It's hard not to notice how Iwaizumi gets flustered when Mattsun brings up cock warming. You have to know what he's thinking about.
HAJIME IWAIZUMI X FEM!READER | roommates to lovers, smut (mdni), cock warming, fingering, piv, light choking, creampie, praise, casual hookups, 3.8k words. | Read on A03.
"Have you ever tried it?"
Iwaizumi glances up. You're lounging on the couch, wearing your favourite sleep set. The one he secretly hates, because the straps have a tendency to slide off your shoulders when you're unaware.
"Tried what?"
Your lips curl into a grin. Mattsun and Makki left less than ten minutes ago, and you're already smiling like you're up to no good. Sometimes Iwaizumi secretly wishes you had a third roommate. Maybe that would create some needed space, maybe it could soothe some of the electric tension between you. He's not sure he understands the inexplicable change between you that's been growing these last couple of months, but he doesn't want to ruin your friendship.
And at the end of the day, he knows he doesn't actually want a third roommate. He likes that he's the one who gets to see you sleepy and slow in the morning, cranky in the evening. That he gets to cook you meals when you're too tired to do it yourself. He doesn't want to share any of it.
"You know," you say, grin turning wicked. Iwaizumi rakes his brain, trying to figure out what you're talking about. He runs through the things you talked about, Mattsun and the funeral home, Makki being unemployed and broke, Oikawa's game last week, something about your shitty ex-boyfriend—
Oh.
The new girl Mattsun has been hooking up with.
"Cock warming," you say, giggling. Like you're reading his mind, realising exactly what he's thinking right now. He knows you saw. Saw the way his cheeks grew flushed at the conversation. Saw the way he avoided eye contact, while Makki was too distracted with teasing Mattsun.
"There's no way it can be that good," he'd said. Mattsun had leaned back against the couch and smiled lazily, the way he always does, the way Iwaizumi knows makes girls fawn over him.
Iwaizumi hadn't added anything to the conversation, hoping to stay clear of any suspicion. Apparently, that wasn't enough, because when he'd looked at you, you were already looking back. Smiling, in that way that meant your mind was going a thousand miles per hour. Planning. Scheming.
Your tiny tank top slipping off your shoulder all the while.
"Hajiii," you sing-song. His eyes dart towards his bedroom, hoping to escape, and you notice, your eyes narrowing at him. "C'mere,"
You pat the spot next to you on the couch as you sit up. He obliges, because what else can he do? When you're sitting there, hair slightly dishevelled from when Makki ruffled it on his way out, looking so, so sweet.
"Wanna try it?"
Your voice is syrupy sweet, dripping honey and temptation. You're halfway crawling into his lap, one of your hands placed on his thigh. Iwaizumi swallows.
"We shouldn't," he says, and it makes you pout, pushing further. You lean in, and he can smell your perfume now, something sweet and flowery.
You're always flirting with him, but this. This is something different, something heavier. There's no deniable plausibility here, no light teasing.
Iwaizumi will admit that he's always secretly basked in the affection you'd reward him. He's used to girls fawning over Oikawa, or making out with Mattsun at parties, or going on dates with Makki. But you. You've always danced around him, making him feel special. Lightheaded.
"Hajime," you pout, drawing him out of his thoughts. "Why not?"
He swallows again, throat feeling dry. Why not?
You're fully straddling him now, sinking into his lap.
Why not?
Wrapping your arms around your neck, you're looking down at him, still smiling.
"Have you ever tried it?" you whisper, while you play with the hairs at the back of his neck. Poor Iwaizumi has to hold back a groan as he closes his eyes.
"No."
"Do you wanna?"
You know you're being bold. But you've been holding back for so long. Who can blame you for finally breaking when you've been watching him squirm around all night?
"It could be fun. We could put on a movie or something," you say, and you grind your hips into his experimentally. Your grin widens when you feel that he's already half hard. His hands fly to your hips, holding you still as he takes a deep breath.
You can see the turmoil in his brown eyes, feel the storm rising in him.
"Okay," he says, releasing your hips.
The look on your face is victorious, and you move your hands down, squeezing his shoulders in excitement.
"I pick the movie," he manages to bite out, and you nod eagerly, hands flying down to the waistband of his shorts.
"Sure, Haji, whatever you want," you murmur, focused on the new objective at hand. Iwaizumi grabs your hands, placing them behind your back. You look down at him, frowning. Finally gaining some footing, Iwaizumi tuts at you, shaking his head.
"Let me pick a movie first," he murmurs. He keeps your hands where they are, with one big hand on your wrists, while he leans over you, grabbing the TV remote off the coffee table. He leans back on the couch again, casually opening Netflix. You stare, dumbly, waiting for the next instruction.
The thing you've always liked about Iwaizumi is that he doesn't let you get away with any of your antics. With Oikawa, it's a constant game of who'll back down first, of who can get away with the most. Mattsun is largely unaffected apart from the times when he'll tag along to help you torment the others. Makki is so easy to tease that it's not even funny.
When it comes to Iwaizumi, he's steady. It's always annoyed you a bit. When he's with Oikawa, it's like it's second nature for him to get riled up. But as soon as it comes to you, he's like a rock. He never lets your antics reach him. Not even the outrageous sleep sets you'll wear or the innocent cuddling when you're having sleepovers.
It's fun.
But now that he's finally given in, you don't know what to do.
"Go grab your blanket," Iwaizumi murmurs into your ear. It takes a few seconds before you spring into action, shuffling towards your bedroom. You quickly grab it, before checking yourself in your mirror before you head back to the living room.
Your face feels hot, and you fix your hair.
This is Hajime. Your Hajime. The guy you've known since you were fifteen, the guy who used to buy you sodas from the vending machine before class and save you from Oikawa's relentless teasing all the time. The guy you moved in with three years ago when you moved to Tokyo.
Because it's cheaper. And easier. And it's nice to have a friend in the apartment, to rant to and cook dinner with.
The guy you've been flirting with for as long as you can remember. Under the guise that it's friendly. And fun. And that there's definitely nothing more to it.
"Did you fall in there?"
"No!"
You pad back into the living room, blanket wrapped around you. Iwaizumi has already picked a movie. You think it's a comedy, judging by the look of it. He raises a brow at you, and you smile as you make your way back to the couch.
"Hi," you say, and he smiles back, patting his thigh.
"C'mere," he says, echoing your own words from earlier, and you oblige instantly, this time settling with your back against his chest. He lets you get comfortable, and you pull the blanket over you. The movie is already starting, but you're not paying attention.
Not when Iwaizumi smells so good.
"Why are you so nervous all of a sudden?" he asks, and one of his hands finds your hip underneath the blanket, making soothing circles with his thumb.
"I'm not nervous," you protest, and you feel him chuckle beneath you, clearly not believing you.
"Right."
A beat.
"We don't have to do this if you don't want to."
He's giving you an out. A last chance to take it back, to not change your friendship into whatever this is. But even then, you know this has been a long time coming. You'd be an idiot to try to stop it.
"No, I want to," you say.
"We can just watch the movie."
"Hajime."
There's a warning in your tone, telling him not to worry anymore. You feel him relaxing, finally, and he grunts, settling into the couch at last. His hand not on your hip roams your side, before he settles on your tit, squeezing your soft skin.
"Okay, baby."
He flicks your nipple through the fabric of your top, and you gasp, squirming. You feel the bulge beneath your ass, and it makes you a little dizzy to know you have this effect on him.
You try to focus on the movie. A girl is screaming at her roommate, throwing things at her. There's a weird-looking dog. Iwaizumi's hand on your hip dips underneath the waistband of your shorts.
"Proper stretching is important," he says, cupping your pussy over your panties. "To prevent injury."
It makes you giggle, the way he speaks like you're one of his athletes. He keeps playing with your nipple while he thumbs your clit with his other hand, applying dull stimulation. You gasp softly, spreading your legs to give him more access.
You don't need to look behind you to know he's smiling. Especially when he dips his fingers into your underwear, stroking your folds and finding you soaking already. He spreads your arousal over your folds, still not giving you any real relief.
The roommates are in their principal's office. She's telling some other story, something about a real nightmare roomie.
"Did you seriously pick a movie about bad roommates?" you ask, and Iwaizumi presses his lips to your throat, planting a wet kiss there.
"It seemed appropriate."
"Excuse me, I am not a bad room— Oh,"
You're interrupted when he presses a finger inside you, testing the waters. When you melt into his embrace, he adds another finger, slowly working you open. It's easy when you're already so aroused, feeling like you've been ready ever since you saw his reaction to your friends discussing cock warming hours ago.
"You sure?"
"Uh-huh," you answer, too distracted to form proper words. He curls his fingers, and your mouth falls open in a quiet moan.
"Not even when you wear these shirts," He pulls your shirt down, as if making a point, exposing your tits to the cold air of your living room. "Constantly one bad move away from flashing me?"
"I'd say that's just philanthropy,"
He laughs, surprised. Moving your hair to the side, he kisses your throat again.
The main character in the movie is at a summer camp now. Desperately trying to make friends and failing.
Iwaizumi adds a third finger, and you squirm, getting used to the pressure. He palms your clit to help you, and you bite your lip. Even through your shorts and the blanket, you can hear the sounds of how wet you are, as he keeps a steady pace.
"Hajime," you gasp, feeling your orgasm already building. Iwaizumi seems to feel it too, with the way your warm walls flutter around his fingers. He removes his fingers from your pussy, bringing them to his mouth and tasting. He hums at the taste.
You watch over your shoulder, mouth agape. He grins, though his cheeks are flushed, betraying his otherwise calm demeanour. He plays with the waistband of your shorts.
"Take these off."
With his help, you shimmy off both your shorts and underwear, leaving you wearing nothing but a tank top and your fuzzy socks. Iwaizumi guides you forward with a hand on your back, so he can pull his cock out of his pants with the other.
You go to look over your shoulder, wanting to see, but he grabs your chin and points you towards the TV instead. The girl in the movie has made a friend now, and they're rooming together.
You hear the slick sounds of him stroking his cock, and then he taps your ass. With a pout, you straddle his legs properly and sit up so he can position himself at your entrance.
He slowly guides you back on his cock, and you whine at the stretch, still watching the movie, despite being unsure what the plot even is. The girl is angry because her roomie is messy, you're pretty sure. Your vision swims, and you find it hard to focus on anything at all.
"Ease up, baby," Iwaizumi bites out, and you try your best to relax as you sink down further.
Iwaizumi is big. Big and thick, and when your ass finally meets the back of his thighs again, it feels like he's in your throat. He makes you lean back, and you whimper, squeezing your eyes shut. He holds you tight by your hips, keeping your squirming to a minimum as you get used to the intrusion.
Finally, you feel like your pussy is getting used to the fullness, and you relax slightly, leaning entirely on his chest. He rubs soothing circles in your hips, resting his head on your shoulder.
"Good girl,"
He laughs when you clench, as he wraps his arms around you. You feel dizzy, warm all over. A light sweat is starting to form on your forehead, and you grip his arm.
The girls in the movie are at a party, all of them wearing a white top and a pair of jeans. Iwaizumi laughs into your ear, deep and warm.
"They look just like one of Mattsun's girlfriends," he states, and you slap his arm.
"Don't talk about Mattsun's girls when your dick is inside of me," you bite back, and he presses down on your stomach in response, making you moan out.
"You have Mattsun's girl to thank for this, don't you?" he teases, and you roll your eyes. When you don't say anything back, he hums, and you both settle into a comfortable silence.
It lasts about five minutes.
The main character is talking a guy, who you think might be her love interest, in a kitchen.
You can't focus.
It's too hard. It feels like all of your nerve endings are on fire, your pussy growing more and more sensitive with each agonising minute that passes.
You want him to move. To fuck you.
Iwaizumi has the patience of a saint. Maybe it's from the years of diligent volleyball practice every day after school, maybe it's from constantly keeping your three other best friends behaviour in check.
Whatever it is, it's certainly going to be your downfall.
He keeps you still in his lap, the only torturous friction you get being when he laughs at the movie. The movie that's really not that funny.
"Haji," you ask, with trembling lips.
When he doesn't reply, you squirm. That makes him take a deep breath, and he squeezes you in warning when you clench down on him.
"It's too much," you complain. Your mind is swimming, eyes going glassy. The only thing you can think about is getting fucked.
Preferably hard.
"You're being so good," he replies. He rocks into you slightly, making you whine. "You can keep being nice for me, right?"
"No," you say, shaking your head.
"This was your idea." Iwaizumi chuckles. His breath feels hot on your throat, only making your mind even fuzzier.
"I changed my mind."
"We can stop if you want to."
The hands on your hips start to push you away.
"No, please, no, no, no,—" you panic, digging your hands into his thighs as you lean back in his lap. The slight friction makes you moan, squeezing your eyes shut.
"But you changed your mind?" he asks. His voice is teasing, but there's a slight strain there.
Looking over your shoulder, you meet his gaze, batting your eyelashes the way that always works with Makki when you want to steal his snacks. Iwaizumi smiles, taking in the pout on your lips, the pretty way your brows furrow.
You look so cute.
So cute, he wants to squeeze you.
"Hajime,"
There's a lilt to your voice, a saccharine sweetness. The one Iwaizumi has always had a weakness for, even if you don't notice it yourself.
"Yeah?" he breathes. He nods, and you nod along, mirroring him.
"We could do something else instead," you say. He feels you clench down again. Your pussy is so hot and wet, it makes him groan. He thinks he'd do anything you asked of him right now.
The movie is long forgotten now. You're unsure if the roommates are still even friends at this point.
"What do you wanna do?" he asks, and when you lean down to kiss him, he moans, leaning into the kiss. He grabs your chin, angling you so he can kiss you better, moaning into your mouth.
The angle is slightly uncomfortable, and you pull away with a pout, like it's somehow Iwaizumi's fault. He groans, head falling back, when you sit up, his cock leaving your warmth with a slick sound.
You turn around so you're facing him, promptly sitting down in his lap again. It makes you both moan again when he reenters your slick heat. You run your fingers through his hair, tugging on the short locks.
"How are you gonna watch the movie now?" Iwaizumi smiles, taking you in. He must admit, it's better this way. When he can see your every expression, the way you're panting slightly. His gaze drops down to where you're connected. The sight makes his jaw slack, and he can't help but bring his thumb down to your clit, circling the bud slowly.
"I'm watching something more fun."
Your voice is whiny, but you're smiling. You grind your hips into his hand, and he feels you clench when the tip of his cock hits somewhere deep inside you.
"Is that so?"
"You're very handsome, Hajime,"
"That might be the nicest thing you've ever said to me," Iwaizumi says, breathless. You're gathering speed now, but you're still just grinding against him. It's a sweet kinda torture, the way he can feel your pussy pulsing around him, yet you're barely moving.
"That's not true," you object. You kiss him again, only a peck, letting him chase you. "I tell you nice things all the time."
"You question my patience all the time," he responds. He tangles his hand in your hair, holding you still as he ghosts his lips over yours. Your breaths mingle, and you moan into his mouth.
"Like right now, you mean?" you ask, and he nods, before he kisses you again. Firmly.
It's nice. It's nice to run your fingers through his hair and hear his little groans when you tuck hard enough. It's nice how warm and big his hand is on the back of your head. It's nice to feel the firm and steady pulse of his cock inside of you, lighting up all your sensitive nerve endings.
Iwaizumi is nice.
He's more than nice, but your head feels empty, unable to find another word, filled with nothing but the feeling of Iwaizumi's tongue against your own, as he kisses you silly.
"Fuck me, Haji," you whisper when he pulls away for air, and he chuckles, shaking his head.
"You're the one who wanted to change activities," he replies. "You do it,"
He leans back and pats your thighs. You glare.
"I'm the one who suggested movie night in the first place."
Iwaizumi raises a brow at you.
"Movie night?" he teases. You nod, attempting to be the picture perfect of innocence. "This is your version of movie night?"
He motions to where he's still buried inside of you. Where you're dripping, staining his joggers. Hopefully, you haven't stained the couch. Yet.
"Yes."
"Well, I picked the movie. So it's your turn to pick something now"
Something akin to determination washes over your expression. You put your hands on his chest, and slowly you start going up and down. You moan in unison, and your brow pinches as you start to ride him.
The slick sound fills your living room, and you pant, your thighs already beginning to burn. Iwaizumi notices. Because of course he does.
"Your form is—"
"Do not comment on my form," you cut him off, digging your nails into his chest.
"I was gonna tell you it's good." His eyes drop down to your tits, and the smug look on his face is worse than any comment. It only fuels your fire. You ignore the ache, doubling down as you start to ride him harder. You move your hands up, wrapping them around his neck. You don't press, just keep them there, and his jaw falls slack, eyes going lidded.
"Fuck," he says, nodding. He puts his hand over one of yours, and he moans when you press down lightly on his throat. You feel him twitch inside you, and it makes you smile.
"Haji, you gonna come, ah, just from me choking you?" you tease and, he laughs, voice soft, like he's out of breath.
"I'm gonna come from how good you look bouncing on my cock like that," he replies, without missing a beat, and the admission makes you falter. He whines when your knee slips, and before you can think, his hands are on your hips, guiding you up and down.
He does it like it's nothing, muscles tensing deliciously with each push and pull. You collapse onto his chest, moving your hands to his shoulders. He doesn't seem to take notice, too focused on the way you're clenching around his cock.
It doesn't take long for you to feel your orgasm start to build like that, not when he's hitting all the right spots, while telling you how pretty you look taking him. You barely get to warn him before it creeps up on you, making your toes curl as warm pleasure burns through you.
He moans, voice turning pitchy as he follows right after you, pulling you flush against him as he finishes inside, filling your cunt to the brim. It makes you whimper, and you rest your head on his chest. Your eyelids feel heavy as you both take a few minutes to collect yourselves. You listen to the way Iwaizumi's heartbeat slows as he comes down.
He runs his hands up and down your back, occasionally pressing into sore spots.
"You have a muscle knot here," he eventually says, pressing into a spot right between your shoulder blades. You yelp, twitching in his lap. Cum spills out from your sore pussy, dripping down his balls. "Are you doing the exercises I taught you?"
"Hajime!" you scold, getting off his lap. You grab your panties from somewhere on the floor, putting them on and stomping towards your room. Iwaizumi watches the way the insides of your thighs glisten with his cum.
