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take care. [hanamaki takahiro x reader]

» It's always been him. Even when you think you don't have a chance, it's him. «

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TAGS: chubby!reader, roommate best friend!makki, reader who's never finished and makki who doesnt think before he speaks, mattsun is both tired and tiring, reader and makki are deeply in love but have never said it out loud, best friends iwaoi oh how i love you dearly, mutual pining, makki the munch, cunnilingus to the max, penetrative sex, body insecurity, reassurance, slight hurt/comfort but makki never lets it even get to the "hurt" part, face sitting

a/n: NOW YOU KNOOOOOOOOOOWWW HOW I FEEL ABOUT A CHUBBY READER FICCCCCCCCCCCCCCCC!!!!!! i had an insane amount of fun with this, thank you so much to @antique-remains for commissioning this!!!!

[commission honee here!]

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Hanamaki Takahiro has always been there.

It just usually took people a while to notice him.

It was well known in high school that Oikawa took the attention. The sparkle, the praise, the constant confessions — those were for Oikawa. In college, it was just the same.

Iwaizumi came next, always. As Oikawa's best friend, some of that praise — that sparkle, that attention — fell off of Oikawa and onto him. "He's so different than Tooru," they would say. "There's something mysterious about him." They liked how scary he could be, how hard it was to get to him. It made him that much more appealing.

Matsukawa Issei and Hanamaki Takahiro were a pair, but Matsukawa had the look. He was tall, dark, and handsome. He was the boy that the girls who didn't like Oikawa ended up crushing on.

Except for you.

You're still not sure what it was, a decade later. At the time, you were probably intimidated by Matsukawa's energy. Intimidated by Iwaizumi's scowl and Oikawa's popularity.

But Hanamaki Takahiro… he felt like an old friend, even when he didn't know your name. Even when you'd push through the crowd surrounding the four of them and accidentally make eye contact with him. Even when he was only a few feet away, all of the time, without ever interacting.

He felt like an old friend, and you remember exactly why. Even a decade later.

—

"Oink, oink, oink!"

You sigh, twirling your pencil around your fingers and staring down at your homework. Do your best to ignore the sounds. Ignore the laughter that always follows. Your lunch sits open next to you — a plate of fruit and some carrot sticks — but it's untouched. Any time you reach for your fork, the noises get louder. The laughter gets louder. So you just leave it.

You focus on your work as best as you can, and even when you can't, you force yourself to write something anyway. Just to show them that you're not listening, even though you are.

You don't have the attention span to notice the group of boys passing by the door, joking amongst each other loudly, completely unrelated to you. You don't have the space to hear the squeak of one pair shoes scraping against the linoleum, triggered by the pig noises behind you, or the gentle follow of three more pairs. You don't have the mental capacity to listen as those shoes grow closer, slow and analyzing at first, and then fast and angry all at once.

"Aw, don't you wanna eat, little piggy? Oink, oink, oi-mrrrph!"

You blink, turn, examine.

There's a head of pink hair hovering over the two boys behind you. Two hands, one on each collar, dragging up and away with a deceptive amount of strength, given how lanky he is.

Two bodies, up and away and shoved wordlessly toward his counterpart — the one with the look. Tall, dark, and handsome — scary. Rougher around the edges, hands quick to join this game of push and pull.

"What're these two little piggies doin' here?" Matsukawa drawls, low and lazy. Eyes cold and mean. "Piggies belong in the mud."

The pass-off to Iwaizumi is easy. "Can't have that," the boy says, voice gruff and harsh. His smile is terrifyingly evil. "Out you go," he bites, shoving them to the door, where Oikawa — popular, sparkly, golden — leans against the door, his expression easy, amused.

"I'd be honored," is all he says, sticking a foot out as the bullies stumble toward him. They go flying into the hall, legs kicked out from under them and faces scraping against the floor. "Oops!" Oikawa giggles. "Careful where you're going!"

The classroom is hauntingly silent, groans of pain echoing quietly outside.

You stare, eyes wide, unsure what to make of it. Of them. You meet each of their eyes, knowing they can see the confusion in yours.

Oikawa's the first to move, approaching your lunch at staring down at it.

"Hm," he says, tilting his head to the side and examining. Noticing that it's untouched. "Were you eating this?"

You don't know what to say. What to do. You just shake your head.

"Well, that's good," he laughs softly, picking up the little container. He walks away with it, heading for the pile of limbs outside. "Little piggies left their lunch!" he giggles again. It scares you.

And then he dumps fruit and carrot sticks on their heads.

"Wh-" Your jaw drops, and you start to move. You don't get far. There's a head of pink hair in your way.

"Eh, I wasn't feeling very hungry," he says. You've never heard his voice this close before. It's rough, low, and slides down your spine like the smooth back of a blade.

"What?" you breathe, staring up at him. Grey eyes stare back — calm, easy — and then he reaches toward the shelf behind him. You realize he'd put his lunch down before acting, and he's taking one of the now-empty seats and unwrapping his bento.

"My mom always makes me too much," he says. "Somethin' about needing more food for volleyball. But I'm not a bottomless pit," he chuckles. "I never finish." You watch, shocked, as the other three take the seats around you, each unwrapping their lunches and picking up their conversation from before like nothing ever happened.

You look around.

Your classmates stare back. There's a mixture of disbelief and suspicion, almost like they can't fathom that somehow you managed to become friends with the most popular boys in school.

You're not sure anyone would believe you if you say this is your first time ever speaking to them.

"See? I'm already full."

Your gaze flies back to him.

Hanamaki Takahiro.

He's making a show of pushing his lunch away from himself. "Can't finish on my own."

You know what he's doing. It's not subtle.

He makes it clearer, just in case. "Sit," he says, eyes on you. "Eat."

You sit — unable, for some reason, to resist that voice — but you don't touch his food.

"I'm not gonna eat your lunch," you say softly.

He tilts his head. "But you don't have your own."

You glance at the door. The boys are gone, but the mess is still there. "I did."

Matsukawa snorts quietly, shovelling food in his mouth and continuing to scroll on his phone. "That wasn't a lunch."

"That was for the piggies!" Oikawa adds, snickering and flipping through his magazine. "That's not a good lunch for anyone else. There's no substance."

"Yeah," you mutter. "That's the point." You start to turn around to return to your homework, but Hanamaki is leaning forward, eyes sharp on yours.

"Eat," he says, shoving his bento closer to you with his pinky finger. "Can't use that brain if it's not well-fed."

You stare, not sure why you feel so weird around him. Why the others feel intimidating and odd, but he feels different. He's still a little scary, and he's weirdly firm with you, but he feels… familiar. Like you want to lean into it, because he can't possibly want anything but the best for you.

It's disorienting.

"You don't even know me," you say weakly. "I'm not gonna eat your food when you don't even know my name."

"Y/n," he says simply. "Second year. Top ten in our class." You stare. He stares back. And then he smiles. "You wanna eat on your own, or you want me to do it for you?"

You can't win this, that much is clear.

You snatch his chopsticks out of his hand, quickly picking at a bit of rolled egg and sausage and shoving them in your mouth, careful not to let the chopsticks touch your lips. Even though he's staring at your mouth, even though he lifts a brow when you're careful.

You start to push the chopsticks back into his hand, but his smile is a little evil.

"You don't wanna do that."

You sigh, clearly annoyed, and keep picking at his lunch. His friends laugh, and for a horrible moment, you think they're laughing at you.

But then Oikawa is rolling up his magazine and smacking Hanamaki over the head lightly. "You're fucking awful, Makki."

"Torturing the poor girl," Iwaizumi says through a mouth full of food. "Sick in the head."

Matsukawa just shrugs, "She wasn't gonna eat without a little push. Sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do."

"You're only sayin' that 'cause you're also sick in the head," Iwaizumi grunts. He meets your eyes. "If you don't want it to happen again, start bringing your own lunch."

You start to tell them, again, that you did bring your own lunch, but Hanamaki's tilting his head, almost like he's daring you to say it. Daring you to try to convince them — convince yourself — that that pathetic excuse for a meal was ever going to be enough for you.

"What's all this about?" you question, your voice trembling. "What're you guys talking to me for? Is this gonna end up being a big joke to you?"

A noise leaves Hanamaki's mouth, one that starts low in his chest and sounds like a growl. "I don't like bullies," he bites. "And I don't like it when people don't take care of themselves."

You want to be offended, but that feeling is back. The familiar one that makes you feel safe with him. So you just stare, heart racing.

