◆ MDNI | men whimpering in 4k
you’re not stupid. you know exactly what suguru is doing.
the first time, he does it so carelessly that you persuade yourself it's nothing at all. he’s carrying heavy grocery bags into the kitchen, veins bulging on his thick forearms that are currently straining against the plastic handles, and then, right as he passes your chair: “nnnhh—ahhh, fuck.”
it’s a soft, breathy purr, like he just couldn’t hold it back. you seize up, surprise and confusion hitting you at the same time as your face heats instantly. and he has the nerve to peek at you over his shoulder, mauve eyes wide and feigning surprise. “ah, sorry 'bout that. heavy bags.”
then there’s the mornings. he wakes up unrushed and lifts his arms above his head with a sluggish yawn, his back arching into a curve that hoists his shirt up ever so slightly, making him utter the most sinful sound has ever graced the earth.
“mmhh—ohhh god… yeahhhh.” and he does it without an ounce of shame too, as if a porn soundtrack in your bedroom at 8 a.m. is nothing extraordinary.
you choke on your breathe, clutching to the blankets a little too hard. when you glare at him, he only shushes you with a patronizing little tsk from across the pillows, cutting off your irritation before it can even start. “what? felt good to stretch. can't blame a guy.”
after that, it’s constant. sighs that sound just a little too much like wet moans, throaty hums when he pulls his raven hair loose from its man bun, even a breathless "ahhh—fuck” when he drops his bulky build onto the couch. each and every little sound is intentional and well-calculated. you can’t prove it, but god—he knows exactly what he’s doing.
the worst, though, is when you’re massaging his shoulders after a tiring day spent battling with curses. he’s sitting on the floor between your legs, head slumped forward to expose the long line of his neck, letting you release the thick knots in his back.
“oh-ohhh fuck, yes. right there—god, you are so good with your hands.” he drags the words out like they belong in a private bedroom, pitching into a whinier, petulant cadence which makes your pulse spike immediately.
you pause, your fingers paralyzed. “suguru. stop.” he turns his head for you to observe his lazy smile, his bottom lip jutting out just the tiniest bit in a petty pout. “whattt? i’m talking to them, not you. your hands just have a mind of their own, baby.”
you press harder into the muscle, trying to punish the smugness out of him, but the heel of your hand just forces another whimper out. “ahhh, mhhnn—yes, baby, harder... right there—”
“you're—you're doing that on purpose!”
“doing what?” he cranes his neck to look at you, eyes all wide innocence while he fights to maintain a solemn facade. “i can’t control how good it feels, no?"
his head tilts back into your lap, chasing the press of your thumbs like a curious puppy begging for attention; a satisfied, wet hum spilling from his throat.
“mnhm… don’t stop. they’re the only ones who are ever nice to me after a long day.”
his weight leans more densely into your hands, forcing your thighs to squeeze together to steady him, and that’s when you notice the tiny tilt of his hips. the thin cotton of his grey sweatpants is tenting just slightly, flimsy fabric straining with the pulsing outline of his cock. every touch of your fingers drags the material tighter, causing a dark patch to bleed across the cloth.
“you’re absolutely disgusting.” though, your voice lost all of it's footing already.
suguru lets out a throaty laugh at that as if it's the most funny thing he'd ever heard today, foxy eyes crinkling even further with humour. “am i, really? or are you just finally noticing?”
as though to back up his claim, suguru junior twitches violently beneath the thin cotton, a long ridge pressing boldly against his right thigh, to be exact. he tips his head all the way back, presenting you the elation of the smirk actively feeding his handsome face.
“hey now, don't interrupt my excellent time with your hands. i still wanna see what other things they can do."