"I was just asking," he says, putting his still half-hard cock back in his pants as he follows you. "Also, you should really go pee—"
synopsis ➸ some people say childhood friendships never last—but they're wrong about you and hajime. though twenty years of friendship doesn't prepare you for what happens when you finally see him as more than the boy who grew up next door
tags ➸ childhood friends to lovers, roommates to lovers, strong sexual tension, fingering, nipple play, oral sex (mentioned), size kink, praise kink, dirty talk, unprotected sex, creampie, voyeurism (sorta), getting caught, grinding, manhandling, implied exhibitionism, multiple orgasms, massage leads to more
wc ➸ 15.5k
Some people say childhood friendships never last—that they're as fragile as the paper airplanes you used to launch from the second-story window of Iwaizumi's bedroom, soaring briefly before crashing into the unforgiving earth below. But they're wrong. At least they were wrong about the three of you. You, Hajime, and Tooru had been constants in each other's lives since before conscious memory formed, your existences so thoroughly intertwined that sometimes you couldn't remember where your personality ended and theirs began. Your mothers still liked to tell the story of how three-year-old Hajime had stubbornly planted himself between you and a neighborhood dog that had wandered too close, his small fists clenched and ready to defend you despite his own obvious fear. Or how Tooru had wailed inconsolably when your family considered moving to Tokyo for your father's job when you were seven, staging a one-child protest on your front lawn until his mother dragged him home, embarrassed but secretly understanding. The move never happened, and sometimes in your darkest moments, you wondered how different life would have been if it had—if you'd never grown up witnessing Hajime's quiet evolution from the soft-spoken boy with perpetually dirt-stained knees to the powerhouse ace who could silence a gymnasium with a single spike.
People always assumed Tooru was the glue that held your trio together—charismatic, beautiful Tooru with his perfect smile and carefully crafted persona. But you knew better. It was Hajime who anchored you both, his unwavering reliability providing the foundation upon which your friendship was built. When Tooru pushed himself too far during practice, it was Hajime who forcibly dragged him home, his hand rough on the back of Tooru's neck but his eyes betraying genuine concern. When you struggled through advanced mathematics in your third year, staying up until your vision blurred and your fingers cramped around your pencil, it was Hajime who appeared at your window at midnight with energy drinks and his meticulously organized notes, refusing to leave until the equations made sense. "I'm not doing this for you," he'd grumble, but the lie was transparent. He had always been a terrible liar.
The three of you had created your own language over the years—a complex system of inside jokes, half-finished sentences, and meaningful glances that outsiders could never hope to decipher. You could communicate volumes with just the quirk of an eyebrow or the set of your shoulders. You knew exactly which smile of Tooru's was genuine and which was manufactured for his fangirls. Hajime could tell when your laughter was forced, calling you out with a simple, "Cut the crap," that somehow never felt harsh coming from him. And both you and Hajime had become experts at reading the subtle signs of Tooru's insecurity—the infinitesimal tightening around his eyes, the way his fingers would twist just a little too hard in the hem of his shirt. In those moments, you'd exchange a glance with Hajime, an entire conversation happening in seconds: Your turn or mine? He needs us. Again.
High school slipped away like sand through fingers, impossible to grasp no matter how tightly you clenched your fist around the memories. The inevitability of separation loomed like a thundercloud on the horizon, impossible to ignore but easy to pretend wasn't there—until graduation day arrived with its brutal finality. Tooru was Argentina-bound, his talent too immense for Japan to contain. Hajime had chosen Tokyo for sports medicine, his practical nature guiding him toward a future that would keep him connected to the sport even after his body could no longer withstand the punishing demands of competitive play. And you—well, you'd applied to universities in Tokyo almost as an afterthought, your real motivation transparent to anyone who knew you well enough. Where Hajime went, you followed. It had always been that way, even when Tooru was there to complete your triangle.
The night before Tooru's departure had been uncharacteristically subdued. No dramatic declarations, no forced cheerfulness. Just the three of you sprawled across the floor of his half-packed bedroom, surrounded by the artifacts of a childhood about to be left behind. Tooru's eyes had been red-rimmed, though he'd deny crying if confronted. Hajime had been quieter than usual, his normally expressive face carefully blank as he absently tossed a volleyball from hand to hand. You'd lain between them, your head on Hajime's thigh, your feet in Tooru's lap, feeling the physical connection between the three of you like a living thing, already grieving its imminent loss.
Tokyo welcomed you and Hajime with indifferent arms, the city too vast and impersonal to care about two more people from the countryside. Your apartment was cramped and overpriced, a fifth-floor walk-up with temperamental plumbing and walls thin enough to hear your neighbors' most intimate moments. But it was yours—yours and Hajime's—and there was something thrilling about that possession, about building something that belonged just to the two of you. No parents, no Tooru, no history except what you carried with you.
The first few weeks had been a chaotic blur of unpacking, getting lost on subway lines, discovering which convenience store had the best onigiri, and learning to navigate the strange new terrain of living with Hajime without the buffer of Tooru between you. You'd seen glimpses of this Hajime before—the one who existed when Tooru wasn't around to command attention—but never for extended periods. Never with this raw, unfiltered intimacy that came from sharing a bathroom sink and seeing each other first thing in the morning, bleary-eyed and defenseless.
Hajime in private was both exactly who you'd always known and someone entirely new. The gruffness remained, but without Tooru to focus it on, it softened around the edges. He still exercised with religious dedication, but now you witnessed the full extent of his routine—the way sweat gleamed on his skin as he did push-ups in the living room, his t-shirt clinging to the muscles of his back, the controlled rhythm of his breathing as he counted reps under his breath. You found yourself watching him more often than you'd care to admit, cataloging the details you'd somehow missed despite years of friendship: the small scar at the corner of his jaw from a childhood biking accident, the way one eyebrow lifted slightly higher than the other when he was skeptical, how his hands—always so capable and strong—could be surprisingly gentle when he absentmindedly massaged your shoulders after you'd been hunched over textbooks for too long.
Tooru's absence was strange and disorienting, like losing a limb. The phantom pain of missing his dramatic entrances, his ridiculous poses, his ability to fill a room with his presence alone. Video calls helped, but they were a pale imitation of having him physically present, his voice tinny through speakers, his image frozen by bad connections at the most inopportune moments. Still, there was comfort in seeing his face, in watching him gesticulate wildly as he described his new teammates, his new apartment, his new life that was happening without you. Sometimes you'd catch a shadow crossing his features when you mentioned something you and Hajime had done together, a flicker of something like loneliness before his practiced smile slid back into place. Those moments cut deep, made you question whether you'd made the right choice following Hajime instead of Tooru.
But then Hajime would do something—drop a cup of tea beside you while you studied, press his shoulder against yours during a crowded subway ride, fall asleep on the couch with his head tilted toward your bedroom as if even unconscious he was attuned to your presence—and the doubt would dissolve. There was an easiness between you now, a comfortable silence that had never been possible with Tooru around to fill every quiet moment with chatter. You learned that Hajime hummed tunelessly while cooking, that he folded his laundry with military precision, that he secretly read historical fiction before bed. He discovered your habit of talking to yourself when concentrating, your collection of ridiculous socks, your inability to remember to buy toilet paper despite multiple reminders.
The physical awareness of him grew by imperceptible degrees, like water slowly rising in a basin. You noticed things you'd never allowed yourself to notice before—the breadth of his shoulders under thin cotton t-shirts, the tanned column of his throat when he tilted his head back to drink, the way his hair fell across his forehead when freshly washed. His presence in a room changed the very air, charged it with something you couldn't name but could feel in the pit of your stomach, in the suddenly rapid beat of your heart.
Sometimes you'd catch him looking at you with an expression you didn't recognize, his eyes dark and unreadable. It would last only a second before he'd turn away, jaw tight, shoulders tense. In those moments, uncertainty would creep in, cold fingers of doubt trailing along your spine. Had you done something wrong? Was he regretting the decision to live together? Did he wish he'd chosen a different roommate, one who didn't leave hair in the shower drain and forget to buy groceries when it was their turn?
Then came the night that changed everything—though perhaps change isn't the right word. Perhaps it was more of an awakening, a sudden violent clarity washing over you like ice water, forcing you to see what had been right in front of you all along.
It was a Thursday evening in late October, the kind where autumn's chill had finally committed to its descent, no longer teasing with occasional warm afternoons but settling into the city with grim determination. Rain had been falling steadily since morning, not the dramatic downpour that would give you an excuse to call off plans, but the persistent, monotonous kind that soaked through layers regardless of umbrellas or hoods. You'd arrived home with damp socks and a foul mood, having stepped in a puddle that went halfway up your calf on the final stretch to your apartment building.
Hajime had beaten you home, evident from his muddy running shoes haphazardly kicked off in the entryway (a habit that normally irked you, but today seemed strangely endearing in its familiarity) and the smell of something savory simmering on the stove. The apartment was warm after the damp chill outside, steam fogging the kitchen window as Hajime stood with his back to you, shoulders broad beneath a worn gray t-shirt, the muscles of his forearms visible as he rolled up his sleeves to wash something in the sink.
"I'm home," you called unnecessarily, dropping your sodden bag on the floor with a wet thud.
He glanced over his shoulder, eyes taking in your bedraggled state with a quick sweep that somehow missed nothing. "You look like shit."
"Charming as always, Hajime," you muttered, but there was no heat in it. This was your rhythm, comfortable and worn like an old sweater.
"Take a hot shower before you catch something. Food'll be ready in twenty." He turned back to whatever he was doing, dismissing you with the easy confidence of someone who knew his suggestions would be heeded.
And they would be, because he was right—you were freezing, your clothes uncomfortably damp and clinging to your skin. But something stubborn in you resisted the immediate compliance, a childish urge to assert some kind of control in a day that had seemed determined to strip it from you at every turn.
"What are you making?" You moved closer instead, peering around his solid frame to see what was in the pot he was stirring. The kitchen was small, barely enough room for two people to move comfortably, and your shoulder brushed against his back as you leaned in.
"Curry. My mom's recipe." A pause, then almost grudgingly: "The one you like."
Something warm unfurled in your chest at that, at the knowledge that he'd chosen to make your favorite comfort food on this miserable day. It was so typically Hajime—gruff words masking thoughtful actions, caring for you in ways so subtle and consistent they were easy to overlook. He'd always been like that, from the time you were children and he'd wordlessly handed you his jacket when you shivered at the summer festival, to now, cooking you dinner after what he'd somehow intuited had been a terrible day.
"Let me help," you said, already reaching for the cabinet where plates were kept.
He made a noncommittal grunt that you interpreted as assent, and for several minutes you worked in companionable silence, moving around each other in the cramped kitchen with the unconscious choreography of people who had shared space for years. You set the table while he finished the curry, occasionally brushing against each other in the confined space—his hand on the small of your back as he reached past you for the rice cooker, your arm grazing his as you grabbed utensils from the drawer. Each point of contact sent a small jolt through your system, like static electricity, there and gone so quickly you barely registered it on a conscious level.
"Can you get the good glasses?" Hajime nodded toward the upper cabinet. "The ones your mom sent."
You moved to comply, stretching up on tiptoes to reach the cabinet above the stove where the nice glassware was kept—a housewarming gift from your mother, who had insisted that proper adults needed proper glasses, not the mismatched collection of promotional cups and chipped mugs you'd accumulated through high school. Your fingertips just grazed the shelf, not quite able to reach.
"Move," Hajime said from behind you, the single word a command rather than a request. Before you could respond, his chest pressed briefly against your back as he reached over you, his body heat seeping through your damp clothes and making you acutely aware of just how cold you'd been. He grabbed two glasses with ease, his height advantage making the task effortless where you had struggled.
As he set them on the counter, one slipped from his grasp—perhaps because of residual soap from washing his hands, or just one of those inexplicable moments of clumsiness that happen to even the most coordinated people. It shattered on the tile floor with a crash that seemed disproportionately loud in the small kitchen, glass fragments exploding outward in a glittering radius that included where you stood in your socked feet.
What happened next occurred so quickly that your brain struggled to process the sequence of events. One moment you were standing there, staring dumbly at the broken glass surrounding your feet; the next, Hajime's hands were on your waist, large and warm and uncompromising as they lifted you bodily off the ground as if you weighed nothing at all. There was a suspended second of weightlessness, of complete surrender to his strength, before he deposited you firmly on the countertop, your legs dangling a safe distance above the hazardous floor.
"Don't move," he ordered, voice dropping to a lower register than you were accustomed to hearing from him, authoritative and unyielding in a way that sent an unexpected shiver racing down your spine. "You'll cut yourself."
And then he was crouching down, carefully gathering the larger shards of glass, his movements precise and methodical. You sat frozen on the countertop, but it wasn't the broken glass that had immobilized you—it was the sudden, visceral awareness of Hajime as a man, not the boy you'd grown up with. The realization crashed over you with such force that it momentarily robbed you of breath, of thought, of any coherent response beyond the thundering of your heart against your ribs.
His hands. God, his hands. How had you never truly seen them before? Large enough to span your waist with ease, strong enough to lift your entire body without apparent effort. The same hands that had patched up your scraped knees as children, that had spiked volleyballs with devastating power in high school, that now moved with careful precision as they collected broken glass. The dichotomy was dizzying—such strength capable of such gentleness, such careful control harnessing such raw power.
And the way he'd lifted you—so effortlessly, so decisively, without hesitation or strain. As if the most natural response to potential danger was to simply remove you from its path, to take control of the situation and your body in one fluid motion. There had been nothing sexual in the gesture, nothing overtly intimate, and yet heat bloomed low in your abdomen, spreading outward until even your fingertips tingled with it.
This was Hajime—your Hajime—who had seen you with chicken pox and braces, who had held your hair back when you vomited after your first ill-advised experiment with alcohol at sixteen, who knew all your embarrassing secrets and childhood fears. And yet suddenly he was also this stranger with broad shoulders and capable hands and a voice that commanded obedience without question. How had you never noticed the way his t-shirt stretched across his chest when he reached up, or how the tendons in his forearms flexed as he worked, or the sheer masculine solidity of him occupying space in your shared kitchen?
"You okay?" His voice cut through your spiraling thoughts, and you realized he was looking up at you from his crouched position, brow furrowed in concern. "You look flushed. Are you getting sick?"
Sick? Yes, perhaps that explained the sudden heat in your cheeks, the difficulty drawing a full breath, the way your entire body seemed to vibrate with a new awareness you couldn't name. Easier to blame it on illness than to confront the truth—that something fundamental had shifted in your perception of the man before you, something that couldn't be undone or ignored.
"I'm fine," you managed, your voice sounding strange to your own ears, higher than usual and slightly breathless. "Just... startled."
He grunted, clearly unconvinced, and went back to cleaning up the glass. You watched him in silence, cataloging details with newfound intensity—the way his hair fell across his forehead as he bent forward, the strong column of his neck disappearing into the collar of his t-shirt, the flex and release of muscles in his shoulders as he moved. How many times had you seen him exactly like this, performing some mundane task in your shared space? And yet now, it was as if you were seeing him through a completely different lens, one that stripped away the comfortable familiarity of your history together and left only this visceral, primal awareness in its place.
Your mother's voice suddenly echoed in your memory, her raised eyebrow and knowing smile when you'd announced your plan to share an apartment with Hajime. "Just the two of you?" she'd asked, a teasing lilt to her voice that had made you roll your eyes at the time. "You know, sweetheart, people change when you live with them. You might see sides of Hajime you've never noticed before."
You'd dismissed her concern with the confident ignorance of someone who believed they knew everything there was to know about their oldest friend. "Mom, it's Hajime. We've been joined at the hip since we were in diapers. There's nothing about him I don't already know."
How spectacularly, catastrophically wrong you had been. Because the Hajime you'd known all your life didn't make your pulse quicken with a single touch. He didn't make you hyperaware of your own body, of the thin fabric of your shirt against suddenly sensitive skin, of the exposure of your bare legs where they dangled from the countertop. He didn't make you wonder, with a kind of reckless curiosity that bordered on desperation, what those hands would feel like on other parts of your body, what that voice would sound like murmuring against your ear, what that strength would be like if it was focused entirely on you in an entirely different context.
Hajime finished gathering the larger pieces of glass and stood, moving to the trash can to dispose of them. "Don't get down yet," he instructed, grabbing the broom from the corner. "I need to sweep to make sure I got all the small pieces."
You nodded mutely, not trusting your voice. There was something almost unbearably intimate about sitting on the counter watching him clean up the mess, something domestic and quotidian that now seemed charged with new significance. This was your life together—broken glasses and curry for dinner and rain pattering against the windows—and yet suddenly it felt like the setting for something much more complex, much more dangerous than mere friendship or sharing an apartment.
He swept methodically, his movements economical and thorough, occasionally glancing up at you with that same concerned furrow between his brows. "You sure you're okay? You've been quiet."
"Just tired," you lied, forcing a smile that felt brittle on your face. "Long day."
He studied you for a moment longer, eyes narrowing slightly as if he could see through the flimsy excuse, but ultimately he let it go. That was Hajime too—knowing when to push and when to give you space, respecting your boundaries even when he suspected you weren't being entirely truthful. The thought sent another wave of heat through you, the realization that his consideration, his attentiveness, had always been there but now carried new weight, new implications.
"Done," he announced finally, setting the broom aside. He moved back to stand in front of you, positioned between your dangling legs, and for one wild, heart-stopping moment you thought—hoped? feared?—he might put his hands on your waist again, might lift you down as easily as he'd lifted you up. Instead, he stepped back slightly, giving you space to slide off the counter on your own.
"Thanks," you murmured, suddenly shy in a way you'd never been with him before. Your feet touched the floor, and you were abruptly aware of the height difference between you, of how you had to tilt your head back slightly to meet his eyes, of how easily he could—
Could what? Your mind raced ahead, filling in blanks with possibilities that had never occurred to you before this moment. Could back you against the counter. Could tilt your chin up with those strong fingers. Could bend down and—
"Food's getting cold," Hajime said, breaking the spell. He turned away to grab the pot of curry, seemingly oblivious to the chaotic spiral of your thoughts, to the seismic shift that had just occurred in your perception of him, of your relationship, of everything.
You moved to the table on unsteady legs, sinking into your chair with the distinct feeling that you were no longer the same person who had walked through the door twenty minutes ago. That version of you had seen Hajime as a constant, a known quantity, a childhood friend turned roommate with no complex layers to navigate. This new version saw him as... something else entirely. Something that made your skin too tight, your breath too shallow, your thoughts too scattered to form coherent patterns.
As he served the curry, his forearm brushed against your shoulder, and you flinched at the contact, a small involuntary movement that didn't escape his notice.
"Seriously, what's wrong with you tonight?" he asked, genuine concern mixing with exasperation in his voice. "You're acting weird."
