“Hey, ‘Hiro,” says Iwaizumi, walking into the club room, “I brought you some creamp— “ He’s abruptly cut off when Hanamaki slams into him and nearly tackles him into the ground, hugging him quickly before snatching away the bag of pastries.
“Aww, Hajime, you shouldn’t’ve,” Hanamaki coos, already digging through the bag.
“Good, I won’t buy you food ever again.”
“Heeeey, come on, I was joking!” he whines. “But seriously, thanks for doing this for me.” He smiles genuinely, and Iwaizumi’s heart just melts.
Oh my god, I am so gay.
Any thoughts of endearment towards his boyfriend vanish when Hanamaki takes a bite of one of the creampuffs and lets out a lewd, drawn-out moan. “This is so good, holy shit,” he sighs happily. Iwaizumi’s face heats up.
“Don’t ever make that sound again,” he orders, trying to hold back a blush.
“That’s not what you said last ni—mmphf!” Hanamaki spits the towel his boyfriend had so graciously shoved in his mouth, glaring at him as Matsukawa and Oikawa burst into a fit of snickering. “Hey, I speak only the truth.”
“Iwa-chan, do you have a voice kink?” asks Oikawa, grinning impishly. Iwaizumi debates murdering his best friend on the spot.
“I don't,” he huffs, even more embarrassed.
“I think he does,” teases Matsukawa. “I guess we’ll have to find out…Makki?”
“Ooooh~, creampuff-daddy, fuck me,” Hanamaki moans on cue. Iwaizumi turns beet red.
“Ohhh, you’re so good, daddy, you feel so good inside of me~.”
“Oh my god, noooo,” groans Iwaizumi. Matsukawa and Oikawa are laughing so hard they can barely breathe.
Kindaichi approaches the club room’s door.
“Spank me, daddy!”
Kindaichi walks away from the club room’s door, traumatized for life.
Iwaizumi curls up into a ball, all basic functions of life forgotten in his embarrassment. There’s no way he’s going to leave the club room in his current state of mind. Tears are streaking down Oikawa’s face. Matsukawa isn’t making any sound, reduced to wheezing and gasping for breath.
“Aaah~! I’m going c—“ The door is slammed open, and Kunimi stalks in, looking absolutely livid.
“Why. Is. Kindaichi. Crying?”
The four third years, as if they were telepathically connected, all think the same thing at the same time: