
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/5188427.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Fandom:
      ダイヤのA_|_Daiya_no_A_|_Ace_of_Diamond
  Relationship:
      Kataoka_Tesshin/Miyuki_Kazuya, Miyuki_Kazuya/Sawamura_Eijun, Furuya
      Satoru/Miyuki_Kazuya, Kawakami_Norifumi/Miyuki_Kazuya, Miyuki_Kazuya/
      Sanada_Shunpei, Miyuki_Kazuya/Narumiya_Mei
  Additional Tags:
      Mildly_Dubious_Consent, Dom/sub, Power_Dynamics, Casual_Sex, Blow_Jobs,
      Hand_Jobs, Daddy_Issues, Desperation, Anal_Fingering, Face-Fucking,
      Masturbation, Age_Difference, Sexual_Fantasy, Orgasm_Delay/Denial,
      Overstimulation, Humiliation, Light_Masochism, Light_Bondage, Praise
      Kink, Role_Reversal
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-11-14 Words: 7769
****** after the fires, before the flood ******
by orphan_account
Summary
          whatever trepidation you may feel
          in your heart you know it’s not real
          in a moment of clarity, some little act of charity
          you gotta pull me out of this mud,
          sweet baby—i need fresh blood

     five pitchers casually dominated by miyuki kazuya and the one who got
     away
Notes
     title and summary taken from the eels song "fresh blood". thanks, aj
     for holding my hand and editing this thing; lira, this one is for you
     and your rarepair hellspawning self.
See the end of the work for more notes
1. eijun
It’s painfully obvious to see that Eijun has a crush.
Miyuki likes pushing people—and Eijun is hilarious when he’s shoved in the
right direction, sputtering broken flames like a faulty stovetop. He has all
this energy, and half the time he doesn’t even channel it right. It makes
people annoyed with him, and after a day of Eijun shouting ineffectual words
into people’s ears, he’s had enough.
“Sawamura,” Miyuki breathes, and he can see the back of Eijun’s neck prickle,
he’s so close. “I am gonna do something really nice for you, and you—” he blows
a warm puff of air against his ear, “Are going to shut up.”
“I wouldn’t,” he blusters, but he complies easily enough; pitchers usually do.
Miyuki puts himself close to Eijun’s face, grinning at the alarm in his eyes
when he puts his hands to Eijun’s fly. Even the sound of Eijun sucking in air
is loud, but it’s nothing compared to the gasp he gives when Miyuki traces the
outline of his dick through his pants.
He’s really all talk and no bite at all, and once the talk disappears he’s left
with an incredibly pliable, flexible pitcher. The zipper works down easily
enough, Miyuki’s thumb popping open his fly. He takes the time to run his hands
over Eijun’s hips, soft, even pressure against hot skin, and push down his
pants and boxers all at once.
Air hits Eijun’s bare skin, makes him gasp again, cock bobbing while Miyuki
watches Eijun squirm. “Is this the first time,” and he trails one fingertip up
the length of his cock, “You’ve had someone else touch you?” He takes his time,
leaving teasing touches and light strokes on his shaft—nothing else at all,
heavy silence implying the need for reply. But Eijun is thickheaded, and kind
of dumb, and he bucks up his hips in an attempt to feel good again while Miyuki
laughs, “Ah-ah, I don’t think so.” It’s just a loose grip around the head of
his cock and nothing else. “Answer the question, Sawamura.”
“Sh-shut up,” Eijun gasps, and balls his hands into fists.
“Not really an answer,” Miyuki muses, but lets it go—he doesn’t care so much
about the answer as the other results his question’s produced: namely, the hot
red flush on Eijun’s face and how it spreads down his neck.
Eijun winds up easily, short fuse and huge temper usually equalling a lot of
amusement for him and a lot of exhaustion for everybody else. Miyuki’s not
surprised to see how well Eijun takes to touches, as if it’s the language coded
in his head that’s easiest to speak. Eijun tips back his head and lets loose a
low, quiet moan when Miyuki twists his hand, doubles the time of his strokes.
“Feels good,” he pants, legs shaking a little while Miyuki leans in even
closer, pressing his mouth against Eijun’s in a bid for absolute silence.
Still, Eijun is a sloppy kisser, and whatever little fumbles he’s had hadn’t
taught him how to kiss anyone right. Miyuki licks his way into his mouth and
it’s easy, tongue curling around Eijun’s while Eijun hangs on to his shirtfront
for dear life, hips bucking up and mouth hungry, leaking little whimpers
between hard strokes.
“Come for me,” Miyuki whispers, and Eijun makes that helpless moaning noise
again, frantic nods barely discernible. His lips are spit-slick and his eyes
are huge, round and heavy with pleasure, “Come on, Sawamura, you’re gorgeous—”
Eijun obeys the command mindlessly, thoughtlessly, and it’s what makes it good
when he comes—for Miyuki, because he’d said so—and the ease of control makes
Miyuki’s cock throb hard in his pants. His spine bends in a perfect arc, thighs
straining as he stills, orgasm crashing through his system. He’s loud again,
but this time Miyuki doesn’t mind. He has Eijun—literally—in his hands, and the
kid’s like putty while he comes down from his high.
“Miyuki Kazuya,” Eijun mumbles, and he looks amazed, and oddly serene. The glow
looks good on him.
“We,” Miyuki says, pursing his lips, “Had a deal.” Eijun looks as if he’ll
protest again, so Miyuki makes use of what’s available to him. He brings a
come-splattered hand up to his mouth, and sucks at his own fingers—Eijun makes
a choked noise at the back of his throat at the sight, subsiding into silence
while Miyuki closes his eyes, laps at his fingers and palm with small, kitten
licks and a wolfish smile. “That’s better,” he adds, and walks away while Eijun
is still searching for words.
 