You looked up at him—at the familiar features you'd known all your life, at the strong jaw and direct gaze and perpetual slight furrow between his brows—and felt as if you were seeing a stranger superimposed over your oldest friend. How could you explain that the problem wasn't him but your own sudden, visceral recognition of him as a man, as someone who could make your heart race with just the casual display of strength, who could command a room—command you—with nothing more than the tone of his voice?
"Nothing's wrong," you lied again, knowing he wouldn't believe you but unable to offer anything closer to the truth. "Just... thinking about something."
He raised an eyebrow, clearly waiting for elaboration, but when none came, he simply shook his head and sat down across from you. "Fine. Keep your secrets. But eat something before you pass out."
You picked up your spoon obediently, going through the motions of eating while your mind continued its treacherous exploration of this new territory. Every movement Hajime made now seemed laden with significance—the flex of his jaw as he chewed, the way his fingers curled around his water glass, how his throat worked when he swallowed. Had he always taken up so much space at the table, his presence so solid and undeniable? Had his eyes always held that intensity when they rested on you, as if he could see beneath your skin to the turmoil beneath?
"Is it not good?" he asked, nodding toward your barely-touched food.
"No, it's delicious," you assured him quickly, forcing yourself to take another bite to prove it. "I'm just... distracted."
"By what?" he pressed, setting down his spoon and giving you his full attention. It was overwhelming, being the sole focus of that gaze, being pinned in place by nothing more than his interest, his concern.
"Work stuff," you said vaguely, knowing it was a weak excuse but unable to formulate anything more convincing when your brain was so thoroughly occupied with cataloging the exact shade of his eyes in the warm kitchen light, the precise curve of his mouth as it turned down slightly in skepticism.
He didn't believe you—that much was clear from his expression—but instead of calling you on the obvious lie, he simply reached across the table and pressed the back of his hand to your forehead, checking for fever with the casual intimacy of someone who had done so countless times before. His skin was cool against yours, his touch gentle despite the roughness of his calluses, and you fought the urge to lean into the contact like a cat seeking affection.
"You don't feel warm," he murmured, brow furrowed in concentration. "But you look flushed."
Because you're touching me, you wanted to say. Because I can feel your pulse in your wrist where it rests against my cheek. Because I suddenly can't remember how to breathe normally when you're this close. Instead, you pulled back slightly, breaking the contact before you could do something mortifying like turn your face into his palm.
"I'm fine, Hajime. Really. Just tired and wet and..." You trailed off, gesturing vaguely at your still-damp clothes.
Understanding dawned on his face. "You never took that shower. Go. Now. Before you actually do get sick." He stood, gathering your mostly-full plate. "I'll keep this warm for you."
The note of command was back in his voice, that tone that brooked no argument and expected immediate compliance. And just like that, the heat returned, spreading through your body like wildfire, making it difficult to stand without revealing the sudden weakness in your knees.
"Yeah, okay," you managed, pushing back from the table. "Thanks."
As you turned to go, his hand caught your wrist, the contact sending a jolt of electricity up your arm. You froze, heart hammering against your ribs, afraid to look back at him lest your face betray the chaos of your thoughts.
"Hey," he said, his voice softer now, tinged with genuine concern. "You'd tell me if something was really wrong, right?"
The question hung in the air between you, loaded with years of trust and friendship, with the certainty that had always existed between you—that no matter what, you could tell each other anything. Except this. How could you possibly tell him that everything had changed in the span of a few minutes, that you suddenly saw him not as Hajime-your-friend but as Hajime-the-man, that your body responded to his proximity in ways that were entirely new and terrifying and exhilarating?
"Of course," you lied, the words tasting bitter on your tongue. "Always."
He released your wrist, apparently satisfied, and you fled to the bathroom, closing the door behind you with perhaps more force than necessary. You leaned against it, eyes closed, breath coming in shallow gasps as if you'd run a marathon instead of simply walking down a hallway.
The face that greeted you in the mirror was both familiar and strange—your features the same as they had always been, but your eyes wider, darker, your cheeks flushed with color that had nothing to do with fever or cold. You looked like someone on the edge of something monumental, someone teetering between before and after, between safety and risk.
As you stripped off your damp clothes and stepped under the hot spray of the shower, you couldn't escape the realization that had ambushed you in the kitchen. Hajime was no longer just your childhood friend, your roommate, your constant. He was a man who made your pulse race and your skin tingle, whose casual display of strength had awakened something primal and hungry within you, whose voice could command your obedience with a single word.
And nothing—not the scalding water beating down on your shoulders, not the steam filling the small bathroom, not the rational part of your brain screaming warnings about ruining friendships and crossing lines that couldn't be uncrossed—nothing could wash away the sudden, visceral certainty that you wanted him. Not as a friend, not as a roommate, but as a man wants a woman, with all the messy, complicated, thrilling implications that entailed.
The question that remained, as you pressed your forehead against the cool tile of the shower wall and tried to regain your equilibrium, was what the hell you were supposed to do about it now.
The days following what you'd come to think of as the Kitchen Incident unfolded like a fever dream, your perception of Hajime permanently, irrevocably altered. It was as if someone had adjusted the focus on a camera you'd been looking through your entire life—suddenly everything was sharper, more defined, details you'd never noticed before now impossible to ignore.
There was the morning after, when you'd emerged from your bedroom to find him doing push-ups in the living room, body moving with controlled power, the muscles in his back shifting beneath his thin t-shirt with each precise movement. You'd frozen in the hallway, coffee mug clutched in white-knuckled fingers as you counted along silently—forty-seven, forty-eight, forty-nine—until he finally rolled to his feet in one fluid motion. A strange flutter rippled through your stomach at the sight, but you pushed it down immediately. This was Hajime, for god's sake. The same Hajime who'd eaten dirt on a dare when you were eight, who'd thrown up in your mom's hydrangea bushes after your first attempt at making cookies resulted in severe food poisoning. There was absolutely no reason for your heart to suddenly kick against your ribs just because he could do a lot of push-ups.
"Morning," he'd grunted, using the bottom of his shirt to wipe sweat from his face, momentarily exposing a stretch of tanned abdomen. You forced your eyes away, confused by the urge to keep staring. "You sleep okay?"
You'd mumbled something noncommittal, retreating to the kitchen before your brain could continue its bizarre malfunction. Probably just tired. Or hungry. Or both.
Then there was the incident with the jar three days later—a stubborn pickle jar with a lid that refused to budge despite your increasingly frustrated efforts. You'd been about to resort to running it under hot water when Hajime wandered in, drawn by your muttered curses. Without a word, he'd taken it from your hands, his fingers brushing against yours in a contact that sent an unexpected jolt through your system. He'd twisted the lid off with one easy motion, not even the slightest strain showing on his face as the vacuum seal gave way with a soft pop.
"Thanks," you'd managed, trying not to stare at his hands. Had they always been that large? That capable-looking? You'd seen those hands nearly every day for the past twenty years, and yet suddenly they seemed like they belonged to a stranger. A man, not the boy you'd grown up with. The thought made you strangely light-headed.
"You okay?" he'd asked, interrupting your confused spiral.
"Fine," you'd said quickly, snatching the jar back and turning away. Just a weird mood. That's all it was. You'd get over it.
But you didn't get over it. If anything, this strange new awareness of Hajime—of his physical presence, his strength, the sheer masculine energy he exuded without seeming to realize it—only intensified as the days passed. You found yourself noticing things you'd never paid attention to before: the way his throat worked when he swallowed, the rough calluses on his palms when his hand accidentally brushed yours, the way his t-shirts stretched across his shoulders, evidence of years of rigorous athletic training.
The breaking point came a week after the Kitchen Incident, when you'd returned home from a study session to find Hajime in the bathroom, crouched down in front of the sink, wrench in hand as he worked on a leaky faucet. He hadn't heard you come in, too focused on the task at hand, giving you an uninterrupted view of him from the doorway. He wore a simple white tank top that had seen better days, thin with washing and clinging to the muscles of his back where sweat had made it transparent. His jeans rode low on his hips as he leaned forward, exposing a strip of tanned skin and the waistband of his black boxer briefs. His arm flexed as he turned the wrench, the muscles shifting beneath his skin with controlled power that made your mouth suddenly dry.
You'd stood there, frozen in the hallway, watching as he worked, completely unaware of your presence or the effect he was having on you. Water dripped from the pipe onto his forearm, trailing down to his wrist in a meandering path that your eyes followed with inexplicable intensity. A bead of sweat rolled down the back of his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his tank top, and you had the sudden, intrusive urge to trace its path with your tongue, to taste the salt of his skin, to—
The thought had jolted you out of your trance, shocking in its suddenness and clarity. What the fuck was wrong with you? This was Hajime. Your best friend. The boy who'd pushed you on the swings and shared his lunch when you forgot yours and sat with you in the nurse's office when you had your first period at school and were too embarrassed to call your mom. You didn't think about licking his skin or touching him or—God—anything else your suddenly deranged brain was suggesting.
You'd backed away silently, retreating to your room before he could notice you, closing the door and leaning against it as you tried to understand what was happening to you. It was just stress, you'd decided. The pressure of university, of being away from home for the first time, of adjusting to this new life in Tokyo. That had to be it. There was no other explanation for why you'd suddenly started noticing your childhood friend in ways that made your skin feel too tight and your heart beat too fast.
Denial, it turned out, was a surprisingly effective coping mechanism—at least for a while. You managed to convince yourself that your heightened awareness of Hajime was just a phase, a temporary blip that would resolve itself if you just ignored it hard enough. You avoided being alone with him when possible, kept physical contact to a minimum, and desperately tried not to notice things like the way his hair fell across his forehead when he leaned over his textbooks or how his voice dropped to a lower register when he was tired.
But then came the heatwave—a brutally hot Saturday in early November, one of those freakish late-autumn days where summer seemed to have returned with a vengeance, the temperature soaring into the high eighties despite the changing leaves. You'd spent the morning at the library, studying for upcoming exams in the blessed air conditioning, but eventually hunger had driven you home despite the heat that hit you like a physical wall when you stepped outside.
The apartment was quiet when you entered, the only sound the distant hum of traffic from the street below and the soft whirring of the standing fan in the corner of the living room. You called out a greeting that went unanswered as you kicked off your shoes, dropping your bag by the door with a heavy thud.
"Hajime?" The apartment wasn't large—if he was home, he should have heard you. Perhaps he'd gone out, though his running shoes remained in their usual haphazard position by the door.
Movement caught your eye through the glass door leading to the small balcony—a flash of bare skin in the sunlight. You moved closer, curiosity drawing you forward, and then stopped dead, your breath catching in your throat at the sight that greeted you.
Hajime lay stretched out on a towel on the balcony floor, wearing nothing but a pair of black athletic shorts that rode high on his powerful thighs. His chest was bare, absolutely drenched in sweat that made his skin gleam in the harsh afternoon sun, the defined muscles of his abdomen rising and falling with each slow breath. The dusting of dark hair across his chest was visible now, damp with sweat and trailing down to his navel before thickening into a more defined path that disappeared beneath the waistband of his shorts. His small brown nipples were hard, either from the heat or the light breeze that occasionally stirred the heavy air, the contrast against his tanned skin making your mouth water in a way that shocked even you. A smaller towel was draped across his face, presumably to block the sunlight, leaving him unaware of your presence as you stood frozen in the doorway, eyes wide and heart hammering against your ribs.
He was magnificent—raw masculinity on display, unfiltered and unself-conscious in a way that made your knees weak and your core throb with sudden, undeniable want. Those shorts left absolutely nothing to the imagination, plastered to his body by sweat and revealing the substantial outline of what could only be his cock, thick and heavy even in its relaxed state. You couldn't tear your eyes away from it, from the clear shape visible through the thin, sweat-soaked fabric, your brain immediately supplying vivid imagery of what it might look like freed from those shorts, how it would feel in your hand, your mouth, between your thighs.
'Fuck,' your inner voice whispered, no longer interested in denial or pretense. 'Look at that bulge. He's fucking huge. I knew it, I fucking knew he'd be hung like that. I bet he could split me in half with that thing and I'd thank him for it.'
You should move. You should turn around, go back inside, pretend you'd never seen this—Hajime splayed out like an offering, all that strength rendered momentarily vulnerable in unconscious repose. But your feet remained rooted to the spot, your eyes greedily devouring details you'd never allow yourself to linger on if he were awake: the sharp cut of his hipbones above the waistband of his shorts, the way his throat worked as he swallowed unconsciously, the trail of hair that you suddenly, desperately wanted to follow with your tongue, from his chest all the way down to where it disappeared beneath his shorts, to take his cock in your mouth and—
'Jesus Christ, I need therapy,' your brain supplied, even as your body throbbed with want so intense it was almost painful. 'Or I need to get laid. By him. Right now. On this balcony. I don't even care if the neighbors see. They should see. Everyone should see what a fucking god he is.'
The towel shifted, and your heart stopped as Hajime's hand moved to push it up slightly, revealing the strong line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth. You were caught, deer in headlights, unable to move or speak or do anything but stare with undisguised hunger at the feast laid out before you.
"That you?" His voice was rough, whether from sleep or the heat impossible to tell. "Thought you'd be gone longer."
"Just got back," you managed, impressed at how normal your voice sounded when your internal monologue had devolved into a stream of 'fuck me fuck me please just fuck me until I can't walk straight, bend me over right here, I don't care, I'll take that monster cock any way you want to give it to me.'
He pushed the towel off entirely now, squinting up at you against the brightness of the sun. Sweat gleamed on his forehead, in the hollow of his throat, along the ridges of his abdomen. A drop rolled slowly down his chest, following the line of dark hair downward, and you tracked its progress with an intensity that bordered on obsession.
'Fuck, I don't care how sweaty he is, I'd lick every drop off him like it's the best thing I've ever tasted,' you thought wildly. 'I'd clean him better than any shower could, get on my knees and worship every inch of that body with my tongue until he couldn't take it anymore and had to fuck my throat just to shut me up.'
"You okay?" Hajime propped himself up on his elbows, brow furrowing in concern, the movement causing his abdominal muscles to flex and contract in a way that made your mouth water. "You look weird again. Is it the heat?"
Oh, it was heat alright—the heat of your cunt practically dripping at the sight of him, the heat of imagining those big hands spreading your thighs wide, those fingers pushing inside you, that mouth on your neck, your breasts, between your legs, that cock stretching you open so good you'd see stars.
"I'm fine," you said, the lie coming easily after weeks of practice. "Just a little warm."
He grunted, unconvinced as always by your increasingly transparent falsehoods. "Grab some water. You look like you're about to pass out."
'I'm about to cream my fucking pants is what I'm about to do,' you thought hysterically. 'One good look at that dick print and I'm ready to let you ruin my life, destroy my pussy, leave me a whimpering mess begging for more. I'd let you cum on my face and use it as a fucking face mask, I swear to god.'
"Good idea," you said, impressed by your own self-control when your entire body felt like it was on fire, your underwear embarrassingly damp just from looking at him. "You want some too?"
He nodded, still watching you with that slight furrow between his brows, the one that appeared whenever he was trying to solve a particularly challenging problem. You were the problem now, your strange behavior these past weeks, the way you flinched when he touched you, the flush that seemed permanently etched on your cheeks whenever he was near.
You retreated to the kitchen on unsteady legs, pressing your thighs together as you walked in a vain attempt to alleviate the ache between them. This couldn't continue. You couldn't keep living like this, constantly on edge, constantly fighting this new awareness of him, this hunger that threatened to consume you from the inside out. Something had to give.
But as you filled two glasses with cold water, hands trembling slightly, you knew with absolute certainty that it wouldn't be today. Today you would bring him water, you would make normal conversation, you would retreat to your room and shove your face into your pillow to muffle the sounds as you fucked yourself with your fingers, imagining it was his cock inside you, his voice in your ear telling you how tight you were, how good you felt, how he was going to fill you up with his cum until it dripped down your thighs.
And tomorrow? Tomorrow you would do it all again, trapped in this exquisite torture of wanting what had once been the most familiar, comfortable relationship in your life—now transformed into something dangerous, thrilling, and entirely out of your control.
Days passed in a haze of unrelenting sexual frustration following the balcony incident. You'd managed to hand Hajime his water that day, maintaining a facade of normalcy while your internal monologue screamed obscenities that would make a sailor blush. The pattern had continued—you going about your daily life pretending everything was fine while your mind supplied increasingly explicit scenarios involving your childhood friend, his massive cock, and various surfaces of your shared apartment.
Tonight was no different, the clock on your laptop reading 7:48 PM as you attempted to focus on an assignment due the following week. The apartment had been quiet for hours, Hajime still at practice, giving you a brief reprieve from the constant torment of his presence. You'd almost managed to trick yourself into believing you could be productive, that you could think about something other than what Hajime would look like naked and sweaty above you, when the sound of the front door opening shattered your concentration.
His footsteps in the hallway were immediately different—slower, heavier, with a slight drag that wasn't typical of his usual confident stride. You looked up from your laptop as he appeared in the doorway to your room, his face drawn in a grimace that set alarm bells ringing in your head.
"What's wrong?" you asked, immediately closing your laptop and giving him your full attention. Despite the constant state of arousal he unknowingly kept you in, he was still your best friend, and the obvious discomfort on his face pushed all lustful thoughts temporarily aside.
"Pulled something during practice," he muttered, leaning against the doorframe with one hand pressed to his upper thigh. Even in pain, he managed to look devastatingly attractive, his hair damp with sweat and his practice clothes clinging to his body in a way that highlighted every defined muscle. "Coach says it's just a strain, but it hurts like a bitch."
Your eyes were drawn to where his hand pressed against his thigh, just below where his athletic shorts ended. The muscle there was tensed visibly, and without thinking, you blurted out, "I could massage it for you."
The words hung in the air between you, and for a split second, panic seized your chest. What the fuck were you thinking? Offering to put your hands on his thigh when you could barely look at him without imagining riding his face? But before you could retract the offer, Hajime's expression shifted from surprise to relief.
"Would you? Coach showed us how to do it, but it's awkward to reach properly myself." He straightened from the doorframe, wincing slightly as he put weight on the affected leg. "It's my hamstring, upper inner thigh. Guess I pushed too hard during sprints."
Your mouth went dry at his casual description. Upper inner thigh. Which meant your hands would be inches from his—No. Focus. He was in pain, and he needed your help. This was what friends did for each other. It didn't matter that your heart was suddenly racing, that heat was pooling between your legs at the mere thought of touching him so intimately. You were an adult. You could handle this.
