(But they're not going back for the sake of more practice; Takao knows it and Midorima knows it and it hangs in the air, unspoken but true.)
Some of the second-string is still around when they get back, but not too many of them; they start drifting out by ones and twos when the first-string gets back and takes over the main gym, Kimura and Miyaji practicing lay-ups and drilling against one another and Ootsubo with his claim on one of the hoops and the steady way he shoots again and again, almost as relentless as Midorima is himself. Takao and Midorima fall in with them like usual, until Ootsubo looks around and says, "I think that's enough for one night."
It’s only the five of them left by this point; even Nakatani-kantoku has left for the day, willing to trust Ootsubo to lock up after the last of them. Everybody lends a hand in rounding up stray basketballs and sweeping the court before heading for the locker room. Midorima walks among them, holding his head high and unconcerned, as if he were not aware of the current of tension running through the group of them or the way his teammates glance at him, at one another, then away again.
No one says very much as they strip out of sweaty gym clothes and hit the showers, not even Takao, normally a reliable source of idle chatter. The locker room is quiet, emptier somehow without the rest of the team to fill it; the noise of the showers echoes off the walls like static from an untuned radio. Ootsubo winces a little at the squawk the taps make when Kimura shuts the last of them off and joins the rest of them in toweling off. For a moment after that, the only sound is the water dripping from the showerheads and gurgling down the drains as they avoid looking at one another.
Then Miyaji says, loud and a little rough, “Oh, fine. Midorima, get over here.” He drops his towel and plants his hands on his hips as he scowls, daring any one of them to take issue with his command.
Midorima pauses in the act of toweling his hair dry, only for a moment, before he rakes the hair out of his eyes and wraps the towel around his waist. He turns toward Miyaji—his face looks naked, Takao thinks, naked without the lenses that normally shield his eyes—and raises his eyebrows just a bit. “Was there something, Miyaji-san?”
“You owe us a selfish request.” Miyaji raises a hand and beckons him. “Now get your ass over here.”
Midorima’s expression gives nothing away, but he takes a step away from his locker, and another, and another, until he is standing before Miyaji. He lifts his eyebrows again, the barest upward tilt of them asking the question—now what?
Miyaji plants a hand on his shoulder and presses heavily enough to make his intentions clear. Midorima folds up, sinking to his knees before Miyaji and angling a glance up at him. He manages to be arrogant even like that, somehow, supremely confident even on his knees for his senpai. Miyaji growls, irritated, and sinks his fingers into the wet tangle of Midorima’s hair as he delivers his next command: “Suck it.”
For a moment, no one quite dares to breathe, not when the air is taut with expectation. Then Midorima leans forward and slides his mouth down the length of Miyaji’s cock (already half-hard and filling rapidly) and closes his lips around the head. Miyaji grunts, deep in his chest, with the sudden slick heat of his mouth, and everyone exhales at once as the tension in the air dissolves into something else entirely. Miyaji wraps his hand around the back of Midorima’s head, holding him for it as Midorima sucks on him, and takes deeper breaths as pleasure twines up his spine.
Kimura snorts softly and comes closer. “I guess that’s one way to do it.” He snaps his fingers at Midorima, who slants a look at him from the corner of his eye, and points to his own cock. “C’mon, genius, show us what you’re made of, why don’t you?”
Midorima makes a sound around Miyaji’s cock, something muffled as Miyaji rocks into his mouth and slides over his tongue, but lifts his hand to fold his fingers around Kimura’s cock. Kimura’s already most of the way hard and gets all the way there as Midorima fists him, and utters a low sound as Midorima slides his fingers back and forth, managing to do so to a completely different rhythm than the way Miyaji is sliding back and forth between his lips.
Maybe there’s something to that genius thing after all.
Takao is the one who laughs and looks at Ootsubo, who is watching and palming his own cock thoughtfully. “He has another hand, Captain,” he points out, full of mock deference, and flourishes a hand in Midorima’s direction. “Age before beauty and all that.”
“Wisdom before idiocy, you mean,” Ootsubo tells him, which only makes Takao laugh again. He looks away from Midorima and Miyaji and Kimura and turns to his locker instead, rummaging out a foil tub that he then tosses to Takao. “Get him ready,” he says as Takao catches it, and strides over to take his place next to Midorima.