 
 
2. furuya
Furuya is kind of an accident. He doesn’t mean to find Furuya in the showers,
but then again, he never really goes looking for him to begin with. Furuya is
always somewhere in his field of vision, his height and his general attitude
usually quite visible. And he kind of follows Miyuki everywhere.
It’s no secret that Furuya doesn’t like the baths—the hot steam will knock any
one of them out, but with Furuya it’s particularly difficult to manage. He
stays in the showers instead, and when Miyuki finishes individual practice with
a round of laps, he can hear the water running as he passes the bathhouse.
Well, at this hour, there’s really nobody else.
He shouldn’t be all that surprised at what Furuya’s doing in the shower,
either. The showers are public, but when everyone else is sleeping or just
plain doing something else, it’s natural for a guy’s hands to wander down and
take care of himself.
Furuya doesn’t look the least bit surprised when he sees Miyuki at all. He’d
had his eyes closed, blissful and quiet, but he doesn’t look as angry as
someone would when they’d had a private moment interrupted.
“Care for some help?” Miyuki asks, because he can.
Furuya is a little obsessed with him on the field. He’d said so himself—that
Miyuki was the reason he’d transferred to Tokyo, enrolled in Seidou at the
start—and Miyuki winds the thread of Furuya’s attention around his finger with
ease. It’s control that doesn’t come from any innate sense of submission:
Furuya gives in to him with an ease he allows for nobody else.
He moves unguardedly whenever Miyuki’s around, and watches him while Miyuki
moves slowly, walks toward him with intent, with purpose. He’ll get wet, most
definitely, but it’ll be worth it. Furuya’s naked trust just does things to his
head, a pitcher’s pride folded in half, waiting for Miyuki’s decision. When he
steps in, still fully-clothed, Furuya studies him before acquiescing. Miyuki
won’t have to kiss him here, just touch him.
Furuya’s back is broad, and his shoulderblades flex under pale skin when Miyuki
scrapes his teeth against them, drops open-mouthed kisses against the marks. He
tips his head back and the water washes over them both; he’s responsive, and
sensitive, little gasps and sighs escaping when Miyuki wraps a hand around his
dick.
All it really takes is a few strokes, Miyuki’s hands squeezing tight around the
base of his cock as he pumps up; Furuya chokes off his own moans before they
amplify in the shower, and it becomes another little thing to tease out.
Miyuki’s better at this than he is, and Furuya’s voice shakes when he pushes
him harder, just a little closer toward the edge. It’s push-and-pull with him,
a game that Furuya will absolutely lose, but he tries hard to resist before
Miyuki clamps his mouth down against the juncture of his neck and shoulder,
adding the brief streak of pain to his pleasure.
He trembles when he comes, just a bit, and Miyuki should have known that
Furuya’s stamina would let him down. “Good for you, yeah?” Miyuki grins,
letting the evidence of how good it really was washing away in the spray.
Furuya doesn’t say anything at all, but the slight hint of red that floats on
his face is answer enough.
Miyuki steps out of the shower, drenched but satisfied, the thrum of power
seeping into his veins as he walks back to his room, whistling.
 
 
 