And then he digs in his pocket, slides his phone across the desk to you.

You give him your number without question. You get the feeling that he's going to keep having that power over you.

When lunch ends, the four of them stand and start to walk away.

"See you tomorrow!" Oikawa says, Iwaizumi waving back toward you as he goes and Matsukawa just following, head buried in his phone. Hanamaki stays for a moment, staring down at you.

You say nothing. He says nothing.

And then he lifts his brows, a little smile peeking out. "I'll text you."

You just stare. He stares back.

"You gonna text me back?"

Your breath cuts short. "Yeah," you whisper. "Sure."

His smile is wider as he turns and leaves, wrapped bento swinging from his fingers.

You can't tell what this feeling is.

—

It turns out to not be one huge joke to them.

Hanamaki — Makki, as he insists over text several times — texts and calls the same night, and he keeps you on the phone until well into the night, laughing and joking and getting to know you. He thanks you for letting him in, and it's only when you hang up, exhausted but grinning from ear to ear, that you realize that's exactly what happened.

The next day, you find yourself surrounded by them at lunch again, Oikawa in your space as he examines your lunch — it's the same as yesterday, because you hadn't actually expected them to show up.

"Try again tomorrow," he just says with a wink, swapping your carrots out for half of his sandwich. Iwaizumi just nods, and Matsukawa is too busy picking on Hanamaki — Makki — to notice.

You do better the next day, and the next, and the next, until your meals return to normal and you grow used to seeing them.

Oikawa Tooru — golden, popular, sparkly — glues himself to you with the fervor of a rabbid animal. He magically forgets about personal space and constantly invades yours, dragging you to coffee and lunch and dinner and to their practices, over and over and over again. You get to know them even better by seeing them on the court, watching how they interact and how they move. You learn about Makki, even though you pretend to look at him the least of all.

You wonder briefly why Oikawa clings to you when he's so good at skillfully avoiding his loyal fangirls. You wonder if it's because you're not a threat, that he can't imagine seeing you as an option. And then he says it one day, in the hush of the walk home, with you squashed between him and Iwaizumi.

"You like him, right?" he says innocently, staring up at the sunset like he hadn't ever said anything.

You blink and stare up at him. "What?"

Iwaizumi chuckles on your other side. When you turn your head to him, he just shoots you a side glance. "It's pretty obvious," he mutters.

"What is?"

Neither of them answers you, Oikawa returning to his sparkly sunset and Iwaizimi focusing on the pebble he's kicking down the road as you walk.

When you start to split up, Oikawa leans into your face, Iwaizumi already a few feet away.

"Can I tell you a secret?" His voice is hushed, conspiratorial. You nod, watching him carefully. He grins wide, eyes searching yours.

"He likes you, too. Never seen him act like this before."

You furrow your brows but don't get a chance to ask. He's already straightening and turning over his shoulder, waving back at you.

"Bye, Y/n," he calls sweetly, chasing Iwaizumi down and leaving you in silence.

You don't fully get what he's saying, not even later that night, when Makki calls and keeps you on the phone until one in the morning again. He's done it every night since the first, talking to you about school and the future and what you want to do with your life. And you let him.

Second year bleeds into third, and suddenly Oikawa and Iwa are constants in your life, calling you up and asking you to hang out over breaks and on weekends. Mattsun remains as he is, Makki's counterpart, and seems more attached to him than the others. But he's firm about his presence in your life, looming and particularly terrifying when people try to comment on your weight.

It continues past graduation. Oikawa leaves for Argentina, and Iwa leaves for California, and you stick around with Mattsun to attend the local college. You half-expect them to disappear, knowing that you would miss them dearly, but they never do. You just get used to 3am phone calls and having to silence your phone when you actually want to sleep. You get used to Mattsun appearing at your dorm at random hours, demanding study time.

You get used to seeing Makki with him, despite his decision that school isn't for him. He works multiple part-time jobs, and he does them well, hard-working and diligent in his own way.

You get used to the antics of the pair, finding that you fit well between them, that they make the perfect amount of space for you.

As graduation looms yet again, Mattsun mentions moving to Tokyo, that the rent is expensive. He mentions that Makki's considering it, too.

You fall into place again, in the perfect amount of space that they'd made for you.

The move to Tokyo should be hard because it's your first time in a big city, but they make it easy. Easy enough that you never think about moving again, years passing just like that.