Midorima reaches up to him without missing a beat and slides his fingers over Ootsubo’s cock, working him slowly. Ootsubo groans with it and still manages to send a pointed look in Takao’s direction when he just stands back and looks at them.
“I love this team so fucking much,” Takao sighs, grinning, and saunters over to join them. He crouches behind Midorima and tugs the towel around his waist loose—it’s adorable, really, that Shin-chan makes these little bows in the direction of modesty—and slicks his fingers with the contents of the tube.
“Stop running your mouth off so much and get busy,” Kimura tells him, though it’s difficult to be properly irritable with Midorima sliding clever fingers up and down his cock, striking just the right balance between pressure and speed and sending pleasure dancing up his spine.
Takao laughs again, because he’s an impudent little shit, and reaches under Midorima to stroke slick fingers against his entrance.
Midorima makes a sound, low, when Takao presses the first finger in; his eyelashes flutter over his eyes as he arches against the stretch of it. Miyaji groans, breath coming faster as Midorima’s mouth vibrates around him, and swears with the extra layer of sensation. “Fuck,” he breathes, rocking his hips into the wet heat of Midorima’s mouth, fucking him faster as heat twines through him. “Aw, fuck, fuck—”
Takao pushes a second finger into Shin-chan and twists them against the tight grip of his body and Midorima groans, too.
Miyaji gasps as that strikes sensation up his spine, pulling back a fraction of a moment too late—the heat already has him and is throbbing through him, long pulses of it. He comes across Midorima’s mouth and chin and throat as he swears, inarticulate and hoarse. Midorima kneels there and takes it, lips parted on the sounds he’s making as Takao works behind him and his stupidly long lashes hanging heavy over his eyes.
He licks his lips.
Kimura elbows Miyaji as he hunches over their ace, breathing hard. “If you’re gonna be in such a damn hurry, move over.” Miyaji flips him off but steps out of the way, still looking kind of dazed; when Kimura glances at Ootsubo, he shrugs a shoulder, apparently satisfied to wait until Takao is done opening Midorima up to get his. That’s fine by Kimura.
Midorima turns to him easily and takes it when Kimura slides his cock in between his lips. He opens wider when Kimura keeps going, until Kimura hits the back of his throat. He shudders then, closing his eyes, making a sound that is muffled around Kimura’s cock. Kimura cups his jaw in his palm, holding him, breathing harder with the softness of Midorima’s mouth around him and the pleasure of it twisting along his nerves. “You can take it,” he tells Midorima, who makes another of those sounds and does, opening up and swallowing him down.
Ootsubo takes a deeper breath as Kimura groans and Midorima presses forward, leaning into Kimura until he’s as close as he can get. His cock twitches in Midorima’s fingers as he watches that; Midorima tightens his grip and strokes a little harder, the friction of it just enough to tear a gasp out of Ootsubo’s throat. He’s not one for profanity, really, not like Miyaji who is also watching this and muttering husky obscenities, but even so. “Damn,” he says, low, and glances at their other first-year. “You done yet?”
Takao twists his fingers inside Shin-chan and watches the fresh sweat as it breaks out across his shoulders and doesn’t answer right away. Midorima is beginning to move against his fingers now, grinding his hips down a little every time Takao presses his fingers into him. “I guess we’re getting there,” he says when Ootsubo clears his throat, all impatient-captain about it. “You in a hurry?”
Ootsubo manages to cuff him, not that it really does much apparent good when Takao just laughs at him, irrepressible. “I’m tired of waiting,” he says. “Pass that stuff up this way.”
Takao hands off the lube and watches, open appreciation on his face, as Ootsubo slicks his cock and Kimura fucks Midorima’s throat. Miyaji wonders about that kid sometimes, he really does. Then Takao pipes up with, “Hey, can we take this to the bench? He owes me a favor, too,” and Miyaji just has to shake his head in disbelief.
Kimura grimaces at Ootsubo when he shrugs and says, “Sure, why not?” but pulls off of Midorima anyway. The air feels cool on his cock and pulls him back down a little, which is maybe just as well—maybe Miyaji doesn’t mind getting off fast, but what’s the point in rushing through a selfish request? It's not like this happens every day.