3. kawakami
It’s not as if they’ve been here before, the early hours before a game: they
all wake up early, some with queasier stomachs than others, and think about the
future. What plays they’ll make, how fast they’ll run, how far away the home
plate seems every time the bases load. Miyuki’s been good at baseball for
years, so he grinds down his anxiety, tamps it down to a manageable level and
makes sure that Eijun is running around the B field with an acceptable amount
of enthusiasm and tires.
Some others, though, they just don’t get there. Kawakami is on edge the whole
day before a match, begrudgingly eating breakfast and jogging with a stiffness
to his joints that Miyuki doesn’t like to see. Kawakami doesn’t speak to anyone
when he gets this way, just gives terse replies and looks down at the ground
while he pitches obsessively into the net, already dressed for the game.
“Hey.” Miyuki’s voice is loud, and echoes strangely in the indoor practice
building. It’s strange to see it so empty, tall warehouse-like walls enclosing
just two people, with Kawakami’s stress filling up the rest of the room.
He whirls, shocked eyes open wide when he registers Miyuki’s voice. “Hey,
yourself,” he bites out. “I’m fine.”
“You don’t look too fine,” Miyuki says, as reasonably as he can. “Big match
today.” He watches as Kawakami absolutely fucks up his usual slider, elbow
going wide. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” Kawakami picks up another ball, knuckles whitening as he clenches the
baseball in his hands. “Stretched already.”
It’s not that people are particularly easy for him to understand, but they
should stop leaving such obvious openings. Miyuki smiles brightly, waves his
mitt in Kawakami’s face. “You look like you could loosen up a little, though.”
Kawakami stops, mid-pitch, and turns on his heel to face Miyuki entirely. He
looks—weirdly enough—vulnerable, and a worried frown pulls at the corners of
his mouth. “You think?”
But Miyuki likes seeing the big picture: who’s aiming for second, who’s
fielding at the far left. Kawakami still hasn’t dropped his baseball. “Yeah. I
can make it quick.” It’s not as if Kawakami scares easy—nobody who stands on
the mound at Seidou does, but Miyuki doesn’t want to spook him any more than he
already is, nerves dancing on edge with their impending match. He matches his
gaze, slowly exhales as he gets down on his knees, the little display enough to
knock the breath off-rhythm in Kawakami’s chest.
“I heard you’d do this,” he breathes, but doesn’t push him away when Miyuki
mouths at the fabric of his pants. “Is this how you get close to all of us?”
“I’m pretty close to you as it is,” Miyuki points out, and pulls his zipper
down with careful fingers. Kawakami’s not wrong: part of it really is the
thrill of watching someone’s pride bow low, having someone as strong-willed as
a pitcher succumb to what he wants, what he dictates. “Too close?”
But the anxiety that dampens Kawakami’s senses finally looks like it has an
outlet. It coalesces firmly behind his eyes, and when he nods, gives the go-
ahead, Miyuki lets him think he’s calling the shots while he puts slow, wet
lips to his cock. Impatient, Kawakami bucks up his hips in a bid for tighter
heat—but Miyuki’s two steps ahead of him, anchors him down and grips his hips
tightly, until they look like they’ll bruise. Kawakami still shifts under his
hands, tension pouring out of every pore while Miyuki keeps an eye on him, how
his expression changes with every slow bob of his head.
“Relax, Nori,” Miyuki breathes, popping his lips off his cock with an wet
slicking noise. “I got you.” When he lowers his mouth back on him, Miyuki makes
sure to suck hard at the head, downing him in one smooth slide.
It’s not so much about pride as it is about helping a friend out here—at least,
that’s what Miyuki would tell himself, if not for the familiar curl of energy
drawing low at the base of his own spine, building in his gut. Kawakami thrusts
upward out of habit, instinct, but Miyuki keeps him still and makes sure that
the rhythm he’s established stays the same: agonizingly slow, designed to keep
Kawakami drowning in pleasure while he drags out the last of his anxious
nerves.
“You like this,” Kawakami gasps, and Miyuki shrugs, as if to say, would I be
sucking your dick otherwise? He redoubles his efforts, and tries not to smile
too much when Kawakami drops his baseball, uses both hands to brace himself
against Miyuki’s shoulders. “Teeth,” he hears him say overhead.
He gives him an extra little scrape—a playful one, down by the base of his
cock, and it jolts Kawakami up his spine, shoulders bowing a little as he digs
his fingertips against Miyuki’s skin. His entire world’s narrowed down to
Miyuki, to his mouth: he isn’t thinking about the match at all, and Miyuki
gives him a final reward when he keeps his mouth fastened at the head of his
cock, finishes him off with quick, efficient jerks.
Miyuki and Kawakami have been able to read each other’s signals for months,
now, and when he means look at me, he just sucks harder, tongues at the slit
and forcibly imprints his fingertips against Kawakami’s hips. His eyes latch on
immediately, Kawakami open-mouthed and panting, that’s good, good, give in to
me—
He makes sure that Kawakami is still looking at him when he swallows. “You’re
good at this,” Kawakami breathes, gaze fixed on the way Miyuki’s throat moves,
how he licks his lips.
“Practice makes perfect,” Miyuki grins, and watches while Kawakami neatens up
his uniform again with steady hands.
 
 
 