"Sure," you managed, aiming for nonchalance and probably missing by a mile. "Come sit down." You patted the edge of your bed after you put your laptop away, the only suitable surface in the room besides your desk chair, which was too small and awkward for what you'd need to do.
Hajime crossed to the bed with that same slight limp, the discomfort evident in the tightness around his eyes. He sat heavily on the edge of your mattress, the familiar weight of him causing the bed to dip, sending a cascade of memories through your mind—how many times had he sat exactly like this over the years? How many times had you shared this same casual intimacy without a second thought? And now, your heart was pounding like you were about to jump out of an airplane rather than help your injured friend.
"I, uh, need to..." He gestured vaguely at his shorts, a slight flush creeping up his neck. "To get proper access to the muscle."
"Right," you said, your voice embarrassingly high. "Of course."
With a grunt of discomfort, Hajime stood long enough to push his athletic shorts down his legs, revealing black boxer briefs that clung to his muscular thighs and, more distressingly, did absolutely nothing to hide the substantial bulge at his groin. You forced your eyes away from it, focusing instead on the clearly tensed muscle of his upper thigh, where a slight redness indicated the strained area.
He sat back down, now wearing nothing but his t-shirt and those obscenely tight boxer briefs, his legs slightly spread to accommodate the injury. "Coach said firm pressure in circular motions, working from the knee up. But not too hard right on the strain itself."
You nodded, not trusting your voice, and moved to kneel on the floor between his spread legs. This was fine. This was normal. This was just you helping your injured friend, not you positioning yourself at eye-level with his crotch, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his skin, to smell the clean sweat and masculine scent that was uniquely Hajime.
"Tell me if I press too hard," you said, placing your hands tentatively on his knee, feeling the coarse hair that covered his legs against your palms. His skin was hot to the touch, almost feverish, though whether from the injury or just his naturally high body temperature, you couldn't tell.
You began the massage gently, working your thumbs in small circles just above his knee, feeling the dense muscle beneath your fingers. Hajime was solid everywhere, the result of years of rigorous training, not an ounce of softness to be found. You worked methodically upward, applying gradually increasing pressure as you moved toward the strained area, focusing intently on the task at hand rather than on how close your hands were getting to the edge of his boxer briefs, to the place where his thigh met his—
"That's good," Hajime murmured, his voice lower than usual, slightly rough at the edges. "A little higher."
You swallowed hard and obeyed, moving your hands further up his thigh, your thumbs now pressing into the sensitive inner portion where the strain was located. This close, you could see where the hem of his boxer briefs had ridden up slightly, exposing more of his tanned skin. You could also see, no matter how hard you tried not to look, the unmistakable outline of his cock through the thin fabric, seemingly thicker than it had been a few minutes ago.
'He's getting hard from this,' your brain helpfully pointed out, sending a jolt of heat straight between your legs. 'Your hands on his thigh are making his cock hard. Imagine what would happen if you moved your hands just a little higher, slipped them under the fabric, wrapped your fingers around—'
"Harder," Hajime said, breaking into your increasingly inappropriate thoughts. "The muscle's really tight."
You bit your lip and increased the pressure, working your thumbs more firmly into the tense muscle. A small sound escaped him—something between a grunt and a groan—and the noise shot straight to your core, your cunt clenching around nothing as your brain immediately categorized it as one of the hottest things you'd ever heard.
"That hurts?" you asked, easing the pressure slightly, trying desperately to maintain some semblance of normal friendly concern.
"No," he said quickly, "It's good. It hurts in a good way. Don't stop."
Don't stop. The words echoed in your head, your imagination immediately supplying a very different context for them—Hajime above you, inside you, his voice rough as he told you not to stop, to keep going, to take all of him—
You realized your thumbs had stilled and resumed the massage, working the tense muscle with more confidence now. Hajime leaned back slightly, bracing himself on his hands, his head dropping back as another low groan escaped him. The position stretched his t-shirt across his chest, highlighting the defined muscles beneath, and caused his abs to contract visibly. The sight made your mouth water, your body responding with a rush of heat and dampness between your thighs.
"That's... really helping," he murmured, eyes closed now, completely unaware of the effect he was having on you. "A little higher, right where it connects... yeah, there."
Your hands were now mere centimeters from the edge of his boxer briefs, your thumbs pressing into the incredibly sensitive juncture where thigh met groin. You could feel the heat of him, the strength in the muscle even as it remained tense under your ministrations. And you could see, no matter how much you tried to be professional about this, that his cock was definitely hardening, the outline becoming more pronounced against the black fabric.
Suddenly, Hajime shifted, dropping from his seated position to lie flat on your bed, one arm coming up to drape across his eyes as he stretched his legs out more fully. "Sorry," he mumbled, "sitting was making it worse. Is this okay?"
It was more than okay. It was the stuff of your recent fantasies—Hajime sprawled across your bed, his powerful body on display, his legs spread to accommodate you between them. The new position pulled his boxer briefs even tighter across his groin, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. He was definitely hard now, his cock creating an impressive tent in the fabric, the head of it visible as a distinct ridge beneath the tight material.
"This is fine," you managed, your voice strangled as you adjusted your position, still kneeling but now between his spread legs as he lay on your bed. You resumed the massage, working your thumbs in firm circles against the strained muscle, trying to ignore the fact that his cock was now at eye level, so close you could lean forward and mouth at it through his boxer briefs if you lost all sense of self-preservation.
Hajime made another one of those devastatingly hot sounds—a deep groan that rumbled up from his chest—as your thumbs hit a particularly tight spot. "Fuck, that's it," he murmured, the curse word falling from his lips with an ease that sent another rush of heat to your core. "Right there."
Your cunt throbbed in response to his words, to his tone, to the sight of him laid out before you like some pagan offering to the god of your sexual frustration. Without conscious thought, you shifted position, raising yourself up higher on your knees to get better leverage, one leg moving to straddle his uninjured thigh as you continued to work the knotted muscle.
In this new position, your core was pressed directly against the solid muscle of his thigh, the pressure providing a tantalizing hint of relief for the ache that had built between your legs. You hadn't intended it—or at least, you could tell yourself you hadn't—but now that you were here, the temptation was overwhelming. You continued the massage, your thumbs working deep into the muscle, but your focus had shifted almost entirely to the delicious pressure against your cunt, separated from his skin by only the thin fabric of your shorts and underwear.
Hajime's groans grew more frequent, deeper, as you worked the strained muscle with increasing confidence. His arm remained thrown across his eyes, blocking his vision, leaving him unaware of how you'd positioned yourself, of how your hips had begun to move in tiny, almost imperceptible circles against his thigh. The motion was so slight that you could almost pretend it wasn't happening, that you weren't essentially grinding yourself against your best friend while he lay vulnerable and in pain beneath you.
But it was happening. With each press of your thumbs into his muscle, your hips rocked slightly, dragging your clit against the firm ridge of his thigh through your clothes. The dual sensation—his skin hot beneath your hands, his thigh solid against your core—was intoxicating, addictive. You found yourself pressing harder with your thumbs just to justify the increased pressure of your cunt against his leg, the massage becoming secondary to the slow, torturous pleasure building between your thighs.
You weren't even truly massaging anymore, your hands simply holding his thigh as your hips worked in increasingly blatant movements against him. Your breathing had grown heavier, your focus narrowed to the point of contact between your body and his, the rest of the world falling away as pleasure built in slow, inexorable waves. You were wet—embarrassingly so—your arousal likely soaking through your underwear and shorts to dampen his skin, but you couldn't bring yourself to care, couldn't bring yourself to stop this illicit pleasure even knowing how wrong it was, how much it risked.
"What are you doing?"
Hajime's voice cut through the haze of arousal like a bucket of ice water. His arm was no longer covering his eyes; instead, he had raised his head, propped up on his elbows, watching you with an expression you couldn't immediately decipher—shock, certainly, but something else too, something darker and more intense that made your stomach flip.
Reality crashed back with brutal force. You were straddling his thigh, grinding yourself against him like a bitch in heat while he lay injured on your bed. Your hands had stopped any pretense of massage, instead gripping his thigh as you essentially used him to get yourself off. Mortification flooded through you, hot and overwhelming, as you realized how completely you'd lost control.
"I—" you started, but what could you possibly say? How could you explain this away? Your mind raced for an explanation, an excuse, anything to salvage the situation, but came up empty. There was no innocent interpretation of what you'd been doing, no way to pretend this was normal behavior between friends.
Before you could formulate a response, before you could even move off his leg, a familiar electronic chime sounded from your laptop on the desk—the distinctive ring of an incoming video call. Tooru's custom ringtone, the one he'd set up himself the last time he'd visited, claiming it was "more dramatic" than the default.
Relief surged through you at the interruption, giving you an excuse to escape this excruciating moment. You practically leapt from Hajime's leg, scrambling toward your desk with undignified haste. "That's Tooru," you said unnecessarily, as if Hajime hadn't heard the same ringtone countless times before. "I should—I should get that."
"Don't," Hajime said, his voice carrying a note of command that sent an involuntary shiver down your spine despite the circumstances.
But you were already reaching for your laptop, flipping it open with trembling fingers. "He'll just keep calling if I don't answer," you said, the excuse sounding weak even to your own ears. "You know how he is."
Before Hajime could protest further, you accepted the call, Tooru's face filling the screen with his usual dramatic timing. His hair was perfectly styled despite the late hour in Argentina, his smile wide and practiced until he got a good look at your face.
"Well, don't you look flustered," he said immediately, his keen eyes missing nothing even through the screen. "What have you been up to, hmm? Your face is all red."
"Nothing," you said too quickly. "Just, um, exercising."
Tooru's eyebrows shot up, his expression shifting to one of delighted suspicion. "Exercising? In your bedroom? At eight o'clock at night?" His eyes narrowed, peering past you as if trying to see more of the room. "Where's Iwa-chan? Is he home?"
"I'm here," Hajime's voice came from behind you, still rough at the edges but controlled now, giving nothing away. He hadn't moved from your bed, still sprawled there in his underwear with a visible erection, but thankfully out of the camera's field of vision. "Just got back from practice."
Tooru's eyes lit up at the sound of Hajime's voice, his expression turning sly. "Oh? And why aren't you on camera, Iwa-chan? Hiding something?"
"None of your business, Shittykawa," Hajime growled, the familiar insult falling from his lips with practiced ease despite the charged atmosphere in the room.
Tooru gasped dramatically, hand flying to his chest in feigned offense. "So mean, Iwa-chan! And here I am, calling from across the world just to check on my two favorite people." His gaze shifted back to you, shrewd and calculating despite his playful tone. "You're being suspiciously quiet. Both of you are. What were you doing before I called?"
"Nothing," you repeated, knowing you sounded guilty but unable to come up with anything more convincing. "Hajime pulled a muscle at practice. I was just helping him with it."
"Helping him with it," Tooru repeated slowly, his lips curving into a knowing smirk. "I see. And how exactly were you 'helping' him with his... muscle?"
Before you could stammer out another unconvincing denial, you heard the bed shift behind you, and then Hajime was there, his presence solid and unmistakable at your back, still out of the camera's view but close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his body.
"Hang up," he said quietly, his voice pitched low enough that Tooru couldn't hear, his breath warm against your ear, raising goosebumps along your neck. "Now."
You ignored him, focusing on Tooru instead, desperation making you cling to this lifeline of normalcy, this barrier between you and the conversation you were definitely not ready to have with Hajime. "How's Argentina?" you asked brightly, your voice unnaturally high. "Tell us everything. How's your team? Your apartment? Have you tried that restaurant you mentioned last time?"
Tooru opened his mouth to answer, still looking suspicious but seemingly willing to play along, when you felt Hajime's hand on your thigh. Not your knee, not your calf, but high on your thigh, his fingers splayed wide, nearly spanning the width of it with his palm. The touch was deliberate, possessive in a way that made your breath catch, your words dying in your throat as his hand began to move slowly upward, pushing beneath the loose fabric of your shorts.
"Hang up," Hajime repeated, his voice firmer now, an unmistakable command that made your stomach flip and your core throb with renewed arousal. "Or I'll hang up for you."
His fingers continued their upward path, now brushing against the edge of your underwear, so close to where you were embarrassingly wet, where you had been grinding yourself against his thigh just minutes ago. The touch was a clear escalation, a deliberate crossing of the line you'd already blurred with your actions.
"Are you even listening to me?" Tooru's voice cut through your distraction, his head tilted in confusion at your obvious lack of attention. "What's going on over there? You're acting weird. Both of you."
Hajime's fingers slipped beneath the elastic of your underwear without warning, sliding easily through the slick evidence of your arousal to find your clit with unerring accuracy. The contact was electric, pulling a small gasp from your lips before you could stop it, your body jerking slightly in response.
"Are you okay?" Tooru asked, leaning closer to the screen, his brow furrowed in concern that quickly shifted to suspicion as his eyes narrowed. "Wait a minute. Where exactly is Iwa-chan right now? And why did you make that noise?"
Hajime's fingers didn't still at Tooru's questions, instead beginning to move in slow, deliberate circles against your clit, spreading your wetness, building a pleasure so intense it took everything in you not to moan out loud. His other hand came to rest on your shoulder, keeping you in place as he continued his torturous ministrations, his body a solid wall of heat at your back.
"I—" you started, but whatever excuse you might have formed died as Hajime slid a thick finger inside you, the intrusion so sudden and so perfect that your eyes threatened to roll back in your head. "Tooru, I should—I need to go."
Understanding dawned on Tooru's face, his eyes widening comically before a shit-eating grin spread across his features. "Oh my god," he said, voice rising with glee. "Oh my GOD. He's touching you right now, isn't he? That's why you're making those faces. That's why he's not on camera." He clapped his hands together in delight. "I knew it! I KNEW IT! You two are fucking!"
"We're not—" you began automatically, but Hajime chose that moment to curl his finger inside you, hitting a spot that made your words dissolve into a choked sound that could not possibly be mistaken for anything other than pleasure.
"Goodbye, Oikawa," Hajime said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through your body where he pressed against your back. Without waiting for a response, he reached around you with his free hand—the one not currently buried between your legs—and ended the call with a decisive click, closing the laptop with perhaps more force than necessary.
The sudden silence in the room was deafening, broken only by the sound of your rapid breathing and the obscene wetness of Hajime's finger still moving inside you, joined now by a second that stretched you further, making you bite your lip to hold back a moan.
"Now," he said, his mouth right against your ear, voice deeper than you'd ever heard it, "we're going to talk about what you were doing on my leg. About how fucking wet you are right now. About how long you've been wanting this." His fingers thrust deeper, emphasizing his words, making your back arch involuntarily. "But first, I'm going to make you come. Because I don't think you can focus on anything else right now, can you?"
The question hung in the air between you, not truly requiring an answer when your body was already providing one—in the way your inner walls clenched around his fingers, in the flood of wetness coating his knuckles, in the small, helpless sounds escaping your throat with each precise movement of his hand. You couldn't focus on anything beyond the overwhelming sensations he was creating, your world narrowed to the points of contact between his body and yours—his chest pressed against your back, his breath hot against your neck, his fingers buried deep inside your cunt, stretching you in a way that your own never could.
"Hajime," you gasped, the syllables of his name fractured by the pleasure building inside you. His thumb found your clit, rubbing slow circles with devastating accuracy, as if he'd been studying your body for years rather than touching you intimately for the first time. Perhaps he had been studying you, noticing things about your responses that even you weren't aware of, the same way you'd recently begun cataloging every detail of his physicality with obsessive precision.
"That's it," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through your body where he pressed against you. "Let me hear you. Let me feel how much you want this." His fingers curled inside you, finding that spot that made fireworks explode behind your eyelids, pressure building at the base of your spine with each deliberate stroke. "You've been driving me fucking crazy for weeks, you know that? Walking around in those little shorts, watching me when you think I'm not looking, those sounds you make in your room at night when you think I can't hear you through the wall."
Your eyes flew open at that, mortification flooding through you at the realization that he'd heard you—heard the muffled moans you couldn't quite contain as you touched yourself in the darkness, imagining it was his hands, his mouth, his cock bringing you to release. But the embarrassment was quickly overwhelmed by a fresh wave of arousal at the knowledge that he'd been listening, that he'd known all along what you were doing, who you were thinking about.
"You think I couldn't tell it was my name you were saying?" he continued, his fingers never slowing their relentless rhythm inside you. "Think I couldn't hear you begging for my cock through that thin fucking wall?" His teeth grazed your earlobe, the slight pain a counterpoint to the pleasure building between your thighs. "I've been hard for you for so long I thought I was going to lose my mind. And then today, feeling you grinding on my leg like you couldn't help yourself, seeing how desperate you were for me—fuck, I almost came in my underwear like a fucking teenager."
The image his words conjured—Hajime so turned on by your mindless rutting against his thigh that he nearly lost control—sent a fresh surge of wetness around his fingers, your clit throbbing almost painfully against his thumb as tension coiled tighter in your core.
"Hajime, I'm—" you couldn't finish the sentence, your words dissolving into a high, keening sound as he added a third finger, the stretch bordering on too much yet somehow exactly what you needed. Your thighs began to tremble, heat spreading through your lower body in waves that threatened to consume you entirely.
"I know," he growled, his voice strained with the effort of his own restraint. "I can feel it. You're getting tighter, wetter. Your little cunt is squeezing my fingers so hard, I can only imagine how good it's going to feel around my cock." His thumb pressed more firmly against your clit, circling with precise, relentless pressure. "Come for me. Now."
Your body obeyed as if it had been waiting for his command, release crashing over you with an intensity that bordered on violence. Your back arched sharply, a cry tearing from your throat as your inner walls clamped down on his fingers in rhythmic pulses, wetness gushing around his hand in a way that would have embarrassed you if you had any capacity for shame left. The orgasm seemed to go on forever, wave after wave of pleasure radiating outward from your core, leaving you limp and trembling in its wake.
As the intensity began to ebb, Hajime carefully withdrew his fingers, the loss making you whimper despite your oversensitivity. He turned you slowly to face him, and for the first time since he'd touched you, you could see his expression clearly—pupils blown wide with desire, jaw clenched tight with the effort of restraint, a flush high on his cheekbones that spoke of how affected he was by what had just happened.
He brought his hand to his mouth—the hand that had just been inside you—and deliberately, maintaining eye contact the entire time, sucked his fingers clean, tasting your arousal with a low groan that sent aftershocks of pleasure rippling through your still-sensitive body.
"Fuck, you taste good," he said, the crudeness of the words at odds with the almost reverent tone in which he delivered them. "Been wondering about that for longer than I should admit."
