
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/2566142.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M, Multi
  Fandom:
      ダイヤのA_|_Daiya_no_A_|_Ace_of_Diamond
  Relationship:
      Miyuki_Kazuya/Everyone
  Character:
      Miyuki_Kazuya, Sawamura_Eijun, Tanba_Kouichirou, Furuya_Satoru, Kawakami
      Norifumi, Kominato_Haruichi, Kominato_Ryousuke, Isashiki_Jun, Yuuki
      Tetsuya, Kuramochi_Youichi
  Additional Tags:
      I'm_so_sorry, Group_Sex, Gratuitous_Smut, No_Plot/Plotless, Plot_What
      Plot/Porn_Without_Plot, Gangbang, seriously_i'm_so_sorry, Hand_Jobs, Blow
      Jobs, Exhibitionism, Double_Anal_Penetration
  Series:
      Part 1 of Desire
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-11-04 Words: 3842
****** Determined ******
by tastewithouttalent
Summary
     "Miyuki loses his count halfway through the second hour." Miyuki
     likes pitchers and everyone else on the team likes Miyuki.
Miyuki loses his count halfway through the second hour.
He was determined to keep track, to recall names and numbers between the sticky
catch of sweat and the stutter of speeding breathing over him. It was easy for
the first few, when all Ryosuke wanted to do was stretch him open with lube-
slick fingers and Miyauchi was quick to come for all that his hold on the other
catcher’s hips was bruisingly hard. But Masuko was slow and thorough, and Sakai
was big enough that Miyuki had to struggle for breath, and it’s somewhere
between numbers five and six that he loses track entirely.
It’s his own fault, he knows. It was his idea, to begin with, a joke said in
more earnest than the idea deserved, and even when jokes began to form into
reality he was the one to specify, the one who flashed a grin at Tetsuya and
said, “Make sure the pitchers are last.” What he hadn’t counted on --
 should have counted on -- was the competition that started to coalesce as the
rest of the team watch the other members fuck Miyuki breathless and boneless
without winning an orgasm from him before they go over the edge themselves.
It’s not like he’s going to lose the impromptu game. It’s been years, now,
since Miyuki figured out what he needs in order to get the satisfaction of
climax, has realized that he has to have a pitcher touching him or kissing him
or, ideally, inside him before the perpetual knot of want in his stomach will
loosen enough to let him come. But he can hear the conversation purring louder
as the minutes pass, as Yamazaki groans and jerks forward helplessly into him,
the discussion of technique and easy arguments over who has the next turn, and
just because he can’t get the relief of orgasm doesn’t mean that his skin isn’t
prickling over-hot with sensation.
“I can’t believe his pitcher fetish,” Kuramochi is saying to Masuko, speaking
so loudly Miyuki isn’t sure if it’s accidental or deliberate so the words will
carry to the whole room. “He’s been holding out for an hour, doesn’t he look
kind of pale to you?”
“Mm.” Masuko is humming in favor of true coherent responses, but that doesn’t
slow down the bubbling flow of Kuramochi’s words.
“And shaking.” There’s movement, too fast for Miyuki to turn his head to see it
coming, before fingers press in against the pulse thudding in his throat.
“Jesus, his heart’s going super fast, think he’s gonna pass out before we get
through everyone?”
“I’m fine,” Miyuki insists, although his voice is wavering in his throat and
he’s not sure how much longer he can stay up over his knees. His skin is
flushed hot and sticky, the backs of his thighs are slick with sweat and
probably more come than he ever truly expected to have smeared across his skin.
“Who’s next?”
“Me,” Kuramochi says, but there’s another hand already at Miyuki’s knees,
shoving them apart to lower him another inch closer to the ground. “Hey, no
way, it’s my turn.”
“I’ve been waiting,” a voice protests, and it takes Miyuki a moment before he
can identify it as Tanaka. “Wait your turn.”
“It is my turn,” Kuramochi snaps.
“Fine.” The hand at his knee lifts, there’s the sound of a fist hitting an open
palm. “Ready?”
“Fuck,” Kuramochi hisses in resignation. There’s a pause, the rhythm of hands
hitting skin, and Miyuki just has time to consider the experience of two
teammates playing rock-paper-scissors for the right to fuck him when Kuramochi
crows in delight and Tanaka huffs in defeat.