4. sanada
Dominating his own pitchers—and he does, in a way, claim a small part of them
for himself—is an easier time than, say, a pitcher from another team. He
doesn’t know them as well, has to work twice as hard to get them to play his
game, but the rush of power is twice as rewarding when they buckle, their will
to his.
“Miyuki,” Sanada gasps, and even if his tone is combative his head is tipped
back, exposing his throat, “Oh, jeez, do that again—”
Miyuki has him on his knees, hands tied together with his own uniform’s belt.
The strap digs against his skin, flexible wrists trapped at the small of his
back. He’s easy to play with, eager to, even. Sanada throws himself into it,
energetic and almost frantic in how he needs someone to manage his pleasure,
give him pain.
Eijun would call it ‘fraternizing with the enemy’, and probably start screaming
again, but he doesn’t know what he’s missing, with Sanada’s proud head still
unbent and tall, wild stare still so alive despite how Miyuki’s messed with his
head just by being there. “I wanna,” he says, words coming thick in his
mouth—he’s disoriented, and trying hard not to show it, but his eyes keep
drifting down to his cock. “I wanna make you come.”
“That’s it,” the purr comes out a little less sinister than he’d meant,
Miyuki’s own arousal clogging his senses. He has to keep his head; someone here
should. “You gonna beg for me?”
“If that’s what it takes,” the words ending in a little gasp. Sanada leans
forward, and his eyes curve in mirth while he comes in close, buries his face
in Miyuki’s crotch. He even has the gall to wink when he hears Miyuki’s breath
hitch.
But two can play at that, and Miyuki makes it perfectly clear who’s in control
when he doesn’t react at all, coolly raises an eyebrow. Pushes him along,
Sanada teetering between his own urge and Miyuki’s: to obey or be a smug
bastard. “Let me put my mouth on you,” he breathes, and there really isn’t a
reason he can’t be both self-serving and obedient, feeding on and into his own
pleasure as he begs. At the end of it, it’s about how much control Sanada
doesn’t have, how he seems to love the sensation of letting go.
“Let me,” and Sanada bats his eyelashes as if he doesn’t know he’s pretty,
dragging open-mouthed kisses along the inside of his thighs. “It won’t suck
itself,” he wheedles, and Miyuki’s about to laugh at him to his good-humored
face—so he heaves a sigh, as if doing him a favor.
“Keep still,” Miyuki orders, and Sanada kills the whimper that rises in his
throat when he sees Miyuki undo his fly, glasses glinting briefly while he
presents himself. Sanada shakes, cock twitching visibly as he heaves deep
breaths, hands straining against Miyuki’s belt as he waits, in a command-less
vacuum, in freefall, waiting for Miyuki’s next words. “Open your mouth.”
His lips part immediately, right on cue, and Miyuki takes huge fistfuls of his
stupidly tall hair, guides his mouth over his cock. He can’t help himself, lets
the moan loose from somewhere down his throat, close to his chest, and Sanada
looks as if he’ll come right then and there. “Don’t throw up,” Miyuki comments,
and before he even hears a response he shoves his cock down his throat.
Sanada’s balance is terrible, with his hands strapped back and his knees doing
what they can to stabilize him. Miyuki’s hips settle into a punishing rhythm,
leaving no room for air as he pushes forward. Sanada’s tongue is in the way, so
he forces it down, flattens it along the underside of his cock and now it’s
easy, Miyuki setting the pace, ensuring that Sanada follows.
He can mark when Sanada finally extinguishes the last bit of fight in himself,
eyelashes damp as he closes his lids, vision hazy from the lack of air, of
control. He slackens his jaw, lips still clamped tight enough for Miyuki to
feel good, lets Miyuki use his mouth—that loud source of brash laughter,
silenced—hangs on for dear life while Miyuki fucks him raw against his tongue.
Sanada gasps, and chokes, gags on Miyuki’s cock, but never pulls away, never
says stop, just takes and yields until Miyuki can feel that familiar, low
pressure in his body.
“Take it,” he manages, and Sanada’s eyes fly open at the challenge. “Take it
all.” It’s fundamentally about seeing how far Sanada will let him go, how far
along he’s willing to be dragged by a more powerful force of will, and Miyuki
knows he’s won when Sanada swallows, mouth still greedy as he works his throat
around him.
He could leave him here, after this. But he wants his belt back and Sanada’s a
good sport. He’s performed well, once assured that he has Miyuki’s attention.
When Miyuki wraps his hands around him, cock so hard it might break in his
grip, the sob that rises from his chest is almost like the sound of someone
crying.
“Come on,” he mutters, breath hot against his ear, “Come for me, Sanada, come
on, Shunpei—”
With a long groan, Sanada comes, long spurts and thrown-back head. “You held it
in,” Miyuki whispers, pulls at his earlobe with his teeth, scrapes at his neck,
“Good job.” He tips his head over, exposes more skin for Miyuki to press his
mouth against, and sags heavily against him.
“Get,” he gasps, “Get this off.” Sanada’s arms weakly lift themselves, and
Miyuki stares at him, back down at his own come-smeared fingers.
“Mm.” His fingers can wait. Miyuki crouches down, legs accustomed to holding
his weight this way, and makes sure Sanada is watching.
He absolutely is: he doesn’t take his eyes off Miyuki whatsoever, hasn’t been
able to since they’d started their little game. It’s good to keep him
surprised, and when Miyuki’s head moves down, past his spit-slick chin, lower
past his chest, he makes a soft inhalation of shock.
Miyuki laps his tongue against the head of Sanada’s sensitive cock, soft
shivers rippling through him. “Wrong move.” There’s no way Sanada will be able
to get it up again, not after this—he’ll just take it, like he always does,
thighs spreading wide as Miyuki sucks, tongue lapping at him. “You,” he smiles,
between long licks, “Don’t give me orders.”
Miyuki works his belt loose from Sanada’s wrists when he groans again, helpless
while Miyuki removes his capacity to think in complete sentences. The skin
there is soft, and rubbed a little raw, but when they’re free, Sanada holds
them still anyway, pinned together at the small of his back as if it were
Miyuki’s will alone that keeps them there.
“Now,” Miyuki continues, ignoring Sanada’s long whine when he stops blowing
him, “Stay like that, and I’ll make it worth your while.”
 
 
 
5. narumiya
With Mei, it’s less wisecracks and a few less jokes. Mei likes being praised a
little too much, preens under his attention as if born to soak in it. He claims
Miyuki’s personal space on his own, operates under the personal assumption that
it just doesn’t belong to anyone else.
He’s nakedly honest about what he wants, and it drives Miyuki up a wall to see
it.
He can’t afford any tactical errors here, not when Mei is already so close to
him, proximity bringing to his attention how warm Mei’s skin really is, how
fiercely he grabs at Miyuki’s face to hold him still. His thigh rests easily
between Miyuki’s, pressing against his cock just enough to get him panting.
“Feels good,” he gasps, and wants to retract what he’s said when Mei’s pupils
dilate at the words.
Mei knows him too well, knows what he likes and how to push his buttons. He
takes a mile when Miyuki give an inch. But two can play at that game: Miyuki
rocks his hips up, floats on the tide of arousal that roars up in him,
intentionally focuses on a point far away from Mei’s face. He’s just using him
this way, and it must rankle at Mei’s pride to remain unacknowledged.
Miyuki keeps his hands clenched together by the front of his shirt, refuses to
touch him anywhere as he grinds down. He knows he looks good this way, so he
lets his mouth fall open, loose and suggestive, and grins when he catches Mei’s
stare.
His hands, too, are possessive. Presumptuous. It’s almost suffocating how he
keeps one flattened against the jut of his pelvis, the other stroking soft,
fond fingertips over his cheek. Miyuki closes his eyes, savors the feeling of
simply being touched. He could get off this way, scratch an itch and get it out
of his system—but before he can, Mei has to open his mouth to derail his train
of thought.
He kisses fiercely, and a part of Miyuki wants to kiss back with an equal fire.
He doesn’t want to lose, not even in this, but Mei always thinks he’s already
won the war while Miyuki continues to fight. It’s easier to coerce him while
he’s drunk on his keenness, his arrogance, as if Miyuki had nothing better to
do with his time than please him. “Kazuya,” Mei gasps between kisses, and his
mouth drags over the soft vowels of his name like he owns it, “Mmm, fuck, touch
me—”
Nobody’s ever convinced Mei to do anything he doesn’t want to do. But Miyuki
still prefers to keep the upper hand, so he puts on a little show and makes a
full-throated moan, grinds down hard and dirty. He has no intention of coming
this way at all, not when there’s better to be had, but the little ploy gets
Mei impatient, gets him hooked.
“Kazuya,” he bitches, brows knitting together, “Come on, I said—”
There’s no faking how breathless he sounds. Miyuki tips his head back, studies
how flushed Mei looks, hard and annoyed, and laughs a little. “Yeah?” He licks
his lips, and the whatever whining personality that Mei had in him is gone;
Miyuki can see in him the person he knows best, marked by stone-cold pragmatism
and a drive to compete, to win.
This is much better competition.
Miyuki stops moving, leans in his face close to Mei’s—but he doesn’t lean up
this time for a kiss, just dares him to move closer so he can burn him with his
mouth, mark him with his teeth. It’s all or nothing with Mei, and Miyuki
doesn’t quite want to give himself over the way Mei demands.
He crouches down and smiles brightly when Mei sucks in a breath, hands deftly
unzipping Mei’s pants. “You’ll like this,” he says, and it’s true: nobody’s
ever given him poor marks on this. He’s good at it. Miyuki closes his eyes,
opens his mouth wide and obscene, acutely aware of how Mei’s eyes track every
movement he makes.
“One thing,” he adds, lips barely brushing wet skin, “You make a sound, and I’m
leaving.” He puts one hand to the base of Mei’s cock and waits for Mei to
choose.
He folds his lips in a thin line, irritation flashing bright across blue eyes
before fading; he wants Miyuki here, would rather get off with him here than
without anywhere else, even if it means playing his game. Infuriated at being
caged, Mei almost looks as if he’ll throw a fit and walk away—but Miyuki knows
him. He’s already made a choice.
When he nods, there’s still a little of his usual imperiousness left in the
gesture. Miyuki listens for the noise Mei makes when he goes slow in
retaliation, mouth wrapping hot around the head of his cock. Mei even freezes
up when he realizes, about to defend himself when Miyuki stops altogether.
“I said,” and he makes sure to draw out the line of precome dragging on his
lip, “Be quiet.” Mei’s gaze, caught between it and the rest of Miyuki’s face,
flickers.
He’s leashed this way, and being the person who controls that ferocious
temper—even for a little while—elevates his own arousal, senses open wide to
soak in everything. Mei needs someone to show him that he can’t call all the
shots, remove him from that overinflated ego, at times. He must know it, since
the fight in him dissipates faster than anyone else would expect, but Mei gets
single-minded about what he wants.
When Miyuki puts his mouth to Mei’s cock again, he doesn’t make a single sound.
His breath is runs ragged, hands curling against Miyuki’s hair—not as a means
of dominance, but for something to hold on to while Miyuki drags it out. It
drives him crazy when people don’t comply immediately, but here, it’s about
what Miyuki will give him and how much Mei wants to take. It’s slow licks,
Miyuki’s hands gliding down his shaft while he sucks, and the hard quiver of
Mei’s chest while he tries not to make any noise.
Mei takes to encouragement naturally, so Miyuki isn’t inclined to give him any.
He peeks up at him over the rim of his glasses, the blissed-out expression on
Mei’s face indication enough of how he’s enjoying this.
Miyuki sucks harder, moves his head faster. Mei shudders under him, chews at
his bottom lip to seal off any possible sounds—it’s not a game that’s designed
for him to win, not when Miyuki’s hands travel down to massage his balls, moans
around his cock and lets them vibrate around him.
He’s the only one making noise, Mei straining to stay quiet as Miyuki ups his
pace, head bobbing fast as he draws out the last remaining scraps of tension
from Mei’s body. Like tuning an instrument.
“Kazuya,” Mei gasps—Miyuki knew he wouldn’t be able to remain obedient for
long—and the effort of maintaining silence has clearly cost him, red flush
luminescent on his face. “I’m gonna—”
Like hell, Miyuki’s about to say, when Mei takes his hands out of his hair.
They’re shaky, Mei clearly on edge, and in a stunning, classic Narumiya display
of disobedience, wrap around his own cock while Mei strokes hard, fast, just
the way Miyuki’s mouth had moved seconds ago.
When he comes, he fucking comes on Miyuki’s glasses.
 