You stared at him, brain struggling to process the radical shift in your relationship, the fact that Hajime—your Hajime, your childhood friend, your roommate—had just made you come harder than you ever had in your life and was now telling you he'd been fantasizing about how you tasted. It seemed impossible, like a particularly vivid dream your sex-starved brain had conjured after weeks of unfulfilled longing.
"How long?" you finally managed, your voice hoarse, as if you'd been screaming though you were fairly certain you hadn't been that loud.
"How long what?" he asked, his hand coming to rest on your thigh, the touch possessive in a way that made your stomach flip pleasantly. "How long have I wanted to taste you? Touch you? Fuck you until you can't remember your own name?" His thumb traced small circles on your inner thigh, dangerously close to where you were still sensitive and wet from your orgasm. "All of the above, probably longer than you've been wanting the same things from me."
"I thought—" you began, then stopped, unsure how to articulate the weeks of confused desire, the certainty that your sudden awareness of him as a sexual being was one-sided, that acting on it would destroy your friendship.
"You thought what?" he prompted, his other hand coming up to cup your cheek, surprisingly gentle given the intensity of what had just transpired between you. "That I didn't notice how you looked at me? That I didn't want you just as badly? That this—" he gestured between you, encompassing the electric tension that had been building for weeks, "—was all in your head?"
You nodded mutely, leaning into his touch like a cat seeking affection, your body still humming with residual pleasure and the building anticipation of what might come next.
"I've wanted you for years," he said quietly, the confession falling between you like a stone in still water, ripples of implication spreading outward. "Not just like this—though fuck knows I've thought about it enough to fill several lifetimes—but all of you. Every part. The good, the bad, the fucking infuriating parts that make me want to shake you sometimes." His thumb brushed across your lower lip, his eyes tracking the movement with hungry intensity. "I just never thought you saw me that way. Not until recently, when something changed. When you started looking at me like you wanted to devour me whole."
"The kitchen," you murmured, understanding dawning. "That night with the broken glass. That's when it started for me. When I saw you differently."
A small smile played at the corners of his mouth, not the full grin that transformed his face but something softer, more private. "I wondered what had happened. One day we were fine, normal, and the next you were jumping every time I touched you, staring at me when you thought I wouldn't notice, taking suspiciously long showers after I'd been working out in the living room."
Heat flooded your cheeks at how transparent you'd apparently been, how obvious your sudden desire had been to the very object of that desire. "You lifted me onto the counter like I weighed nothing," you explained, the memory still vivid, still capable of sending heat pooling between your legs despite the powerful orgasm you'd just experienced. "You just... took control. And suddenly all I could think about was your hands on me, your strength, how easily you could—" You broke off, embarrassment finally catching up with you.
"How easily I could what?" he pressed, his voice dropping lower, rougher, his hand on your thigh inching higher, sending sparks of renewed arousal through your oversensitive body. "Tell me. I want to hear exactly what you've been thinking about."
The command in his voice was impossible to resist, breaking down the last of your inhibitions. "How easily you could hold me down," you admitted, the words coming faster now, tumbling over each other in their rush to be spoken. "Pin me against the wall, the bed, the floor—anywhere. How strong you are, how big your hands are, how they'd feel on my skin, inside me, how your cock would feel stretching me open, filling me up until I couldn't take anymore—"
Your words cut off as Hajime surged forward, his mouth capturing yours in a kiss that was nothing like the tentative first kisses you'd imagined during your more romantic fantasies. This was raw, hungry, desperate—teeth clashing, his tongue immediately seeking entrance which you granted without hesitation, his hand moving from your cheek to tangle in your hair, holding you exactly where he wanted you as he devoured your mouth with single-minded intensity.
You responded with equal fervor, weeks of pent-up desire finally finding an outlet as your hands clutched at his shoulders, his chest, anywhere you could reach, greedy for the contact you'd been denying yourself. He tasted faintly of you—a reminder of what he'd done moments ago—mixed with something uniquely him, a flavor you immediately knew you'd never get enough of.
When he finally broke the kiss, you were both breathing hard, his forehead resting against yours, his hand still tangled in your hair, grip just tight enough to send little sparks of pleasure-pain across your scalp.
"I'm going to fuck you now," he said, the crude statement delivered with such matter-of-fact certainty that a fresh wave of arousal flooded between your thighs. "Unless you tell me to stop. Unless this isn't what you want."
"I want it," you assured him immediately, no hesitation, no doubt. "I want you. Please, Hajime."
The plea in your voice seemed to snap something in him, the last thread of his restraint giving way. He stood, pulling you up with him in one fluid motion, his hands moving to your waist as he lifted you bodily—just as he had that night in the kitchen, but with far different intentions now. Your legs wrapped around his hips instinctively, your core pressing against the hard length of his cock through the thin fabric of his boxer briefs and your shorts, the contact making you both groan.
He carried you to the bed with the same effortless strength that had started this whole chain of events, laying you down with surprising gentleness given the obvious urgency of his desire. He stood at the edge of the bed, looking down at you with an expression that made your breath catch—hunger, yes, but also something deeper, more complex, a tenderness that belied the crude words and actions that had preceded this moment.
"Take off your clothes," he said, the command softened by the slight tremor in his voice, the way his eyes roamed your body as if he couldn't quite believe this was happening. "I want to see all of you."
You complied without hesitation, sitting up to pull your t-shirt over your head, revealing the simple cotton bra beneath—nothing fancy or seductive, not something you'd worn with the expectation of anyone seeing it. But the way Hajime's eyes darkened at the sight, his throat working as he swallowed hard, made you feel as desirable as if you'd been wearing the most expensive lingerie.
Your shorts and underwear followed, already damp from your earlier activities, leaving you in just your bra. Before you could reach behind to unclasp it, Hajime was there, his weight dipping the mattress as he knelt beside you, his hands replacing yours.
"Let me," he murmured, deftly unhooking the clasp and sliding the straps down your arms, his calloused fingers leaving trails of fire on your skin wherever they touched. When the last piece of clothing was removed, he sat back slightly, eyes roaming your naked body with undisguised appreciation, taking in every curve, every imperfection you'd normally be self-conscious about but couldn't find it in yourself to worry over when he was looking at you like you were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
"Your turn," you said, finding your voice despite the vulnerability of being completely exposed while he remained partially clothed. "Fair's fair."
A small smirk played at the corners of his mouth as he pulled his t-shirt over his head in one smooth motion, revealing the torso you'd been obsessing over for weeks—broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, defined pectoral muscles dusted with dark hair, abs that flexed unconsciously as he moved, the trail of hair leading down from his navel disappearing beneath the waistband of his boxer briefs. The sight was familiar from your recent observations yet somehow more overwhelming now, knowing you were allowed to look, to touch, to taste.
He stood to remove his boxer briefs, pushing them down his powerful thighs and stepping out of them with an athlete's grace. His cock sprang free, hard and thick and intimidating in its size—larger than you'd imagined even in your most optimistic fantasies, the head flushed dark and already leaking pre-cum, a bead of it glistening at the tip. Your mouth watered at the sight, your body clenching around emptiness in anticipation of being filled by him.
"See something you like?" he asked, the cockiness of the question belied by the slight uncertainty in his eyes, a reminder that for all his confidence, this was new territory for him too—this crossing of boundaries, this transformation of friendship into something else entirely.
"Everything," you admitted, no room for artifice or games between you after what you'd already shared. "I like everything I see."
The simple honesty seemed to touch something in him, his expression softening for a brief moment before hunger took over once more. He moved onto the bed fully now, nudging your legs apart to kneel between them, his hands running up your thighs in a touch that was both possessive and reverent.
"I've thought about this so many times," he murmured, his thumbs tracing the creases where your thighs met your hips, dangerously close to where you were wet and aching for him. "Having you spread out under me like this. Seeing all of you. Touching you wherever I want." His hands moved higher, skimming over your stomach, your ribs, finally cupping your breasts with a gentleness that contrasted sharply with the intensity in his eyes. "You're even more beautiful than I imagined."
The compliment sent warmth flooding through you that had nothing to do with sexual arousal and everything to do with the man delivering it—Hajime, who had never been free with praise, who showed his affection through actions rather than words, now looking at you like you were something precious and telling you you were beautiful.
His thumbs brushed over your nipples, drawing them into tight peaks, the sensation shooting straight to your core. You arched into his touch, a soft moan escaping your lips as he leaned down to replace one thumb with his mouth, hot and wet as he sucked the sensitive bud between his lips. His tongue circled your nipple with deliberate pressure, teeth grazing lightly in a way that walked the perfect line between pleasure and pain.
"Hajime," you gasped, hands coming up to tangle in his hair, holding him against your breast as he continued his ministrations, switching to the other side to ensure both received equal attention. "Please, I need—"
"What do you need?" he asked, raising his head to meet your gaze, his hair mussed where your fingers had clutched it, his lips slightly swollen from his attentions to your body. "Tell me. I want to hear you say it."
"I need you inside me," you said, beyond embarrassment, beyond anything but the desperate desire to feel him filling you, stretching you, completing the connection that had been building between you for weeks—perhaps years, if his earlier confession was to be believed. "Please, Hajime. I need your cock. Now."
A low growl rumbled from his chest at your words, his eyes darkening with renewed hunger. "Fuck, the mouth on you," he muttered, shifting his position to align himself with your entrance, the blunt head of his cock pressing against your slick folds. "Been dreaming of hearing you say filthy things like that."
He rubbed himself against you, coating his length in your wetness, the friction against your sensitive clit making you writhe beneath him, seeking more pressure, more friction, more of him. When he finally began to push inside, the stretch was immediate and intense—he was big, bigger than anyone you'd been with before, his girth forcing your body to accommodate him inch by agonizing inch.
"Fuck," he hissed, his jaw clenched tight with the effort of restraint, sweat beading on his forehead as he fought the urge to thrust forward all at once. "You're so tight. So fucking perfect." He paused when only the head was inside, giving you time to adjust. "You okay? Not hurting you?"
The concern in his voice, the fact that he was checking on you even while clearly struggling with his own control, made something warm bloom in your chest. "I'm good," you assured him, hands running up his arms to his shoulders, feeling the tension in his muscles as he held himself above you. "Just... go slow. It's been a while."
He nodded, understanding without needing further explanation, and resumed his careful entry, pushing forward with exquisite slowness, retreating slightly before pressing deeper each time, working himself into you with a patience that must have cost him dearly given the tightness of his expression, the trembling in his arms as he braced himself above you.
When he was finally seated fully inside you, both of you were breathing hard, adjusting to the overwhelming sensation of being so intimately connected. He was deep, deeper than you'd thought possible, filling you so completely that you felt stretched to your limits, hovering on that exquisite edge between pleasure and discomfort.
"You feel—" he began, then broke off, apparently unable to find words adequate to describe the sensation. Instead, he leaned down to capture your mouth in a kiss that was surprisingly tender given the circumstances, his tongue tangling with yours as he remained motionless inside you, giving you time to adjust to his size.
The kiss deepened, grew hungrier as your body gradually relaxed around him, the initial discomfort fading into a growing need for movement, for friction. You shifted beneath him, tilting your hips in a silent plea that he immediately understood, breaking the kiss to meet your gaze as he slowly withdrew almost completely before pushing back in with a controlled thrust that hit places inside you that made your vision blur at the edges.
"More," you gasped, hands clutching at his shoulders, nails digging into the firm muscle there. "Hajime, please, more."
He complied, setting a pace that was measured at first—long, deep strokes that allowed you to feel every inch of him as he withdrew and pushed back in, his eyes never leaving your face, watching for any sign of discomfort. But as your body opened for him more fully, as your moans grew louder and more desperate, his control began to slip, his thrusts becoming harder, faster, more demanding.
The change in tempo drove you higher, pleasure building with each precise stroke of his cock inside you. He shifted slightly, changing the angle, and suddenly he was hitting that spot inside you that made stars explode behind your eyelids, your back arching off the bed as a particularly loud moan tore from your throat.
"There?" he asked, though the question was clearly rhetorical given your reaction. A smirk played at the corners of his mouth as he deliberately aimed for the same spot again, watching with obvious satisfaction as you writhed beneath him. "Gonna remember that. Gonna learn every inch of you, figure out exactly how to make you scream my name."
The promise in his words, the implication that this wasn't a one-time thing, that he planned to do this again—to learn your body, to perfect his knowledge of what brought you pleasure—sent a fresh wave of arousal through you, your inner walls clenching around him in a way that made him groan, his rhythm faltering momentarily.
"Fuck, do that again," he muttered, his voice strained with the effort of maintaining control. "Squeeze my cock like that again."
You did, deliberately tightening around him, watching with fascination as his eyes nearly rolled back in his head, a string of curses falling from his lips as his hips jerked forward with increased urgency. The sight of him losing control because of you, because of how your body felt around his, was intoxicating, a power you hadn't expected to have in this situation.
His hand slid between your bodies, finding your clit with unerring accuracy, circling the sensitive bundle of nerves in time with his thrusts. The dual stimulation was overwhelming, pushing you rapidly toward a second orgasm that promised to be even more intense than the first.
"Hajime, I'm close," you warned, your voice breaking on his name as tension coiled tighter in your core, heat spreading through your lower body in waves that threatened to consume you entirely.
"Me too," he admitted, his movements growing more erratic, less controlled, his breathing harsh in the quiet of the room. "Want to feel you come on my cock. Want to feel you squeeze me when you let go."
His words, combined with the relentless pressure of his fingers on your clit and the perfect angle of his thrusts, pushed you over the edge. Your orgasm crashed over you with stunning intensity, your back arching sharply off the bed, a cry tearing from your throat that might have been his name or just an incoherent sound of pleasure. Your inner walls clamped down on his cock in rhythmic pulses that seemed to go on forever, wave after wave of ecstasy radiating outward from your core.
The sensation of you coming around him was apparently too much for Hajime's already strained control. With a low, guttural groan, he thrust deep one final time, his cock pulsing inside you as he came, hot spurts of his release filling you in a way that should have concerned you but in the moment felt only right—primal and perfect and exactly what you both needed.
He collapsed on top of you, his weight a comforting pressure rather than a burden, his face buried in the crook of your neck as you both struggled to regain your breath. Your hands moved lazily up and down his sweat-slicked back, feeling the strong muscles there gradually relax as the intensity of your shared release ebbed, leaving behind a pleasant lassitude that made your limbs feel heavy, your mind blissfully quiet for the first time in weeks.
After what could have been minutes or hours—time seemed to have lost all meaning in the aftermath of what you'd just shared—Hajime raised his head, looking down at you with an expression that made your breath catch. The hunger was still there, banked but not extinguished, but it was tempered now by something softer, something that looked dangerously like tenderness, like affection deeper than mere friendship or physical desire.
"That was..." he began, then shook his head, apparently unable to find words adequate to describe what had just transpired between you.
"Yeah," you agreed, understanding perfectly despite his lack of articulation. "It really was."
A small smile played at the corners of his mouth, not the full grin that transformed his face but something more private, more intimate. He shifted his weight, carefully withdrawing from your body, both of you wincing slightly at the loss of connection. He rolled to the side but kept one arm draped across your waist, as if unwilling to lose contact entirely, his hand splayed possessively across your hip.
"We should probably talk about this," you said after a moment, gesturing vaguely between your naked bodies, the implications of what you'd done, of the lines you'd crossed.
"Probably," he agreed, though he didn't sound particularly eager to engage in a deep discussion of feelings and boundaries in the afterglow of what had been, frankly, the most intense sexual experience of your life. "But not right now."
"No?" you asked, turning your head to meet his gaze, searching for any sign of regret, of uncertainty, finding only a satiated contentment that mirrored your own.
"No," he said firmly, his hand tightening slightly on your hip, pulling you closer until your bodies were flush against each other, skin to skin from shoulder to ankle. "Right now, I'm going to hold you for a while. And then, when I've recovered enough, I'm going to fuck you again. Maybe against the wall this time, since you mentioned that particular fantasy earlier."
Heat flooded your cheeks at the reminder of your earlier confession, at the matter-of-fact way he stated his intentions, as if there was no question that this would happen, that you would continue whatever this was between you.
"And after that?" you couldn't help asking, needing some reassurance that this wasn't just a one-night release of weeks of pent-up sexual tension, that there was something more substantial underpinning the physical connection you'd just shared.
Hajime's expression softened, his free hand coming up to brush a strand of hair from your face with surprising gentleness. "After that, we'll figure it out. Together. The way we always have." He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your forehead that was achingly tender compared to the raw hunger of earlier. "I meant what I said before. I've wanted you—all of you, not just this—for years. That's not going to change just because we finally acted on it."
The simple honesty of his words, the quiet certainty in his voice, settled something in your chest that had been fluttering with anxiety despite the physical satisfaction still humming through your body. This was Hajime, after all—solid, reliable Hajime who had been your constant since childhood, who showed his feelings through actions more than words, whose promise of "together" carried more weight than flowery declarations ever could.
"Okay," you said, snuggling closer to his warmth, your head finding that perfect spot on his shoulder that seemed made for you to rest against. "Together."
His arm tightened around you in response, a wordless affirmation that spoke volumes. And as you lay there, content in the aftermath of pleasure with the promise of more to come, you couldn't help but think that your mother had been right after all—people did change when you lived with them, revealing sides of themselves you'd never noticed before. But sometimes, that change was exactly what you needed, the final piece clicking into place in a puzzle you hadn't even realized you were solving.
୨୧●• warnings: suggestive, no explicit smut, minors dni 18+ only
•●SATORU GOJO●•
you honestly hadn’t meant to do it. really, you hadn’t.
you were just stretching. a normal, everyday, totally innocent little stretch after sitting on satoru’s couch for like forty minutes scrolling through lipstick swatches and something in your back cracked in that weirdly satisfying way, and this soft, breathy, embarrassingly suggestive little sound slipped out of your mouth before you could stop it.
and the room went very, very still.
satoru froze mid sentence, halfway through bragging about some mission, one hand motioning wildly, the other holding an unopened bag of chips he had been meaning to eat for twenty minutes but kept forgetting existed. his head snapped toward you like someone had yanked his soul out by the collar.
you blinked up at him, innocent and sparkly and completely unaware of the emotional devastation you’d just caused.
“mmh?” you asked sweetly, tilting your head, lips glossy from the chapstick you’d applied seven times since you got here. “did you say something?”
he did not say something. he couldn’t.
his entire body felt like someone had unplugged him from reality and jammed the cord back in sideways.
your stretch had been cute enough, arms over your head, shirt lifting just a little, eyes fluttering shut, but the sound you made? that soft, broken, honey dripping little moan that escaped from your throat like you’d been touched somewhere sinful?
yeah. satoru was done for.
completely, irreparably done for.