Midorima moves much more slowly, like he’s dazed, when Ootsubo nudges at his shoulder. He’s getting hard, too, and settles on the bench gingerly, reclining against it, at least until Ootsubo steps between his knees and pushes his legs up. He sets his teeth against his lip as Ootsubo pushes into him, and even so he makes a sound, a thin whine to match the way he arches off the bench as Ootsubo sinks home. Ootsubo leans over him, gasping for breath against the way Midorima’s muscles ripple and work around him and heat braids up his spine; beneath him, Midorima pants, open-mouthed and soundless.
“This is the best team in the world,” Takao confides in Miyaji as he retrieves the lube and slicks his fingers again; Miyaji gives him a funny look for it, but whatever. It’s not like he can disagree or anything. Besides, even if Miyaji has a hair trigger, he’s got a pretty short recovery time, too, by the looks of it, so he's enjoying it too.
Kimura hangs back and watches Ootsubo spread Midorima out and slide into him, cupping his own cock and stroking it lightly while Ootsubo begins to move. It makes for a nice show; Ootsubo flexes against Midorima steadily, slow and sure, and Midorima pants beneath him, none of that genius arrogance of his evident now. He looks different like this, open somehow—but that would make a kind of sense. Considering.
Miyaji mutters something crude and full of disbelief, drawing his attention away from Midorima and their captain—Kimura has to blink when he looks, a little thrown himself. Takao has one knee propped up on the other bench and a hand tucked up between his thighs, working busily. He manages to toss of one of his cheeky grins when he catches Kimura looking, even though he loses it a second later as he flexes his wrist and his expression turns distant and vague. Kimura looks at Miyaji, who shrugs at him, clearly at a loss.
Their rookies this year really are something else.
Takao rolls his eyes at his senpai, though they’re not really paying attention any more, and works a second finger into himself, humming a little in his throat with the burn of his muscles as they open up around his fingers. The problem with them is that they don’t think broadly enough about the different shapes a selfish request can take, which is kind of a pity in his opinion. Well, that’s their loss, far as he’s concerned. He presses his fingers deeper and hums again as Ootsubo rocks against Midorima and Midorima groans, reaching up to wrap his hands around the edge of the bench and hold onto it while Ootsubo fucks him. He’d flagged a little when Ootsubo was first getting started, but it looks like he’s recovering pretty nicely now.
Perfect.
Ootsubo drives against Midorima, breathing deep against the build of the pleasure that rises higher every time he sinks home, savoring the way Midorima flexes under his hands and the beat of his hips and mostly ignoring the other three, at least until Takao sidles over and reaches down to fondle Midorima. “What—?” Ootsubo says, startled by this sudden deviation of his.
Takao flashes a grin at him as Midorima groans, bucking between Takao’s hand and Ootsubo’s cock. “Just getting my own back,” he says, cheerful. “Shin-chan owes me a ride, you know.”
And with that he moves, straddling Midorima’s waist and settling over him, sinking down on Midorima’s cock with a sound that resembles nothing so much as a purr.
Midorima groans as he does, flexing between Takao and Ootsubo helplessly, hips jerking between the fullness of Ootsubo’s cock and the tightness of Takao’s body around him. He arches against the bench, head tipped back and his eyes squeezed shut, panting for breath. Miyaji inhales deeply at the picture Midorima makes like this, and sighs it out when Kimura steps forward and slides his fingers into the damp tangle of Midorima’s hair, guiding his face around again. “Fuck,” he says, heat twisting through him as Kimura presses his cock between Midorima’s lips again. “Fuck.”