“Yes,” and Kuramochi is coming in behind Miyuki, pressing his knees into the
catcher’s thighs as he gets his zipper down. “You’re not gonna come, huh?”
Miyuki shakes his head. He can’t see clearly through the smudge of his glasses,
can’t do anything to control the weak laugh that bubbles up his throat.
“I can’t, even if I wanted to.”
“Huh.” Kuramochi’s fingers close around Miyuki’s cock, slide up over the
flushed skin. Miyuki ducks his head, closes his teeth against the skin of his
arm to stifle the moan of response; he can still hear Kuramochi’s rising laugh
as the other boy presses his dick in against Miyuki’s entrance.
“Even if I’m jerking you off?” He thrusts forward, sharp and so quickly he
sinks in all at once. Miyuki shudders, feels the support of his arms give way
to drop him to the floor, but the heat in his stomach is still curdling sour
with the impossibility of satisfaction, there’s still no way this will go
anywhere.
Kuramochi gives it a good try, Miyuki gives him that. He goes slow until he
finds the angle that makes Miyuki convulse against the floor and wail on every
inhale; then he moves quickly, digs himself in deeper than Miyuki thought he
could get and pumps roughly over the catcher’s length. It just does what it
always does, turns Miyuki’s blood into liquid heat and steals his breath while
the build cycles endlessly long without any kind of gratification in sight.
If he hadn’t already lost track of which number he’s on, Kuramochi’s dedication
would be enough to shatter the last of Miyuki’s composure. He doesn’t realize
when his head grows too dizzy to hold up, only processes that his cheek is
pressed to the floor when it’s hard to breathe against the smooth wood of the
floor. But Kuramochi is still stroking over him, teasing at the head of his
cock with slick fingers, and each snap of his hips sends another rush of heat
rippling over Miyuki’s skin. Miyuki really is going light-headed by the time
Kuramochi’s grip goes slack with distraction, when the motion of his hips loses
its sharp-edged accuracy so it’s only every other thrust that flushes Miyuki’s
skin hot and tingling. In the end Kuramochi gives up entirely, pulls out and
lets his hold go so he can jerk over himself and draw the splash of hot come
over the curve of Miyuki’s spine instead of inside him.
At least Tanaka in more interested in getting off himself than the impossible
prospect of winning an orgasm from Miyuki. He’s abrupt and determined, shoves
Miyuki down against the floor by his shoulders and thrusts into him almost
before Kuramochi’s knee has moved away. Miyuki can handle that better, can take
the satisfaction of being used without the swooping rush of desperate
adrenaline for a conclusion that keeps edging farther away with every stroke
over him.
“He’s not going to last,” Ryosuke says from the corner. Miyuki tips his head
back so he can attempt to grin at the older boy, though he doesn’t think it
comes through. If it does, it doesn’t have any effect on Ryosuke’s perpetual
smirk; if anything it draws wider, shadowed over at the catcher’s expense.
“He’s going to pass out before we get the pitchers in here after all.”
“He won’t.” That’s Tetsuya, over Miyuki’s shoulder so he can’t see the other
boy’s expression, and Isashiki picks up the sentence without any noticeable
pause. “Miyuki’ll do anything for his pitchers.”
That makes Miyuki laugh, turn his head into the floor to muffle the edge of his
amusement. “Anything.” His voice is cracking in his throat, breaking apart with
each of Tanaka’s thrusts into him, but his skin is flashing hot with just
the idea of Kawakami, Furuya, Tanba, Sawamura touching him. The floor under him
is already slick with sweat, skidding out under his knees whenever he tries to
move, but the warmth in his blood is just adding to the mess, drawing precome
slick against the head of his cock even before he spreads his legs wider so he
can rut weakly against the floor.
“Jesus,” Tanaka says over him. “He’s really -- really enjoying this, isn’t he?”
It’s as if he thinks Miyuki can’t hear him, like his ability to comprehend
language has gone alone with his usual vocal range, but Miyuki doesn’t protest.
It’s not like Tanaka’s wrong, even if Miyuki’s trembling with denied
satisfaction as the other boy’s movements come faster and less regular.
Miyuki’s still panting for more, still shaking from pleasure as much as from
desperation as Tanaka’s commentary fades out into a groan, his thrusts collapse
into a shivering pulse of heat.
Tanaka lingers a moment after, breathing hard as he leans his weight over
Miyuki’s hips. Then his touch is gone, there’s a damp sound of skin-on-skin as
he pulls away, and Tetsuya is speaking again, declaring “My turn” without even
an attempt at winning rock-paper-scissors against the remaining team members.