 
 
+1. kataoka tesshin
It starts off as a joke. Told to himself.
So he has a thing for pitchers: that’s nothing new. They’re egotistical, and
powerful, and physically sturdy in a way he finds appealing. There’s something
thrilling about being able to direct that much energy in one
direction—himself—like he’s the focus of a thunderstorm, with every bolt of
lightning aimed at him, all at once.
On the other side of the field, Eijun is showing off that spectacular quality
of thickheadedness that endears him so thoroughly to his teammates, two-seam
fastball too fast to qualify as such. He’s getting frustrated, and loud, and
Kataoka just pinches at the high bridge of his nose underneath his glasses
before picking up a baseball for himself. “Like this.”
Across the diamond, Miyuki realizes that his throat is absurdly dry as he
swallows against nothing.
He’s forgotten that their coach used to pitch: his form is sweet, the long,
lean lines of his legs as they ground him, hips snapping at a beautiful angle
as he launches the baseball from his fingertips. It’s a confident throw, an
authoritative one, and the form of his body burns itself into Miyuki’s head.
Shit, his coach is a pitcher.
Miyuki tries not think about the usual qualities after the monumental
realization thwacks at his skull like a rock: assuredness, gracefulness, the
edge of arrogance blended with the necessary element of charisma—how those
qualities would translate to sex, how good it would feel to have that much
power under his hands.
He might not even be able to tame it. He’s never seen Coach lose his cool,
never seen him out of control, can’t even fathom it. He’s still mulling it over
when practice ends, when the moon is out and everybody else is asleep.
The conundrum is mostly in his head. Miyuki has yet to see a pitcher who can
refuse him: they need to be the focus of people’s attention at all times. They
burn themselves at both ends just to make a brighter flame, flaring and waxing
until it’s hard to see past the light—but Miyuki has always been able to do
just that, cut through to the bare nakedness of who they are and find precisely
what they want.
He’s seen Kataoka disheveled, after hours of shouting through practice and
batting deep flyballs out to left field. That’s all he’s got after hours with
him, the only image his head brings up: the raspiness of his voice as he barks
out commands, run faster, throw harder, the sky shuttering dark as he stands
over home plate, hands at his hips. His hair springs loose a little when he’s
sweated enough, the scent of cologne dissipating under the smell of leather,
expensive shoes and worn mitts.
It comes into Miyuki’s head all at once, like he’s wearing the catcher’s mask
over his face right now, and there’s no harm done and no fouls called in a
little playful fun.
He knows himself, how to best please himself and it’s easy work, one hand
slipping down to stroke his shaft while he twists a little, hips shuddering.
Miyuki turns his head away entirely on instinct, closes his eyes and lets
himself feel, mouth gasping open as his mind feeds him imagined sensations: the
dust of the baseball diamond gritty against his skin, unreadable facade
cracking while Miyuki sucks him off, large, broad hands running through his
hair, tugging lightly as he guides his mouth along.
His lips don’t touch anything, so Miyuki bites down on them just to feel
anything at all. He feels good, and it is good, but it’s not nearly enough. For
the first time, Miyuki wants something that’s beyond the immediate realm of
touch, take-and-take, and when he comes the high is nowhere near what he wants
it to be, strangled gasp tearing through him with his orgasm.
They’re just impressions of him, shadowed outlines that are too faint to be
real, and they fade while Miyuki hazily thinks, this is fine.
With a near-clinical attitude, he wipes himself off and goes to sleep.
 
But as it turns out, addiction is powerful: Miyuki watches him more than he
should. It makes him look like an inept student who can’t make up his mind, a
kid who needs his coach to call all his plays, but the sense of impending shame
is nothing compared to the heat in his belly when he sees Kataoka sitting
poised, collected, watching their every move with a sharp eye.
It’s just extra fodder for the alone time Miyuki craves after hours, when he
should be asleep but finds his hands wandering down his pants. Every hour,
there’s a new detail that Miyuki doesn’t want to find but sees anyway: how
thick his thighs are, how trim his waist is, how his height just adds to his
air of authority.
The fantasy just gets richer every time he visits it, and Miyuki hadn’t been
able to look away after noticing his hands today.
After years of practice, the calluses on his hands are engraved on his skin.
His fastball is beautiful, a thick streak of leatherbound weight screaming
through the air as he demonstrates its followthrough to a shiny-eyed Eijun and
Furuya.
It’s experience that he craves the most, how powerful he still is after all
those years of playing baseball; how good they’d feel stroking his cock,
twisting slick into his mouth, fucking open his lips.
There are things that escape him, too: Miyuki has spent an embarrassing amount
of cumulative hours trying to figure out how big he is, how thick he is, how it
would taste if he put his tongue to his slit and lapped at his head. It might
stretch at his lips if he wrapped them around his cock, burn at the edges of
his mouth and hurt, just a little, stroke his tongue down its girth and Miyuki
would swallow it as best he can, use his hands to make up the difference until
he can use his throat. Maybe then he wouldn’t stay so silent. Or maybe he’d
encourage him, say something in that low, rich voice of his. He doesn’t have
any answers at all, and the seconds he wastes staring at his coach’s hips, at
the rawness behind his pitches, are seconds he can put to baseball.
He’s just feeling it these days, who knows—it’s getting horribly familiar how
he keeps needing to find little private moments, but it’s fine, just a fantasy.
Miyuki shuts his eyes tight and jacks himself quietly, thumb smearing clear
slick around his cock as his breath hitches, in little hiccups.
He is decidedly not thinking about what it would feel like to have his mouth
fucked by those powerful hips, no, he is not—well, he is, and his jaw aches at
the ghost of its force roaring into full detail. Miyuki’s hands should be
curled into fists, digging into Kataoka’s tanned skin, tear a part of him away
for himself, but they’re curled around his own cock and the awfully slow,
torturous build is frenetic in his system, his gasps and wet squelches
swallowed up by the dark.
He can see stars, a little, when he comes. Stars, or the faint veil of
moonlight that scatters over his eyes when he opens them again, orgasm
dissolving heavy into his blood. Miyuki blinks, breathing hard, and the want
still clings like a film to his memory—the memory of something that’s never
happened at all.
“Fuck,” he breathes, and nobody hears him. “Fuck.”
 