Takao presses himself down on Midorima—all the way down, until he’s gasping with how full he is—and grinds against him, shuddering at the sharp, aching pleasure of it as he does. Ootsubo is moving behind him; every time he drives against Midorima it rocks him up and sends a ripple of sensation through Takao, too. Best of all, Shin-chan is stretched out beneath him, expression shocked and open, at least until Kimura steps in again. But that’s good, too, as good as any filthy video that Takao’s ever seen—better, maybe, because Shin-chan looks good with his mouth wrapped around Kimura’s cock and Miyaji’s come still splattered across his chin and throat. He sounds good, too, with the hoarse, desperate sounds he makes as Takao rocks himself up and back down again, finding his way into a rhythm that is compatible with the steady way Ootsubo is fucking Midorima. It’s enough to put Takao into perfect charity with the world, which is why he grins at Miyaji and crooks a finger at him, inviting him closer.
Wouldn’t do for anyone to be left out, would it?
Miyaji doesn’t entirely trust the way Takao is grinning, bright-eyed and flushed and a little crazed, but what the hell? Might as well see what the kid has in mind, or so he tells himself as he steps closer—close enough to be in arm’s length, anyway, which is all the invitation Takao seems to need. He’s got a pretty good grip, one that’s heavy and firmer than Miyaji would have expected, and his hand is still slick. It’s almost too hard, really, but it’s hard to care about that when pure sensation is screaming up his spine. “Fuck,” Miyaji says again, rocking into Takao’s fist almost in spite of himself. “What the fuck, Takao?”
“It’s a freebie,” Takao tells him, somehow managing to sound breezy in spite of the way he’s fucking himself on Midorima’s cock and delivering a casual handjob at the same time.
“Where the hell did we find these brats?” Miyaji demands, hoarse with the heat coiling through him again.
Kimura doesn’t have the breath to answer him; the angle is different, but Midorima’s mouth is still hot around him, humming with the sounds he’s making, guttural moans around the head of Kimura’s cock as he swallows it down again. Kimura can’t think of anything but the pleasure twisting through him, much less answer stupid questions. He rocks against Midorima, short, desperate thrusts of his hips as the tension of it winds tighter and tighter, until the thread of it breaks. He shouts as he comes, right down Midorima’s throat, shuddering as pleasure rakes through him and Midorima’s throat works around him as he swallows.
Ootsubo doesn’t answer Miyaji either, because the heat is pushing his hips faster and harder, until he’s pounding into Midorima and groaning with it, shuddering on the edge. Pleasure is singing over his nerves, building rapidly—it crescendos and he comes apart, hips jerking against Midorima's as his orgasm slams into him, relentless as a strike of lightning, leaving him seared in its wake.
Miyaji’s question just makes Takao laugh as he grinds himself against Shin-chan, ignoring the burn of lactic acid in his thighs and calves in favor of the way each rock of his hips rolls heat through him. “Think we found you, senpai,” he retorts, breathless, just before Kimura cries out, just before Ootsubo jerks and shudders behind him, slamming into Shin-chan with hard, wild strokes that make Midorima groan, and that’s really too much hotness for Takao to stand. He loses track of everything but sheer sensation for a little while, snapping taut as he comes. His body wrings down around the thickness of Shin-chan’s cock where it holds him open as Shin-chan rocks up against him, little jolts of his hips as he moves beneath Takao, and fuck, that's perfect.
Miyaji groans as Takao’s hand tightens around him as the kid mouths off and then shudders over Midorima, coming all over the guy’s chest and moaning to match the way Ootsubo is gasping and Kimura is panting. Midorima shakes against the bench, and the sounds coming out of his mouth as Kimura pulls away from him are open, nearly desperate, until his back comes off the bench again. The sound that pours out of his throat then is nearly a wail, and fuck, Miyaji thinks as heat throbs through him again and he spends himself over Takao’s fingers, fuck, that should not be as hot as it is.
It takes them all a little while to recover, after that. For several minutes the locker room is silent but for the sound of harsh breathing as they untangle themselves from Midorima, coming down from the endorphin rush and moving slowly. Midorima rests against the bench, trembling and nearly limp, not even moving when Takao finally slides off of him with a soft groan. He lies still as Kimura picks up one of the damp towels and wipes him off, more gently than is strictly necessary, and only opens his eyes again when Ootsubo brushes the hair back from his eyes. “I think we’ll call that even,” Miyaji says then, gruff.
Midorima looks at his team and gives them something that might, perhaps, be called a smile. “Yes,” he says as Takao helps lever him up. “I suppose we are.”
end
Comments are always lovely!