No one complains. That’s the advantage of being team captain, Miyuki thinks
hazily, and then Tetsuya’s fingers are clasping at the back of his neck to pull
him back up onto his elbows.
“Lift your head,” he orders, and Miyuki does, obedient even before he gets his
eyes into focus past the smudge of his glasses to see Isashiki dropping to his
knees in front of him. “And open your mouth.”
Miyuki’s a little impressed, enough that he doesn’t even struggle to find a
comeback before letting his mouth fall open. Tetsuya is pulling at his hips,
lifting him into whatever angle he wants as if Miyuki is more a doll than a
person; then again, for the amount of strength Miyuki has left in his limbs,
that’s not far from the truth. He’s distracted anyway, his blurred gaze focused
on the slide of Isashiki’s zipper and the motion of his clothes as he gets his
jeans and boxers halfway down his thighs. Isashiki’s only half-hard by the time
he gets himself free, but there’s no hesitation before he reaches out to grab
Miyuki’s hair and tips his head back, and Miyuki returns the favor, opens his
mouth wide in invitation so Isashiki can fit himself past Miyuki’s lips and
press against his tongue. Miyuki can feel Isashiki getting harder, gaining heat
and resistance against his lips, and then Tetsuya starts to thrust into him and
any consideration of the details evaporates into pressure and heat and damp.
Isashiki is fully hard by the time Tetsuya rocks forward properly, pushes into
Miyuki with enough force that the catcher slides forward and nearly chokes on
the cock in his mouth before he can stop his movement.
There’s no space for technique. Miyuki is better at this than his performance
would prove, generally able to do more than blindly open his mouth and take a
cock as far down his throat as he can manage. But he’s only barely keeping his
head up, Isashiki’s hold on his hair is doing as much for his position as he is
himself, and all he can do is suck in air whenever Isashiki’s movements give
him a chance. He almost doesn’t notice when Tetsuya goes stiff and still behind
him, doesn’t listen at all to the brief flurry of casual argument from the
remaining teammembers. He just knows the next one is less calculating, rougher
in the hold he gets at Miyuki’s hips and less considerate in the motions of his
thrusts, so by the time Isashiki chokes on a breath and shoves himself forward
Miyuki is going lightheaded with need for air. It’s only the last of his
concentration that lets him swallow instead of involuntarily inhaling the hot
liquid spilling down his throat; then Isashiki is pulling away, and Miyuki has
a moment to gasp a breath, let his head hang while he waits for the next. The
hand that pushes his forehead back up turns out to be Endou’s, though the cock
pushing past his lips is Shirasu’s; Miyuki doesn’t protest, shuts his eyes and
lets his mind flutter dreamily as he’s shoved forward. His count is gone, his
attention skidding out as much as his knees until his movement to take Shirasu
farther into his mouth is more a product of Higasa’s thrusts than his own
deliberation. Endou’s hand shifts, shoves his hair up sideways, and that’s all
the warning Miyuki gets before there’s heat splashing against his cheek,
catching on the frame of his glasses and sticky in his hair. He doesn’t flinch
away, can’t even move between the other two; even when Higasa grunts and comes
into him he stays still, holds Miyuki in place while Shirasu thrusts forward
for the last few strokes before come pulses hot over Miyuki’s tongue.
The hold on Miyuki’s hair releases, disappears. Shirasu pulls back and Miyuki
drops to the floor, his limbs impossibly weighted and his skin so flushed it
feels like it’s evaporating. He lacks even the will to rock against the floor,
doesn’t even bother twisting a hand down to jerk over himself; he knows it’s
useless, not worth the futile effort, and besides he’s pretty sure he’s not
able to move his body anyway.
Then there’s the sound of a door opening, Haruichi’s voice clear over the
murmur of the room. “I brought them, aniki.”
“Good job.” Ryosuke, that, his tone offering praise and mockery in equal parts.
“You sure you don’t want a turn? It’s your last chance, you know.”
Miyuki doesn’t hear Haruichi’s refusal. His attention is caught up on last
chance, the implication of that combined with the nonspecific them, and there’s
more voices, vague comments in voices that send a shock down Miyuki’s spine
before he’s even placed them.