The realization isn’t something he can escape, when the morning sun rises
bright and crisp in his room. Kataoka is a pitcher, and Miyuki likes pitchers,
and he’s spent the last few days practically drunk on the feverish conclusion
that somehow, his coach can give him something that nobody else can.
He won’t burn it off with someone else, doesn’t bother trying, not when it
raises too many questions and he’d rather just do it himself. He’s escalating,
and he knows it—but Miyuki’s been unable to keep his hands steady since
practice had ended today, after hours of keeping his knees spread open before
him while catching his coach’s demonstration pitches.
He’s never had to need this much before, or depend on someone else to get him
to climax. It’s been easy, completion fulfilling in its simplicity, but now he
looks everywhere for little clues, extra things to feed his favorite image.
It’s become involved, and detailed, little whimpers bleeding from his throat
while Miyuki’s fingers pull at his own entrance, fingertips probing a little
while he tries to adjust, tries to get used to it.
It might be better—or worse—if someone else were doing it, but it’s just Miyuki
and his locked door. His slick fingers just feel strange, and distracting him
from the picture of Kataoka’s hands doing the work for him, running over his
hot skin. Miyuki rolls over on his stomach, lifts up his hips and keeps himself
on his knees, ass thrusting back toward thin air while he grips at his cock. It
feels better, but it’s become a familiar mantra for him over the weeks, not
enough.
He’s tried to catch his eye, to see if anything would happen at all. He’s been
sexually dominating pitchers for a long time. He can make it good, make it so
good—and when Miyuki says it in his head he knows it comes off as desperate,
but damn it, he is, desperate to take the edge off this thing that’s eaten up
so much of his time.
He twists his fingers inside himself, index and middle curving into a gentle
hook, his other hand shakily speeding up. It’s somewhere, the feeling of
fullness, and it grows in his head until it pushes out everything else he could
possibly think about. Miyuki keeps his fingers pressed in, pads of his
fingertips barely staying steady. From faraway, he can hear himself, wet gasps
and light-throated hums, impatient and messy, needy, hips stuttering, voice
climbing in pitch and it’s hard to stay quiet, whole body rocking back and
forth, fucking against nothing and nobody.
Orgasm shatters on him like glass.
His whole body tightens up, nothing he’s ever felt before.. Miyuki’s body
collapses from the sudden dead weight of his limbs, and his vision whitens out.
It’s felt good before, but never like this, threatening to crack open his head
like torrential rain, like thunderbolts.
Slowly, carefully, Miyuki tries to breathe and recollect himself, regain some
sense of motor control and move his sluggish body upright.
When he removes his fingers, he feels a little empty.
 