“baby,” he said slowly, voice cracking in a way it absolutely should not crack, “did you… did you just make that sound on purpose?”
you blinked even wider. “huh? what sound?”
he stared at you like you were holding a weapon to his chest.
“that sound,” he said, and his voice dipped low, too low, “the one that made me almost throw the chips across the room.”
your face scrunched. “i didn’t do anythingggg,” you whined, pouting as you flopped sideways onto the couch next to him. “my back just did that thing! you knowww, the thing where it goes ‘krk!’ and then my mouth just went ‘ohhh.’ it wasn’t like, sexy or whatever.”
it was absolutely sexy or whatever.
violently so.
satoru dragged a hand down his face. “okay, sweetheart,” he said, voice thin. “i need you to understand something very important right now.”
“mmkay,” you said, kicking your feet cutely.
“you can’t,” he said, pointing at you like you were a fire hazard, “just make sounds like that around me. like. casually.”
“why not?” you asked, genuinely confused, which somehow made it worse. “it’s just a noise. like sneezing.”
“it’s not like sneezing,” he said, horrified. “if sneezing sounded like that, people would have to be arrested.”
you giggled. “you’re being dramatic.”
“am i?” he said, leaning closer, eyes wide and a little wild. “am i being dramatic? because you made that sound and i blacked out for like two seconds.”
you tilted your head, curls bouncing. “really?”
“yes, really,” he said, leaning even closer, his knee bumping yours, his voice dropping into something dangerously low. “sweetheart, that noise was… illegal. spiritually. emotionally. physically.”
your cheeks went warm. “oh.”
satoru’s breath hitched. “please don’t say ‘oh’ like that.”
“like what?” you asked innocently, biting your lip because you were confused, and that tiny movement nearly snapped the last thread of his sanity.
he inhaled sharply. “like THAT.”
you blinked. “this?”
“yes,” he choked. “that.”
your lips parted. “…this?”
“baby,” he said, and his voice sounded like he was restraining himself with actual divine power, “i’m begging you. please stop.”
you frowned softly. “but i wasn’t doing anything.”
“you never think you’re doing anything,” satoru groaned, head tilting back like he needed to pray to a higher being. “and that’s the problem.”
you scooted closer, placing a hand on his thigh because you wanted to comfort him, and he made a noise he definitely did not mean to make.
you gasped. “satoru! you just did it too!”
“that wasn’t-” he tried, but his voice cracked again, “i- baby- no-”
you brightened instantly. “oh my god you did!”
and then, like the final nail in his coffin, you leaned in, your lips brushing his ear as you whispered, practically purring, “was your moan sexy or like sneezing?”
he didn’t answer, he couldn’t.
because the look on his face said he was about two seconds away from ruining both of your night’s plans in ways that definitely crossed the line into filthy, and you, still oblivious and sparkly as ever, just smiled at him sweetly.
and satoru realized, with a kind of religious clarity, that you were going to kill him one day. accidentally, with a sound.
•●SUGURU GETO●•
there you were, sitting cross legged on his couch in one of his shirts, because you said it smelled "warm and safe", absentmindedly eating a popsicle while reading something on your phone.
you weren’t trying to be sexy, not even a little.
which was the problem.
because the second suguru walked into the room, he saw you drag your tongue slowly up the side of the damn thing, swirl it around the tip like you were tasting something delicate, then hollow your cheeks just slightly as you sucked on it.
and his brain just… shut off. completely.
"sugu?" you looked up, lips glossy and stained pink, mouth wrapped around the popsicle before you popped it free with an innocent little slip. "you okay? you’re staring."
he wasn’t staring. he was in crisis.
"i-" he cleared his throat, which suddenly felt too tight. "didn’t know you were… eating something."
"oh yeah," you nodded cheerfully, licking a stray drip off your thumb. "it was melting, so i had to, like, get it fast."
his jaw clenched so hard it could’ve cut diamonds.
"fast," he echoed, voice low in a way that was absolutely not appropriate for what should have been a normal sentence.
you didn’t notice, just took another long, slow pull from the popsicle, brows furrowing adorably as you concentrated on not letting it drip onto his shirt.
suguru rubbed a hand over his mouth, exhaling through his nose like he was trying to conjure enlightenment.
"sweetheart," he said carefully, stepping closer, "do you normally eat it like that?"
you blinked. "like what?"
he swallowed. you blinked again.
and then, because you were you, you demonstrated.
"like this?" you asked, sliding it into your mouth again, lips closing around it as you sucked softly, head tilted in curiosity.
suguru closed his eyes for a long moment as if in prayer.
when he opened them, he was already on the edge.
"yes," he said hoarsely. "exactly like that."
"is it weird?" you mumbled around the popsicle, voice muffled, cheeks a little puffed. "you’re looking at me funny."
"no," he said, too fast. "not weird. just… surprising."
you brightened. "oh! want a bite?"
he actually choked. you held it out to him, inches from his lips, oblivious to the absolute weapon you were handing him.
"go on," you said sweetly. "i’ll share."
he leaned in… slowly… deliberately… until his mouth closed around the very same spot yours had just been, tongue brushing the faint imprint of your lips still cold on the surface.
your breath caught.
and that, that tiny, surprised inhale, nearly undid him.
he pulled back, licking sticky sweetness from his thumb, eyes dark in a way that made your stomach flip.
"thank you," he murmured, voice low enough to be considered dangerous.
you blinked again. "for what?"
he smiled, soft but heavy with something you didn’t quite recognize. "for unintentionally ruining my night," he answered.
you frowned, confused. "did i… do something wrong?"
he shook his head slowly.
"no," he said, brushing a finger under your chin, lifting your gaze to his, "you just have no idea what you do to me."
your lips parted.
the popsicle finally dripped onto his shirt.
neither of you noticed.
•●KENTO NANAMI●•
nanami prided himself on being composed, steady, measured in every sense of the word, whether it was work, emotion, or the way he held himself around you, because someone had to be rational between the two of you and he accepted that responsibility the same way he accepted everything else. quietly, dutifully, with a deep breath and a sense of impending doom.
but tonight tested him.
because tonight you walked into his office after hours, hair slightly mussed from the wind, lips glossy in that distracted way you did whenever you were thinking too hard, wearing one of those soft little tops that looked innocent until you moved and nanami’s bloodstream caught fire like someone lit a match inside him.
you were just here to "keep him company," you said, because you were bored and missed him, which would’ve been adorable and sweet if you hadn’t chosen to sit on the edge of his desk with one knee bent up, your heel dangling from your toes, absentmindedly tracing circles on your thigh with the back of your pen while he pretended to read a spreadsheet he couldn’t even see anymore.
"you work too much," you murmured, leaning forward just a little, the pen tapping gently against your skin in a way you had absolutely no awareness of. "you’re gonna get wrinkles."
nanami swallowed hard enough that it was audible.
"i appreciate the concern," he said, keeping his voice steady with every ounce of discipline he’d ever cultivated. "but i’m nearly done."
you hummed, sweet and soft, and stretched your arms above your head in a slow, sleepy arch, your shirt riding up just barely, exposing the faintest sliver of warm skin above your waistband. you didn’t even realize you were doing it. nanami realized for both of you.
his jaw tensed.
you blinked at him, swinging your foot lazily. "are you okay? you look… red."
"i’m-" he cleared his throat, adjusting his tie even though it didn’t need adjusting. "i’m fine."
you scooted closer on the desk, turning so your legs brushed his shoulder, and nanami’s vision flickered. you were just trying to see his papers, completely oblivious to the way your perfume wrapped around him, how your breath brushed his cheek when you leaned in.
"you work so hard," you murmured, your voice warm and sincere as your fingers ghosted, just barely, over the back of his hand. "i don’t like seeing you tired."
nanami froze.
your touch was light, innocent, unthinking.
his reaction was not.
he exhaled through his nose like a man on the verge of breaking every rule he’d ever given himself. "it’s… alright," he managed quietly, "you make it easier."
you brightened at that, the softest smile blooming across your face as you picked up his tie between your fingers, absentminded, curious, twisting the silk slowly while you talked about absolutely nothing, like you didn’t realize you were holding the front of his composure between your hands.
"this is soft," you said, running your thumb over the fabric, gaze fixed on the weave as you leaned closer. "you always look so handsome in these."
nanami shut his eyes for a moment, because the warmth of your voice, the softness in your fingers, and the way you said handsome like it was a confession, you had no idea what it did to him.
"thank you," he said, a little too quietly.
and when you tugged him by the tie, just gently, just enough to pull him a few inches closer so you could straighten the knot, nanami’s breath faltered completely.
you were inches from him, unaware of the tension radiating off him in waves, unaware of the way his hand curled tightly around the arm of his chair to stop himself from touching your waist the way he desperately wanted to.
"there," you whispered, smoothing the fabric over his chest with both palms. "perfect."
nanami looked at you, soft, unaware, glowing in the warm lamplight of his office, and something in him gave.
"you really don’t know what you’re doing, do you?" he murmured, voice low, warm, dangerous in the gentlest way.
you blinked innocently. "doing what?"
he didn’t answer, he didn’t trust his voice.
instead, he stood, slowly, your hands still resting on his chest, your eyes widening as he stepped between your legs where you sat on the desk. his fingers brushed your jaw, barely there, his breathing calm but strained.
"you should go home with me," he said softly, firmly, as if stating a fact rather than offering a choice. "before i stop being responsible."
your lips parted. "are you… sure?"
nanami nodded once, the restraint in his expression cracking at the edges, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth like he couldn’t help himself.
"i’ve never been more sure of anything."
and the moment you smiled, sweet, trusting, radiant, nanami let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, his forehead resting against yours for a second that felt like surrender.
"come on," he whispered, voice warm enough to melt steel. "let’s go before you undo what’s left of my self control."
and you did, completely unaware that he’d had none the moment you touched his tie.
•●CHOSO KAMO●•
choso had never been good at… people.
he could fight, and survive, and protect the ones he loved with an intensity that bordered on feral, but the whole "understanding normal human behavior" part? yeah. no. total blank space. and honestly, he’d been doing fine with that, drifting around you like a big, silent, protective shadow, until today.
today was different.
today, you did something so innocent, so casual, so hot that it short circuited every neuron he had left.
it started because you wanted dessert.
and choso, who would give you the moon if you asked, bought you a mochi ice cream and sat with you on the floor of your apartment like it was the most natural thing in the world. he liked being near you, he liked watching you exist. it made something warm and heavy pull inside his chest.
you opened the mochi, took one bite, and sighed dreamily. "choso… this tastes like a cloud made of happiness."
he swallowed hard. "yeah?"
you nodded, smiling so bright he thought he might actually die. "try some."
before he could answer, you held the mochi out toward him, but your grip slipped, and the mochi smeared across his knuckles in a slow, sticky streak of cream.
"oops," you giggled, "sorry, cho."
he opened his mouth to say something, anything, but he didn’t get a single word out, because instead of wiping it off with a napkin like a normal human, you just… leaned forward and licked it off. slowly.
soft tongue dragging across his skin, warm breath ghosting over his hand, lips brushing the base of his thumb as you sucked a little spot clean like it was the most casual thing anyone had ever done.
choso’s entire nervous system exploded.
he froze completely, muscles locked, air trapped in his throat as heat crawled up his neck and into his ears. "w-wait-"
"mmm," you hummed, tasting the mochi from your finger before going back for another unnoticed smear on his knuckle, "it’s melting. i didn’t wanna waste it."
you said it like you were talking about the weather.
he was seconds from collapse.
you popped his finger into your mouth, gently, just to get the last bit of cream, and then released him with a soft "there."
his pulse was pounding so violently that he swore you could hear it.
you blinked up at him, wide eyed and sweet and absolutely oblivious. "what’s wrong? did i miss some?"
he shook his head too quickly. "n-no. you- you got it."
you smiled, proud of yourself. "yay."
he stared.
he tried to breathe.
he failed.
because all he could think about, all he could feel, was the ghost of your tongue on his skin, the warmth of your mouth around his finger, the way his name sounded when you said it with that soft, airy voice.
"you’re acting weird," you said, tilting your head. "are you getting sick? do curses get sick?"
"i’m fine," he said, except he sounded strangled, wrecked, barely holding it together.
you scooted closer, worried. "do you need water?"
no. he needed you to stop licking him like that unless he was allowed to do something about it.
you reached for another mochi without even looking at him. "we can share this one too!"
and choso, still staring at his damp knuckles, still replaying the moment in his mind like a broken tape loop, realized something with terrifying clarity.
if you ever did that again, on purpose or not, he was going to lose every ounce of self control he had.
but you just sat there, swinging your feet, smiling like this was the calmest, sweetest, most innocent moment in the world, while choso tried to remember how to exist.
"cho?" you asked softly. "you’re staring."
he swallowed hard. "sorry."
"it’s okay!" you beamed. "you can stare at me whenever you want."
and that, that right there, was the moment choso knew he was doomed in ways he couldn’t even begin to explain.
•●TAKUMA INO●•
it honestly wasn’t your fault. you were just trying to grab something you dropped.
takuma was already staring at you like you were the sun dripping honey, leaning against the doorway with that lazy, hungry smirk he only ever got around you, when you bent over without warning to pick up the lip balm that slipped out of your pocket.
and your skirt… lifted.
not a lot. just enough.
just enough for him to see the tiniest flash of soft lace, a pastel bow, and the curve of your ass framed like a gift specially prepared to ruin his entire day.
his breath stopped so violently he almost gave himself whiplash.
your panties were pink.
pink with a tiny heart charm dangling from the bow.
pink and delicate and stupidly pretty, exactly the kind he’d fantasized about you wearing.
you straightened up like nothing happened, twirling the lip balm between your fingers, totally unaware you had just spiritually body checked your boyfriend into the void.
"takuuu," you whined playfully, "look! i found it!" you waved the little tube around proudly.
he didn’t answer, he was too busy fighting for his life.
you noticed him staring, tilting your head in that sparkly, innocent way that always made him break a little. "are you okay? you’re, like… breathing weird."
he dragged a hand down his face, biting hard on the inside of his cheek to ground himself. "sweetheart," he said, voice wrecked and low, "you can’t just- you can’t bend over like that in front of me."
you looked confused. adorable. devastating. "like what?"
"like-" he gestured helplessly. "like you’re trying to send me to the ER."
you blinked, eyes round and glossy. "did i do something wrong?"
he stepped closer, hands sliding around your waist, voice dropping into something dark and trembling with restraint. "no. god, no. you didn’t do anything wrong. you just… you don’t know what you do to me."
you giggled, leaning into him, fingers playing with the zipper on his jacket. "you’re being dramatic."
"am i?" he asked, tugging you impossibly closer until your chest pressed to his. "because you just bent over and i saw your cute little panties and now i can’t think about anything except getting on my knees and tasting you through them."
your breath hitched, "taku…"
he smirked, lips brushing your ear. "yeah? you like when i talk to you like that?"
you nodded, cheeks warm, thighs squeezing together instinctively.
his eyes flicked down.
oh, that ruined him.
"sweetheart," he murmured, "if you keep looking at me like that i’m gonna forget every moral i’ve ever tried to have."
you wriggled a little in his hold, and the movement made your skirt lift again.
he groaned. openly, painfully.
"baby," he warned, "don’t test me. i’m trying so hard not to do something stupid."
you grinned up at him, the cutest, sunniest grin on earth, and said the sentence that completely fried his remaining brain cells, "it’s okay, taku… i’m stretchy."
he made a noise that definitely wasn’t human.
your smile grew wider, proud of yourself for saying something you thought sounded sexy.
he grabbed your hips like he was seconds away from falling apart. "yeah," he said, voice shaking, "i know you are."
and then he kissed you, deep, slow, hot enough to melt his own bones, his hands sliding down just far enough to brush the lace he shouldn’t have seen, and he whispered against your lips, "you’re gonna kill me someday, you know that?"
you just giggled, tugging him closer. "but like… in a cute way, right?"
and he was gone.
completely, hopelessly gone.
•●HAJIME KASHIMO●•
hajime honestly didn’t understand why you insisted on sitting on him sometimes, especially when there were perfectly good chairs right next to him. but you had this habit of climbing into his space with the same mindless confidence as a kitten and he never stopped you, partly because he liked the warmth, partly because he was hundreds of years old and had long since given up pretending he didn’t crave softness, and partly because telling you "no" always made you pout at him like he’d just deprived you of sunlight.
he should have stopped you today. he really should have.
you were meant to be watching a movie, but you ended up perched sideways across his lap, your arms loosely around his shoulders, your cheek resting against him while you rambled about how "smug the villain looked," and he was managing it fine, controlled breathing, relaxed posture, zero inappropriate thoughts, until you suddenly gasped at a jumpscare on screen and did the one thing his ancient self was absolutely not prepared for. you bounced.
not a polite shift. not a subtle wiggle. you bounced in his lap, soft thighs sinking onto him, weight settling right where he already struggled to keep himself calm, and hajime made a sound he didn’t mean to make, something low, sharp, bitten off like he’d been hit, and you, being you, didn’t even notice.
you just bounced again.
"oh my god, hajime, that scared me," you breathed, doing another excited little hop that landed directly against the thick outline in his pants.
his entire soul left his body.
his hands shot to your hips like he needed to hold you still or he would die on the spot, jaw clenched, eyes narrowing at the ceiling because he could not look at you while you were unknowingly grinding yourself onto him like some kind of adorable menace sent from the heavens specifically to ruin his self control.
"don’t," he said, voice low, dangerous, strained in a way you’d never heard.
you blinked up at him. "don’t what?"
and then you bounced again.
a full, innocent, cheerful little bounce.
hajime’s breath stuttered out of him like he’d been electrocuted from the inside, his back going rigid, fingers digging into the softness of your hips with a restraint that physically hurt him.
"you need to stop," he managed, every syllable tight.
your lips parted. "oh! am i too heavy? i’m sorry, i-"
"that’s not-" he hissed through his teeth, head dropping back against the couch like he was begging some higher power for mercy, "-that’s not the problem."
you tilted your head, clueless and sweet. "then what’s wrong?"
your weight shifted again, unintentionally rolling against him, and hajime’s hand flew up so fast he nearly slapped a palm over your mouth just to stop the little surprised sound that escaped you, because if you made one more noise like that he genuinely didn’t know what he’d do.
he swallowed hard, eyes half lidded, breath trembling against your cheek as he leaned forward just enough for you to feel the heat of him and hear exactly how ruined his voice had become.