“Are you ready for us?” That’s bored, flat and emotionless in spite of the
visual Miyuki is sure he is offering. “Oh” is Kawakami, high and shocked as
Miyuki feels vaguely he deserves, and “Miyuki” that new voice, the one Miyuki
usually hears echoing from the dugout. But it’s Tanba who touches him first,
whose fingers close on his chin to urge his gaze up, and so it is Tanba who
gets the first convulsive shudder of response from Miyuki’s aching skin.
“He’s been worked over.” Another voice, not one of the four newcomers; it takes
Miyuki a moment to place it as Tetsuya again. He’s too distracted to speak
himself, too caught up in tipping his head in against Tanba’s touch and
grinding hard against the floor, now that satisfaction is a real possibility.
“He’s not going to hold out much longer.”
“That’s fine.” Tanba is tipping his chin up, sliding a thumb in past Miyuki’s
lips. Miyuki lets his mouth fall open, careful not to so much as graze those
valuable fingers with the edge of teeth. He’s starting to shake, trembling over
his entire body even before there’s another hand on his hip, long fingers
without the flexibility of Tanba’s but strong enough that they can be no one’s
but Furuya’s. “Just hold him off, Furuya.”
“Yeah.” Furuya drags Miyuki’s hips up off the floor, angles his arm around
Miyuki’s waist. Miyuki knows what’s coming, is shivering uncontrollably in
anticipation even before Furuya’s fingers brush against his stiff-swollen
length. There’s a fumbling moment while the pitcher tries to orient himself,
his fingertips leaving flares of heat in their wake, and for a moment Miyuki
can feel the endless heat under his skin drawing tight and hard under his skin.
He’s taking a breath, starting to choke on “Furuya” when the other boy’s touch
goes tight, clenches hard around the base of his cock, and the flood of heat
cuts off abruptly, pounding under his skin until it’s guiding his breathing but
unable to break past the strength of that hold.
Miyuki makes a sound, a protesting wail in his throat broken low and quavering
against the fingers in his mouth. But he can hear the rustle of clothes behind
him over the pulse of his heartbeat in his head, can see Tanba reaching for his
fly before the fingers slide free of his mouth, and he’s opening his mouth,
whining in desperation with total disregard for the scrape at the back of his
throat and the ache in his jaw.
He’s watching Tanba, all his attention focused on the slide of the pitcher’s
clothes as they come open and away from his skin, so when there’s the slip of
heat over his own body he almost startles in surprise. He’s just catching a
breath, the inhale loud with shock, when Furuya lines himself up, shoves
forward hard and fast, and in the first flash of pressure Miyuki’s vision goes
blurred white-blind, his mouth comes open on a moan he can’t control. He can
feel his blood pounding in his head, his pulse firing fast against his neck,
and he’s not sure for a moment that the pressure against the base of his cock
will be enough to hold off the pleasure burning insistent in his veins. He’s
still caught in the limbo of uncertainty when a smaller hand closes on his
shoulder, guides him upright over his knees, and then it’s Furuya who is
holding him in place, tipping him back so Miyuki can drop his head back against
the pitcher’s shoulder to bare his throat like an offering.
“He’s sticky,” Furuya comments, but he’s rocking his hips up, shoving himself
in deeper, and Miyuki doesn’t try to speak, doesn’t even bother with breathing
normally. It’s easier to spread his legs wider, to angle for traction on the
floor so he can slide against Furuya. Tanba is stepping in closer, reaching out
to touch the top of Miyuki’s head to brace him, and Kawakami’s fingers are
against his shoulder, stroking gentle across his skin.
“Wait,” Tanba says, so much command under the word that Miyuki lifts his chin,
blinks his eyes back into focus so he can see Sawamura dropping to a knee,
looking down while he fumbles his jeans open. Furuya is still holding onto him,
keeping the pressure sharp and nearly painful to hold off the flood of orgasm,
but Miyuki can still feel the wave of anticipation run through his whole body,
tremble into his fingers while he reaches up to grab at Kawakami’s hip to hold
himself in place. Furuya’s not moving anymore, not thrusting beyond the first
hot pressure of his cock inside the catcher, but Sawamura is, he’s stripping
his jeans off entirely and scrambling forward across the floor so he can reach
out to touch Miyuki’s leg and push his thigh up an inch.