That particular feeling is hard to forget, how earthshattering it’d been with
two fingers in his ass and his palm twisting slick and fast against his cock.
Miyuki isn’t even swimming in murky waters anymore; he’s drowning, the water
far above his head.
There are going to be heavy divots in his mattress from how he’s been kneeling
lately, legs pushed open while he jacks himself off, hips thrusting back with
his face buried miserably against his bedspread. There’s a name he doesn’t want
to say leaking from his lips, and he tries to muffle it by pressing his mouth,
his nose against his own pillow. But he needs the oxygen, needs to breathe, and
the heavy sensation of needing someone to fuck him, replace his fingers with a
thick cock he’s dreamt about, clouds his sight.
Today it’s a different fantasy: he has too many now, the evidence of his
fucking stupid addiction, the itch in his blood, how good and heavy that cock
would feel in his mouth, the scent of him. Miyuki still thinks about how he’d
crack open that stoic attitude, his callused hand against Miyuki’s cheek while
he takes him down. Swallows around him and hears his voice saying, “Perfect,”
the word ringing in his ears. He’d settle for that, show him how much he can
take just for his commendation, ropes or cuffs or—fuck, anything—get sloppy
just to have him correct him, arousal synchronous to his heartbeat behind every
image, crystal-clear in his mind’s eye like a photograph.
He’s getting good at it, fingers finding, prodding at where he likes it best.
Miyuki’s hips find that sweet rhythm where he can fuck into his own hand and
keep his fingertips right where he wants, gasps coming faster as he drives
himself toward a breaking point.
“Please,” he gasps, and doesn’t care that it’s quiet. “Please, fuck—”
It doesn’t make him feel any better or worse, but the word tastes so good on
his tongue, some element of relief that’s been dammed up in him since Miyuki
had watched Kataoka pitch, caught his ball with spread knees in a catcher’s
crouch. “Please, ah, give it to me,” and the words stumble from him, fantasy
almost reality while he pleads, shutting his eyes, “I can make it so good, I
can be so good, please—”
And in his head, practically in his ear, he can hear Kataoka’s voice, gravelly
from hours of strain, whisper, “No.”
His own hand stops stroking himself, muffled sob of desperation building in his
chest. He needs to come, but the ghosting touch of Kataoka’s hands stills his
hips. He can feel fingertips burning hot trails across his sensitive back, his
shoulders. Miyuki keeps eyes screwed shut, caught between the precipice of
doing what he needs and chasing what he wants, waits for permission that
doesn’t arrive.
From his imagination, Miyuki can kiss him, spit and come from his chin smearing
against his stubble. He’s earned that much, and while he opens ups his mouth to
him Miyuki sneaks his hand back down, gives a few shallow pulls around his
cock. “I said,” and that voice makes him stop, the tone of it, disapproving and
final, “No.”
He wants to come, needs to come, and he doesn’t bother erasing the desperate
whine that rises from his lips. He feeds it air, lets it build, climb to a thin
scream—but it doesn’t work, there’s no reply. “Please,” and Miyuki’s face feels
wet, salt stinging his eyes, thighs flexing to no avail while he squirms, for
purchase, for the slightest tinge of pleasure to spark him alive again, “I’ve
been so good—”
But Kataoka’s watched him all day, knows if he’s done well or not, and his
constant evaluation leaves, in real life and in his head, the scraped-raw edge
of alertness that yanks at his senses. Bargaining wouldn’t get him that far,
and Miyuki knows he’s starting to shake, but that’s half the point—he can take
it, he knows he can, and he’ll wait it out until he has permission, until he’s
earned it. Miyuki relishes the feeling, trapped against his pride and the base
need to sear relief over his nerves, broken moans and please, please panted
between breaths, barely coherent. Every second that ticks by is a second that
edges closer toward pain than pleasure, but it’s hard to split the difference,
if there even is one: Miyuki can’t clear his head, savors every sensation that
Kataoka gives him, denies him, all at once.
He’s drowning in water and without oxygen, gasping, crying—he’s fucking crying,
but patient, determined to hold off until he can come, fingers aching to dig in
deeper into himself, push himself over the edge and just be done with it. It
would be release and relief and disobedience, and he’d feel good, maybe, but he
likes where he is now, too, the pain of needing orgasm and the promise of
building pleasure, arousal so thick it chokes his throat.
There’s one particular memory he doesn’t use, but needs most, the expression
that Kataoka wears when he’s pleased about something: there’s a brief upquirk
of his mouth that means everything to him, at this moment. It’s subtle, and
hardly goes noticed, but Miyuki’s stared at his thin lips for days, wondered
what it’d be like to prize away kisses from that mouth for too long not to see
it.
Here, it means he’s done something good, earned his orgasm, and when Miyuki’s
fingers wrap back around his neglected cock he presses the pads of his fingers
hard inside himself, drags it with so much force he feels like he’ll break,
doesn’t need to move at all. He shuts down, hips grinding down in heavy
circles, spine arching, a wordless, long groan ripping from his throat—he might
be crying again, but it doesn’t matter, ragged breath and weak cries mingling
with the sensation of coming down from an impossible high.
God, he is so, so fucked.
 
The next day, he smiles and meets Kataoka’s eye like nothing’s happened.
He can work this out of his system just fine.
The spring sun is heating up into summer, and the muggy air of the field hits
his lungs; he’s eager to play today. It’s almost like peace that smoothes over
his frazzled nerves, until Miyuki watches Kataoka arrive to practice, command
and charisma immediately drawing his eye.
He stretches a little more vindictively than usual, lower back protesting a bit
as he bends over, folds himself perfectly in half. He’s not watching.
Their warmup laps, too, are not marked by his presence. He’s keeping a weather
eye on them as a whole, with Rei-chan pushing up her glasses as she studies
their pace, their breathing. Kataoka’s profile is a sharp-cut silhouette,
buttoned up and clean, for Miyuki to stare at and fantasize over later. If the
day is particularly warm, he might open up that shirt a little.
It’s absurd, how quickly frustration builds back in his body these days. Miyuki
has his mitt clapped shut and on his lap, staring at him as if willing him to
notice, but Kataoka is making his way across the field, watching Chris correct
Eijun’s form with an impassive stare.
“Everything okay?” Shiraisu waves, frown pulling at his usual gentle
expression.
Miyuki grits his teeth, eyes still somehow tracking the tall, lean form of his
coach as he demonstrates a perfect pitch.
“Just fine.”
End Notes
     additional tags: miyuki "pitcher dick chaser" kazuya, miyuki's mile-
     wide daddy issues
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!