"if you move again," he murmured, each word slow and deliberate like he was holding himself back with chains, "i’m going to stop pretending i don’t want you."
your eyes widened, heartbeat tripping. "oh…"
his fingers squeezed your thighs, slow, reverent, possessive, hot.
"yeah," he whispered, forehead pressing to your jaw as he exhaled shakily, "oh."
you didn’t bounce again.
…but only because the moment you tried to adjust, hajime dragged you perfectly still in his lap with a low warning growl that told you exactly what would happen the second you did.
and for the rest of the movie, he didn’t take his hands off you once
•●HIROMI HIGURUMA●•
higuruma had always told himself he was immune to temptation. years of detached logic, barricaded emotion, and a legal career built on discipline and restraint leaving him with the firm belief that he simply wasn’t the type of man who lost his composure. he had lived entire decades in grayscale, untouched by impulse.
and then he met you.
you, who had somehow slipped color into his life without even meaning to. you, whose laugh softened the edges of his mind. you, who kissed him slow like he deserved warmth. you, who still didn’t understand the power you had over him.
which was why tonight felt like some kind of cosmic joke, because he truly wasn’t prepared for something as simple, as innocent, as devastatingly erotic as you kneeling at his feet.
it happened so casually he almost missed it.
he had been sitting on the edge of the bed, half dressed for your quiet date night, rolling his sleeves and thinking about which bottle of wine he should get when you padded over in your little lounge shorts and pastel top, all soft and sweet and completely unaware that he was already trying not to stare at the shape of your thighs in the low lamp light.
"baby?" you said, tilting your head. "your shoe’s untied."
"i’ll get it," he murmured automatically, already reaching down. but you were faster.
you pressed a gentle hand to his knee and lowered yourself to the floor in front of him, kneeling between his legs like it was the most natural thing in the world, your body settling into the space where his breath immediately hitched.
you didn’t notice. you never did.
you just smiled up at him, god, that soft smile, and then bent your head, gathering the laces with careful fingers.
and higuruma’s world detonated.
because all he could see was you on your knees, right between his thighs, head bowed like you were about to worship him, and it hit him so hard he actually had to plant both hands on the mattress to steady himself. a slow heat burned up his neck, spreading across his chest, pooling low in his stomach with an intensity that almost scared him.
you tugged the lace gently. "see? you always double knot them wrong. it gets messy."
he swallowed. the sound was audible.
"is something wrong?" you asked, looking up at him with those wide, innocent eyes that made him feel like he was losing every remaining fragment of sanity.
your hands were still on his shoe. you were still kneeling between his legs. you were still too sweet to understand what he was imagining, your mouth on him instead of the laces, your lips parting around him so prettily, his hands in your hair, guiding your head just like-
he exhaled sharply. "nothing’s wrong," he lied, voice strained enough to crack.
you brightened, returning to tying the laces. "okay! i’ll fix it, then."
your fingers brushed his ankle and he nearly groaned.
you didn’t look up this time. "you’re breathing weird," you muttered softly, brows drawn in concentration. "do you need water?"
"no," he said too quickly, gripping the edge of the bed harder, knuckles whitening.
"oh. are you hot? you look hot."
he was. unbearably so.
"sweetheart," he managed, voice dropping in a way he didn’t mean to let slip, "do you… have any idea what this looks like?"
you blinked up at him. "me tying your shoes?"
he stared.
you truly didn’t know. you genuinely didn’t see it. and that innocence, god, it ruined him.
you got up on your knees a little straighter, closer between his legs, hands resting on his thigh for balance, and higuruma felt every last shred of control snap like a weak thread.
"i’m just helping," you whispered, tilting your head. "why are you looking at me like that?"
because he wanted you. because he always wanted you. because seeing you kneeling between his legs made his mind fill with images he couldn’t say out loud without losing what was left of his dignity.
he leaned forward, cupping your jaw, brushing his thumb along your lips before he even realized he was doing it. "sweetheart," he murmured, low and rough, "if you keep kneeling in front of me like this, i’m not going to survive the night."
your breath caught, eyes widening as understanding finally flickered across your expression, slow, dawning, devastatingly adorable.
"o-oh," you whispered. "you mean… like… um…"
he smiled, warm and dangerous. "yes. exactly like that."
a soft, breathy sound escaped your mouth.
he leaned down further, lips brushing your forehead. "come up here," he said gently, tugging you into his lap, "before i forget every decision i’ve ever made."
and you climbed into his arms with that same innocent trust, your legs folding over his, your hands finding his shoulders, your heartbeat fluttering against his chest, completely oblivious to just how close he had come to losing all restraint the moment you touched the floor.
he kissed you slow, deep, lingering, his hands sliding around your waist like he was anchoring himself.
"next time," he whispered against your lips, "tell me before you get on your knees."
you blinked up at him, cheeks warm. "why?"
he laughed softly, brushing his nose against yours. "because i want to be ready for you."
•●RYOMEN SUKUNA●•
it started because you were being sweet again, which was always a problem, because sweetness around a man like sukuna worked the same way blood did around a starving animal. you wandered into his throne room like you had every right to be there, hair messy from sleep, robe slipping off one shoulder in a way that was so innocent it should’ve been illegal, carrying a tray of tea you insisted on making because "you wanted to try the fancy leaves."
the guards froze the moment you appeared. no one brought the king tea, no one walked right up the steps of his dais without permission, no one acted like sukuna was someone who could be approached at all.
except you.
you walked straight to him, barefoot, humming, a ribbon falling out of your hair, and he felt his jaw tense because you genuinely had no idea what you did to him. you set the tray down beside him and bowed in that clumsy little way you always did, the neckline of your robe dipping again, and his eyes dragged over every inch of you with slow, dangerous interest.
"i made it for you," you said, smiling like you hadn’t just walked into a monster’s den. "it smells really good, see?"
and then you made a mistake.
you leaned in.
close. too close. your hand rested on his thigh for balance, thoughtless, innocent, soft, and you lifted the cup toward him, letting him smell the steam rising from it. you didn’t notice how the silk of your robe brushed against him. you didn’t notice how the warmth of your breath landed on his neck. you didn’t notice how every single guard dropped their gaze in terror because they could practically feel the air around their king shift.
but sukuna noticed everything.
his pulse throbbed once, hard enough that even he felt it. your hand on his leg was warm and oblivious, your body leaning into his like it belonged there, and he didn’t even bother hiding the way his eyes dragged down the curve of your neck, the slope of your shoulder, the way your robe threatened to slip further with every breath you took.
"careful," he murmured, voice like gravel dragged across stone, "you’re getting awfully close to kneeling for me."
you blinked, confused in a way that made his teeth clench. "oh- i didn’t wanna spill it! i always spill stuff if i don’t get close."
you adjusted your grip on the cup and somehow, somehow, you managed to lean in even closer. your knee brushed his, he exhaled slowly, like a man genuinely trying not to destroy something fragile.
the teacup trembled slightly in your hand and you laughed softly, lifting your other hand to steady it, which meant you braced your palm even more firmly on his thigh, fingers curling just barely, unaware that you were digging your nails in like a lover marking territory. your breath ghosted over the skin of his throat this time, warm, soft, trusting in a way nobody had ever trusted sukuna in a thousand years.
"see?" you whispered. "it smells so nice."
and he snapped.
not violently, no.
just inwardly.
something low and primal clawed up the back of his spine, something hot and territorial and ugly that wanted to drag you fully into his lap and make sure no one ever saw you like this again. his hand shot up to your chin, fingers gripping with enough strength to make you gasp, but not enough to hurt, just enough to make you freeze, wide eyed, staring at him like you couldn’t understand why he looked like he wanted to devour you whole.
"you walk in here half dressed," he growled quietly, "put your hands on me. breathe on me. lean over me like you’re begging to be ruined… and have no idea what you’re doing. do you?"
you blinked again, lips parted, genuinely confused. "i just wanted you to try the tea."
god, you were going to kill him.
his thumb dragged slowly across your lower lip, and you shivered, not because you knew what it meant, but because the touch was warm and possessive in the way that always flustered you.
"you’re lucky," he murmured, voice dropping lower, "that i like the way you taste on my hands."
you swallowed.
he smirked, because he felt it.
"and you’re lucky," he continued, leaning in so close your noses nearly brushed, "that i haven’t decided yet whether i should send every guard out of this room or make them watch what happens when you crawl into my space like this."
you whispered, barely audible, "i just… wanted you to like the tea…"
he laughed, low, dark, pleased, and let his forehead rest against yours for a single, dangerous second.
"oh, little mouse," he said softly, "i like far more than the tea."
your heart hammered. your knees wobbled. you were entirely unaware of what you’d done to him, how close he was to pulling you onto his throne and making a spectacle of you, but you felt the heat of his breath on your lips when he added, "next time you want to serve your king…"
his fingers curled under your chin again, tilting your face up. "…don’t come in here dressed like you’re offering yourself."
you stammered, "i- i wasn’t- i didn’t-"
he smirked.
"that," he murmured, "is exactly why you’re dangerous."
•●TOJI FUSHIGURO●•
you weren’t trying to be sexy, not even a little bit. you were just standing in his kitchen in one of his shirts that barely covered your ass, humming something sparkly and brainless while making breakfast like it was the cutest domestic morning in the entire world. your hair was messy, your lip gloss was half faded, and you were holding a frying pan with two fingers like it weighed a hundred pounds.
and toji… toji was losing his goddamn mind.
he leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, staring at the way the hem of his shirt lifted every time you moved, flashes of soft, perfect skin teasing him until something dark and hungry started crawling up his spine. he wasn’t subtle about it either. the man was staring at you like a wolf in a fairy tale, tracking every sway of your hips while you tried to figure out if pancakes were supposed to bubble this much.
"tojiiii," you whined, poking the sizzling batter with a spatula like it wronged you personally, "why is it doing that? is it mad at me?"
his voice came out low, rough, almost feral. "it’s not mad, doll. it’s just cooking."
"oh," you said, blinking slowly. "i thought it was like… protesting."
he took a slow breath, knuckles whitening where his arms crossed, because you sounded so sweet and clueless and his, and it didn’t help that your thighs were peeking every time you shifted.
you flipped the pancake (badly), and the shirt lifted again.
and that was it. he snapped.
the next second his hands were already on your waist, big palms wrapping around you and dragging you back into him, his chest against your back, his breath hot at your ear. you squeaked, more delighted than scared, melting instantly into his hands like you were made to be held there.
"toji?" you breathed, voice all soft and sugary.
"you’re killin’ me," he muttered, one hand sliding down your waist, fingers digging into the curve of your hip like he needed to anchor himself. "walkin’ around my kitchen wearin’ my shirt, makin’ me breakfast like you’re my little wife."
your cheeks went warm. "i like makin’ you breakfast…"
"yeah?" he murmured, his lips brushing your neck, just a graze, just enough to make your knees buckle. "that why you’re bein’ so good this morning?"
"i’m always good," you said proudly.
he laughed, low and sinful. "sweetheart, you have no idea."
your fingers tightened around the spatula when his other hand slid down, gripping the underside of your ass through the thin fabric, pulling a tiny gasp out of you, one so pretty and soft he exhaled like he’d been punched.
you didn’t even fight the way he bent you over the counter. your hands flattened against the cool surface, breath catching when he pressed his body flush to yours, his grip firm and possessive on your hips. his voice dropped to something dark and hungry, the kind of tone that dragged a shiver up your spine.
"breakfast can wait," he said against your ear. "needed to touch you the second i saw you."
you wriggled back against him, teasing without realizing you were teasing, and his fingers tightened so sharply you let out a soft surprised whimper, one that made his entire body go rigid behind you.
"toji-"
"don’t start," he growled gently, one hand sliding up your spine, the other still cupping your ass like he owned every inch of you. "you bend over this counter in my shirt and expect me to be calm?"
"i wasn’t expecting anything…" you mumbled, a little breathless.
"yeah, well," he whispered, lips grazing your jaw, "i’m expectin’ a lot."
his thumb stroked the dip of your waist, slow and deliberate, and the air between you went hot, thick, charged, the kind of tension that made your thighs rub together on instinct.
he smirked against your skin.
"careful, doll," he murmured. "you keep makin’ those little noises and i’m gonna forget this is supposed to stay pg 13."
you gasped. "this is pg 13?"
"for now."
and the way he said it made your whole body warm.
•●SHIU KONG●•
shiu really didn’t ask for this. he didn’t ask to be sitting on the edge of his couch polishing a gun, trying to remember every reason he had for keeping his life clean and precise and free of distractions, while you stood in front of the mirror in nothing but one of his shirts, half buttoned, half not, leaning in close with your mouth gently parted as you applied a fresh coat of lipgloss like you were performing a sacred ritual.
it was a stupid lipgloss. pink, sparkly, the type that tasted like candy and trouble, and he had never cared about anything less in his entire life… until you popped the wand back into the tube with this tiny little sound and smacked your lips together like you were practicing kissing someone.
he froze. completely.
he didn’t even blink, didn’t breathe, didn’t move a muscle. the entire room suddenly felt too hot, too small, too filled with the sweet artificial strawberry scent radiating off your mouth.
"shinuuu," you whined softly, dragging out his name like it was made of sugar, turning around with your glossy lips shining in the light. "do you think this color is cute? or does it make my mouth look… i dunno… too much?"
too much?
he was going to die.
the shirt you were wearing hit mid thigh in a way that made his jaw lock. your glossed lips parted slightly as you waited for his answer, and he genuinely forgot how sentences worked.
"you look…" he swallowed hard, watching you take the gloss back out just to add another layer, slowly, carefully, dragging the wand over your bottom lip while looking at him through the mirror like you had absolutely no idea what you were doing to him. "you look good."
you giggled, smearing a little extra shine on the corner of your mouth. "only good?"
he stood up so quickly it startled you, gun forgotten on the couch, his expression sharp in that dangerous, unreadable way that always meant your brain should be worried but your body was definitely not.
he walked toward you slowly, like a predator humoring its own restraint, eyes locked on your mouth.
"come here," he murmured.
you didn’t even have time to giggle again before his hand slipped around your jaw, tilting your head up gently but firmly, his thumb brushing the edge of your bottom lip and coming away sticky with glittering gloss.
his voice dropped low, rough, almost strained. "you have no idea what that does to me."
your breath hitched, your lips parting instinctively under his touch.
and that was all he needed.
he kissed you, slow at first, like he was tasting the gloss off your lips, then deeper, hungrier, pulling you in by the waist until you were pressed against him, your fingers curling in his shirt as his mouth moved over yours with the kind of heat that made your knees weak.
the gloss smeared between you, sweet and warm and messy, and he didn’t seem to care at all, in fact, he kissed you harder for it, like he wanted every trace of shine transferred to him.
when he finally pulled back, you were breathless and glossy all over again, lips glistening, eyes wide.
he wiped the corner of your mouth with his thumb and brought it to his own lips, tasting the gloss you left on him.
"now," he said, voice low and dangerous, "ask me again if it’s ‘too much.’"
your cheeks flushed pink.
"…no," you whispered, flustered, "i think it’s just right…"
he smirked, leaning in to kiss you again, slower this time, softer, still intoxicating, still possessive.
"yeah," he murmured against your lips, "me too."
•●NAOYA ZEN'IN●•
naoya really wasn’t planning on bringing you to the clan dinner.
in fact, he swore he wouldn’t. mostly because his relatives were vultures, but also because every time you walked into a room he immediately forgot how to speak like a normal, functioning adult male, which was embarrassing and he refused to admit it.
but you’d shown up in his doorway wearing the prettiest little outfit he’d ever seen on a human woman, soft pink dress, bows in your hair, perfume like sugared peachesm and you’d said, "nao-chan, can i come with you? i’ll sit quietly like a lady~" while twirling your lip gloss between two fingers.
and that was it. decision made. he was doomed.
so now he was sitting at a long tatami table with several stern zen’in men discussing business, while you sat across the room with a cup of tea, legs tucked to the side, humming softly as you scrolled through your phone, completely unaware that every curve, every sway, every tilt of your head was slowly murdering him.
he kept pretending to listen to whoever was talking, nodding politely, but his eyes kept drifting back to you. the way your glossed lips pursed slightly when you read something funny, the way your hair caught the lantern light, the way your sweet little dress rode up your thighs when you shifted on the cushion.
one of his cousins leaned in. "zen’in… you keep staring. what’s the deal with that girl, anyway?"
naoya didn’t even try to hide the smug smile curling on his lips. "that girl," he said slowly, savoring the words, "is mine."
his cousin snorted. "yeah, but why her? she looks like she doesn’t know the difference between a curse tool and a hairbrush."
naoya turned his head so sharply the table creaked.
"she doesn’t need to know," he said, voice dangerously low, "because she’s beautiful, obedient, and perfect. something none of you idiots are capable of finding."
his cousin opened his mouth to argue, but naoya kept talking, suddenly emboldened, leaning back like the world’s most entitled aristocrat.
"and she cooks," he added, ticking it off with a finger. "and she cleans." another finger. "and she looks pretty doing absolutely nothing," the last one, said with a smirk that made several other zen’ins tense.
"watch this," he murmured, chin lifting proudly.
across the room, you noticed naoya looking at you and you waved at him with both hands, smiling so sweetly it was almost cartoonish.
"hi baby!" you said, loudly, in front of everyone.
naoya’s ears went red.
his cousin choked on his drink. "holy shit, zen’in, she’s actually into you?"
naoya smirked like he had just won the national championship in every existing category.
"into me?" he repeated. "she adores me."
you stood up and floated over to him, dress swaying, perfume trailing, and naoya, the man who thought women should be silent ornaments, nearly stopped breathing as you knelt beside him to whisper, "my tea’s cold… can i sit on your lap while i drink yours?"
his cousin gagged.
naoya didn’t even blink. "yes," he said instantly, the easiest yes of his life.
you climbed into his lap without hesitation, skirts bunching up, thighs soft and warm against him, and naoya felt his entire body tighten with immediate, humiliating need. you didn’t notice, of course, you just leaned back against his chest, sipping his tea with a happy little sigh.
the table of men stared.
naoya tilted his head toward them, a deadly, satisfied smile stretching slow across his face.