“Are you sure?” Sawamura asks, glancing up at Tanba, but Miyuki is groaning
encouragement over whatever the other pitcher is saying, rocking forward so he
can feel the press of Furuya inside him. Sawamura’s gaze drops to Furuya over
Miyuki’s shoulder, then to Miyuki’s face, and Miyuki can see the hesitation in
his eyes flare out into heat at whatever he sees in the catcher’s face.
Kawakami’s touch at his shoulder goes bracing, Furuya adjusts his grip, and
Sawamura pushes his leg up higher before he shifts in the last inch and bumps
his cock against the base of Furuya’s.
It takes a moment of maneuvering -- the angle is odd, Sawamura is too far back
and has to press in right against the flushed heat of Miyuki’s chest before he
can find the right angle. But then he’s sliding inside, Miyuki’s stretching
around Sawamura’s cock together with Furuya’s, and in the first moment before
Miyuki learns how to breathe around the pressure Tanba tips his chin sideways
and presses his length hard against the catcher’s mouth. Miyuki parts his lips,
more in an attempt to breathe than deliberate invitation, and then Tanba’s
sliding over his tongue, the heat of his cock flushing against Miyuki’s swollen
lips. Sawamura is shoving up, deeper than Miyuki is expecting, and Furuya’s
rocking forward to grind himself between Miyuki and Sawamura at once. Miyuki
reaches up blind, fumbles against denim and warm skin before Kawakami closes
his fingers on his wrist and drags his hand into place against the other boy’s
length. Miyuki can’t see what he’s doing, has no idea if he’s offering any
technique or rhythm or intention, even, but he’s really not certain he’s
getting enough air and he can’t stop shaking and he can feel the pressure
against his fingers and over his tongue and shoving up into him stretched taut
all through his body, forcing him impossibly close to the edge he can’t cross
over with Furuya’s fingers locked around him.
His head tips back, sharp and so sudden it takes Miyuki a moment to realize
Tanba is dragging his head back by his hair. He opens his eyes, stares up
uncomprehending at the pitcher’s face, but Tanba’s looking over his shoulder,
meeting what must be Furuya’s gaze. Miyuki can see his nod, the permission in
the gesture, is just starting to fumble for comprehension when the tension of
Furuya’s fingers goes slack, when the grip against his cock suddenly turns into
a stroking pull. Miyuki’s vision goes white, his throat closes around a wailing
groan as his fingers jerk hard over Kawakami’s length. It takes a second for
the relief to even turn into pleasure; for the first moment it’s just shaking,
convulsions so strong Miyuki is distantly afraid he really is going to pass
out. Furuya huffs an exhale against his shoulder, Miyuki can feel the rush of
heat inside him as the other boy comes, but he’s still shaking, still spilling
over Furuya’s fingers and the edge of Sawamura’s shirt and moaning helplessly
around Tanba’s cock.
Tanba gives him a minute, waits until the worst of the tremors have faded into
limp aftershocks before he starts moving again. Sawamura has his forehead
pressed against Miyuki’s shoulder, is still rocking up hard enough that Miyuki
isn’t even distantly surprised when he groans, when his thrusts stall into
jerky half-motions as he topples over the edge. With the haze of pleasure over
him its easier for Miyuki to focus on the stroke of his fingers, the twist of
his wrist until Kawakami jerks under his touch and spills over Miyuki’s
shoulder and collarbone. Then it’s just Tanba, still gently thrusting forward
against Miyuki’s mouth, and that’s easy enough. Miyuki lets Kawakami go,
reaches out to hold Tanba’s hips steady, and when he tips his head back to let
the pitcher slide a half-inch down his throat it’s enough. Tanba’s tense hold
goes loose and satisfied, there’s the burn of bitter salt down Miyuki’s throat,
and Miyuki shuts his eyes, lets his mouth twist around a smile even before
Tanba has pulled free of the friction of his lips.
He’s still shaking as Furuya eases free of him, has to brace himself on
Sawamura’s shoulders while the other boy pulls out as well. It’s only
Kawakami’s hand still bracing his shoulder that lets him slide to the floor
instead of falling, that saves him from a bruise at his hip and elbow and
shoulder. Miyuki doesn’t care. His head is spinning, exhaustion finally coming
to drag him down into unconsciousness with no concern for the mess coating his
skin sticky. He takes a breath, long and slow and satisfied, and he’s smiling
as he goes limp and heavy against the floor.
  Works inspired by this one
      [podfic]_Determined by Kess
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!