"see?" he said quietly. "perfect."
and then, with absolutely no warning, you giggled softly, wiggling in his lap to get comfortable, your soft little ass pressing directly into him, and naoya had to grip your hip to keep himself from groaning like he’d been hit by a truck.
his cousin muttered, "zen’in, you’re so whipped it’s pathetic."
naoya didn’t deny it.
he didn’t care.
because you shifted again, batting your pretty lashes up at him, completely oblivious to what you were doing to him, and naoya felt heat flood all the way down his spine.
"baby?" you whispered sweetly. "are you okay?"
he swallowed hard. "i’m perfect," he managed.
his family looked horrified.
naoya looked like he had just achieved nirvana.
and you?
you just took another sip of tea, still curled up in his lap like his own personal, devastating little dream, unaware that every man in the room now knew one undeniable truth.
naoya zen’in would burn the entire clan to the ground if you asked him to.
Iwaizumi Hajime, who, when he first saw you in the crowd of Oikawa’s fangirls, knew he wouldn’t have a chance– not when you were into Oikawa.
Iwaizumi Hajime, who stared in shock when you separated from the gaggle of fangirls and headed over to him, shyly handing him an envelope, and a cold bottle of water.
Iwaizumi Hajime, who stumbled and stammered over his words, but nevertheless was able to mutter out a thank you. He replayed the smile you gave him that day over and over again. It became a problem when he got distracted during practice and got hit by the ball.
Iwaizumi Hajime, who, when he saw you again, was determined to not ruin this chance and struck up conversation, leading to him walking you to class, which eventually became routine.
Iwaizumi Hajime, who didn’t bother correcting Matsukawa and Hanamaki when they teased him about his crush on you, and only muttered a small “soon”, when they asked him if you were his girlfriend.
Iwaizumi Hajime, who confessed to you right before a match, and got your response at the end of it, with a kiss on the cheek and a cold bottle of water next to him. He had frozen in place, and ignored all the teasing the team and his friends were giving, only focused on the shy smile on your face and the blush that spread on your face, unaware of the same blush and smile on his face.
Iwaizumi Hajime, who waits for you at the end of the aisle years later with a watery smile, and eyes full of love.
“why aren’t you holding my hand?” / iwaizumi hajime
“iwa, why aren’t you holding my hand?”
he stops halfway down the flight of airport stairs at your comment. he turns around, one brow raised in confusion as he scans himself. both of his hands are completely occupied, one carrying his suitcase, the other carrying yours and a ginormous duffle bag full of things you insisted had to come with. he has a travel pillow around his neck and a backpack on his back that feels so heavy he might fall over any second now. you didn’t just ask that question, right? but he’s competitive in his nature and certainly not one to back down from a challenge. plus, despite how emotionally intelligent he may be, he can never tell when you’re trying to get a kick out of him and when you’re being dead serious.
so your duffle bag gets slung over his shoulder and he opts to tough it out and carry both suitcases in one hand. he tells himself that after skipping the gym to pack for the trip and eating strictly junk the past few days just to empty out the fridge, he needs the arm day anyway. as long as he can keep some of his sanity on the way down.
now, with one hand completely free, he holds it out behind him for you to take. you intertwine your fingers with his, smiling up at him in victory. even though he’s dying inside, he still gives a gentle squeeze back.
emotional support bunny at Jujutsu High Culling Game version | Hidden Inventory version | Curse version | Tokyo version | Coworker version
૮․ ․ ྀིა 18+, minors dni
cw: free use vibes, oral/deepthroat, piv, praise, toxic yuri(Kirara), nipple play, object insertion, forced orgasms, fingering
note: i’ve never written anything for hiromi before, i apologize if he’s ooc :(
includes: Hakari, Hoshi, Kashimo, Higuruma
being the emotional support bunny at Jujutsu High means you’re there for your friends whenever they need you. you get lots of attention, lots of cuddles and lots of orgasms :3
Kinji Hakari🎰
he thinks it’s funny. how you yelp when he pulls on your fluffy tail. how needy you get sometimes, how easy. let’s be honest, kinji is a bit arrogant and not the type to stress. ever. besides, sappy dates and heartfelt conversations are not his thing.
so yes, his idea of comfort and support is a shameless, nearly public blowjob. he’s not rough per se, just a little. his favourite thing to do is to push his throbbing cock down your throat and to hold it there for many agonizing seconds without moving. in a way, it’s difficult for him too. the idea of fucking your throat is so tempting.
he likes how your chest rises and falls, how your nostrils flare and drool climbs down your chin, how your eyes get beady as you struggle to focus on breathing. “fuck, hold it baby, jus’ like that,” he grunts quietly.
but even then, your cute pout makes him have mercy. your lips get so swollen after he pulls out, his coarse pubes have been rubbing against the glossy skin.
“you took me so well, bunny, fuck, fuck…”
he gives you some time to recover, lets you gasp for air between his legs. the way his cock hangs heavy and proud in front of your face makes you wet, no matter how shy you are. his tip is a pretty shade pf pale brown, it stands out nicely against his darker coloured shaft… you wish he’d rub it against your pussy more often.
kinji only notices your heightened arousal when your mouth is around him again, tongue working on him desperately. “easy there, eeeasy, girl…”
fingers card through your hair, collecting locks and your two drooping bunny ears to pull them back.
from time to time, he fucks into your mouth to make you gag a little, only to coo and apologize when you mewl in protest. “i know, baby, i know, ‘m bein’ mean…can’t help it, i love it when you struggle a bit.”
of course he does, it’s good for his ego.
but you don’t mind, do you? you’re a rather durable bunny girl, used to rough handling.
direct penetration with kinji’s cock is rare. only happens when he really needs to let off some steam, then he’s all serious and focused. eyes zeroed in on how your tired folds part for the nth time as he sinks into you.
his thrust get frantic, desperate and he begs orders you to cum on his cock. he needs your pussy to strangle him.
it’s like a whole work out, really, both of you breathless and exhausted at the end. worth it? absolutely. by the time he’s kissing you gently again, he’s already figured out what to do about the thing that upset him in the first place.
nothing gets his brains working like a good fuck <3
Kirara Hoshi💫
messy, messy girl, messy friendship.
on one hand, she likes having you at her side, on the other, she gets jealous if kinji seeks you out. but hey hey! kirara does that too so it’s really unfair !
let’s just focus on when she’s being nice, okay? because when kirara’s jealous, you better run to someone before she catches you and gives your little pussy and bum some spanks:(
or she puts all kinds of uncomfy things on your nipples, like ice blocks and clamps :( and she makes all sorts of silly threats, like how she wants to give you nipple piercings :(( and you tell her those hurt and she laughs :(
her main sources of frustration are small inconveniences and you always know just the thing to cheer her up. anything that ranges from dressing up to shopping to smoking a little weed while listening to music can do the trick.
kirara likes to put blush on your tail, she taps the brush to your pretty butt until a pale pink hue appears. and gossip! lots of gossip. and then you both get tired and drowsy, like when kids eat too much sugar and come down from the high.
that’s when the sleepy giggling and the lingering touches come. at this point, you’re too wet, too needy and your mouth falls open obediently, letting kirara’s tongue press against yours. it becomes a slow, sloppy make out session. soft ah-ahs fill the air, she pulls your hair, you squeal and part your legs.
“bun-bun, so eager, so pretty, wanna play with you a little…”
she likes to experiment on your little cunt, see what makes you wet, what makes your hole pulse nervously, what make you cry, what makes you spread your legs wider.
at first, kirara stares at the sight with excitement in her eyes, her star shaped pupils shine brighter as she inserts the end of of her makeup brush into you. a hand goes below the waistline of her skirt, she can’t resist stroking herself.
“this is the fourth one, right?” she asks you and you confirm with a pathetic moan that indeed, this is your fourth orgasm. so many objects have been inside you at this point.
“you’re gonna have a few more, hah… this makes me feel so good.”
you don’t say no to that, knowing she’s enjoying herself. you look down to see kirara’s sleepy expression, cheeks mushed against your thigh, half-liddes eyes fixed on your messy pussy, her fingers curl weakly around orange lipgloss she’s lazily pumping into you.
“give me another, i need to see you clench like that again.”
you cry out as you cum around the lipgloss, an embarassing little trickle of squirt runs down your folds and kirara smiles, fucking you through the climax.
Hajime Kashimo🌩️
hajime is confused. he’s never heard of bunny girls before, sure he’s seen some things during his life time but not… whatever you are…whatever your purpose is.
at first, he does not care. he came to fight and defeat and whatever his stupid sorcerer allies do is none of his business. and he’s a difficult person too so you have half a mind to steer clear of him.
your first interaction is just him wordlessly poking at your bunny parts with a frown, acting like the concept of your existence bothers him. he gets used to it. not just your whole being but how you support some team members, how you always know what they need, how you’re so happy to make others happy.
the ice breaks when one of the kids gets on his nerves. yuta makes a comment, he means well but he’s too perceptive for his own good. something about his reasons to join the culling game. hajime becomes sulky, agitated and instead of grilling everyone to ashes, he opts to brood in an onsen.
he doesn’t push you away when you climb into his lap but doesn’t really register you either.
you’ve heard him talk about sukuna before, that’s all he seems to care about so you start rambling quietly. not even a curse like him sounds threatening when you talk about him in that sweet tone. you recount the time sukuna got control of his vessel in shibuya, how scared you got and hajime hums non-commitally, his hands encircling your waist.
your tail twitches nervously against his inner thigh when you get to the part where sukuna looked at you briefly before continuing the massacre.
hajime smiles to himself a tiny bit. he loves hearing about how powerful sukuna is. it’s comforting…wait…it’s actually working. your methods are actually helping him. his hands part your thighs a little, encouraging you to keep talking, even if you have to take shallow breaths between the sentences now.
by the time you get to the part when sukuna switched vessels, two of his fingers are fully inside you, lazily stretching you open in the water. it stings a little, water isn’t the best lubricant but hajime’s other hand quickly finds your little clit and rubs it too. something hard pokes the underside of your thigh.
you try moving to make hajime feel good too but he stops you with a displeased grunt.
“nah, just keep talkin’, sweet thing…” the words are slurred, his movements still slow, like he isn’t even fingering you, just playing with something, using your pussy like a stim toy.
you obey, eventually start asking him questions too. he answers patiently. it’s a nice conversation, hajime doesn’t really open up but compared to how little he talks to others, he could be considered chatty. you learn a lot about an older era and he learns a lot about your body.
each time you cum, you apologize for interrupting.
“s’okay, let it all out,” he mumbles and waits for your orgasm to pass, lets you arch into his front before he continues the conversation and his previous ministrations.
hajime has to admit, you really are a helpful little bunny, the evenings he spends with you become his favourite.
Hiromi Higuruma ⚖️
what makes the life of an attorney, a sorcerer attorney no less, hard? the better question is, what doesn’t?
working sucks, injustice sucks, curses suck…
a while ago, he told himself to try new things. that includes you. the cute emotional support bunny. the few times he’s visited Jujutsu High, you were always so nice, albeit a little shy.
since hiromi mainly talks to yuji, he doesn’t see you that often, you’re always just passing by. how you manage to tolerate certain people (that blue haired threat for instance) around you is beyond him but maybe it just means you’re patient and non-judgemental. how…relieving.
it’s hard to guess what would help a man like hiromi feel better. you can’t magically fix japan’s jurisdiction system, can’t take away his guilt. so, you do small things to lighten his day.
your bring him coffee. he drinks a lot of that. double shot espressos, bitter and dark. the time you try them, your nose scrunches up, pulling your expression into a silly grimace. it almost makes hiromi laugh.
whenever a meeting causes him to have a headache, you massage the back of his neck, his temples and shoulders. he doesn’t even notice the satisfied groans that slip out between his gritted teeth.
sitting in his lap while he reads reports is the best. you’re like a weighted blanket for him, your soft fur brushing against his skin is a nice feeling too.
your breasts are his favourite. he sticks a hand under your blouse, slides it under your bra and fondles the warm flesh like a stress ball. the paper in his hand shakes ever so slightly as you start pressing your butt against his crotch.
“no, bunnny, i have to work, be good for me.”
you nod and let out an accidental yelp when he pinches your nipple as a warning.
“yes, sir, i’ll be so good,” you promise. and you do keep your word, you let hiromi play with your now swollen nipples without a complaint, even as the wetness coating your underwear start seeping into his clothes too.
despite hiromi’s attempted discipline, his breathing always get ragged, his hips buck up sometimes, his cock hardens as if just to spite him.
“are you okay, sir?”
oh god, how sweet and innocent you sound.
“please don’t let me fuck you, please—“
“yes, sir.”
that just makes it worse. he’s leaking from the tip of his cock against his thigh. your pussy must be so cute, covered in a patch of your fluffy fur, your juices stuck in the curls. it would be even prettier with his cum on it, he’d fill you up and pinch your folds together to make your entrance overflow.
luckily, or unluckily, you’re a good bunny. you help him calm down. he asked you not to let him fuck you, so that’s what you do.
you point at something on his report, read it out loud to redirect his thoughts. it works, it hurts but it works.
૮․ ․ ྀིაall rights reserved. no translations, plagiarism, modifications, reposts, or ai feeding. disturbing comments will be deleted. english is not my native language.
Your Daughter tries to make your Sick!Husband feel better //fluff
“Daddy, Daddy!!”, your Daughter squeals loudly, running into the House after having accompanied you on running errands.
Your Husband, Iwaizumi Hajime, is currently sick on the couch, used tissues and soup bowls next to him. He looks awful; his nose is red, skin pale and eyes dull from watching too much stupid TV and well, obviously the virus.
“Baby, don’t get too close to your Father. He’s still infectious.”
“Infesius?” she babbles confused and looks up to you.
“You can get sick too if you get too close to him.”
She pouts and shakes her head, “But Mommy, I bought Daddy the things!! I wanna give him!!”
You pout and nod, putting the grocery bag down. “You can show him what you bought, but no kisses or hugs, okay?”
She grins and runs further into the House, “Okay!!”
After organizing the Groceries and preparing a new Soup and Tea for Iwaizumi, you walk into the Living Room, carrying both to the table.
Your Daughter sits a little too close to her Father, her just bought things in her own little Bag, pulling one out after the other with her clumsy little toddler fingers.
“Look Daddy!”
Iwaizumi’s eyes have fallen close, due to fatigue.
“Daddy!! Look!”
“Oh, I’m so sorry, Princess…Daddy’s a little tired.”
“Yeah, Yeah. Okay, I bought this!” She holds a pink Unicorn Bath Bomb into Iwaizumi’s face.
He blinks a few times, backing off slightly before nodding slowly, “Mh, looks great, Baby.”
“Yes!! Look, it’s so pink…” Her voice is genuinely amazed by the very vibrant color of the Product, getting distracted by it.
After a silent minute of her spacing out and Iwaizumi already drifting off again, she suddenly snaps out of it and puts the Bath Bomb away to pull three other Bath additives out of her Bag.
“Daddy! I bought you those too!”
They’re relaxing Bath Salts for the Immune System, against Back pain etc. The next Things she pulls out is a Nasal Spray, many different Herbal Teas, new Tissues and Cough Drops, which she presents him with great enthusiasm accompanied by her insistent “Daddy, look!!”’s.
After a few minutes, Iwaizumi can’t look anymore and falls asleep. As your Daughter notices that, she presses a gentle kiss on his hot forehead, which she is not supposed to do, before running off to her room.
With a soft sigh, you free Iwaizumi from being covered by his Daughter’s gifts and press a kiss to his forehead as well, which you are not supposed to do too.
He is so loved.
。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。
a/n: English isn’t my first language, criticism is welcomed but please be nice. Likes, comments and reblogs are highly appreciated! Do not steal or copy my work, nor feed it to ai.
n: Iwa spoiled his little girl too much // not proofread
#synopsis. hajime was a simple man in that he simply needed to fuck you against his mirror—who needed morals when your girl had the tightest pussy in all of the world?
#tags. 18+ mdni, ALL CHARACTERS ARE AGED UP, profanity, degredation, raw sex (pls use protection), did not proof read, afab! reader (uses she/her pronouns)
#count. 549
hajime has prided himself in never wanting too much. unlike his best friend, hajime has been known to be logical, dependable, and modest. he always offered the last piece, he's never hogged the court, and he's always brought whatever attention he used to get in high school to the incredible team they were at the time.
but god, hajime couldn't help but need to be greedy when it came to you.
after his workout, after he trained the japan team, after breakfast, during breakfast—he didn't care. he just needed you, needed to strip you down and shove his cock into you. somedays, he wouldn't even try to fuck you, opting to warm his cock around the perfect gummy walls of your pussy.
so, when he had the bright idea to finally show you what he saw with this stupidy large mirror you bought for the hallway, he did what any reasonable man would do. hajime moved the goddamn mirror into your bedroom and fucked you sideways in front of it.
on your back, on your stomach, in some weird sex position oikawa showed him on some stupid gag dirty site as a joke—he didn't care. hajime just had to show you why he was so fucking obsessed with you. your body, the sounds of your moans, the way you spasmed with pleasure when he hit the perfect spot.
"haji," you whine, you don't know how long it's been. the blaring red numbers from your alarm clock tells you that it's too early. or too late, depending on who you asked. but he didn't care.
"so fucking perfect," he growls into your ear, thrusting into you again. you gasp, gripping the sides of the mirror to steady yourself. you look at the state of the both of you.
hajime is hunched over you, hands gripping your waist as he continues the absolute assault of his cock into your dripping pussy. you don't know how many times either of you have finished but the dripping white slick makes it difficult to determine whose cum is whose. beads of sweat are forming on his forehead, his arms, his chest—
you thank your lucky stars for dating a fitness trainer because you think you'll finish again at just the sight.
"look at yourself, huh?" he grunts, the plap plap plap of his skin against yours only growing more erratic and urgent. he watches you from the mirror, forcing your chin to stare at yourself. "god, such a perfect girl, hm? such a perfect fucking whore—'s your fault i'm so fucking obsessed."
you whine, making the mistake of closing your eyes in pleasure and he stops. you almost give yourself whiplash looking back at him.
he smirks, chest heaving as he watches the confused look on your face. he forces you to look at yourself in the mirror.
"look at yourself," he whispers, tone laced with desire. it's a command this time. "and watch yourself fall apart for me. watch how well i know your body. watch how well i fuck you."
he nibbles your ear, slowly thrusting in and out again.
"and don't look away—or i'll stop."
you swallow thickly, watching as he looks at you with possessive eyes. you don't doubt that he'll follow through for a second.
a/n: A SHORT IWA ONE! lmk if you guys want a longer one (wiggly eyebrows emoji)...been swamped with work! i have four exams next week but i'm trying to pump out as much as i can #ehe
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