Iwa returns, settling down not too far from you. Oikawa stays in Argentina, but the 3am calls keeping coming home to you, years and years gone by with your phone lighting up late at night, the three-person group calls long-established.

You turn 25, and then 26, 27, and finally 28.

You don't mention to any of them what you feel so strongly — that you're missing something. That you can feel the tension between Iwa and Oikawa on the phone, unspoken but so very obvious. That you see when Mattsun leaves for the night and doesn't return. That you hear when Makki leads random girls down the hall late at night, hushing them as he goes. That they never do, because you can always hear what goes on in his room. That you can always see the marks on his neck and chest the next day, forcing yourself to pretend you don't care.

You want to say the reason is just that you don't have anything like that. You want to say it has nothing to do with the fact that it's him, that the burn in your gut is mere jealousy about the amount of experience he has. That it's not jealousy over something else.

You try — you do try.

You date here and there, and you let guys take you home. You feel that you should be having fun, but you don't. You struggle.

Maybe it's that you're worried about your looks still. Maybe it's that you can tell none of these guys actually care about you, that they all seem to have an air about them that screams "you're not my first choice". Maybe it's that none of them are him, the thought fluttering by every few months, never long enough to take hold.

Maybe that's why you can never finish. Not even alone.

Twenty-eight years old, and you've never finished. Not a virgin, not inexperienced. But still missing something.

That must be where it comes from, then — that frustration that builds as the years go on, as you watch Makki do the things you wish you could. As you listen and watch and force yourself not to care.

But you do. You do care.

Maybe that's the problem.

—

"I don't understand."

"Yeah, I mean, clearly," you say, shaking your head.

Makki shoots you an admonishing glare from the armchair across the room. "Don't be mean."

You turn away, letting your breath fog the window where you sit. "I just think some rules would be nice."

He laughs under his breath, and you watch in the reflection as he looks to Mattsun for help. The man just sits on the couch between you, watching the argument like a tennis match.

He spoons ice cream into his mouth, shaking his head at Makki. "Don' look a'me," he mumbles around cookies and cream. "I'm th' ref. No opin'n."

Makki rolls his eyes, finding you again when you turn. "I don't think we need rules. Our system works!"

"For you, maybe," you bite, knowing the anger isn't real. Knowing this is coming from somewhere else. "It's hard to sleep with you always bringing girls home."

"You seem okay to me."

"I shouldn't have to sleep with two pillows over my head, Makki," you complain. You're exaggerating. You usually just put music on, because that's less pathetic. But he doesn't need to know that. "Can't you go to their place?"

"I do sometimes!"

Great, so he's actually hooking up with people even more than you'd realized.

He throws his arms out, giving you a look that clearly communicates that he wants this to be over. "What is it, Y/n? What's the problem?"

Your frustration mounts. "I just told you! I'm tired of having to listen to this shit!"

"Okay, I hear you! I get it!" he yells. "You know, you can bring guys home, too! It's not a one-way street."

You bite out a response without thinking. "That won't help!"

He shakes his head, brows furrowing. "Why the hell not? You're perfectly welcome to bring people home — I won't mind the noise, and Mattsun's gone half the time anyway-"

"I probably wouldn't even make any noise," you bark suddenly, a little feral. More than a little annoyed.

Makki blinks. Mattsun blinks. You blink.

"What?" Makki says.

"What?" you say.

"What?" Mattsun says, looking between you almost comically. "What does that even mean?" he laughs, eyes finding you.

"Nothing," you say. "'s just not very fun, that's all."

Makki blinks.

Mattsun blinks, gives an incredulous glance before looking to Makki, like he's trying to check that he heard you right. "What?"

"Nothing!" you say again, starting to get up. "Just forget it."

Makki stands with you, crowding the doorway and refusing to let you through. "No," he says firmly. "What does that mean?"

"It doesn't mean anything-"

"Bullshit," Mattsun comments from the couch.

You whirl around, glaring. "What happened to 'no opinion'?"

He shrugs, scarfing down more ice cream.

"Y/n," Makki says, tugging on your elbow. "What's this about? Why isn't sex fun for you?"

You laugh humorlessly. "Just forget it. Friends don't talk-"

"You don't finish, do you?"

You gasp, reeling back. "Makki!"

Mattsun turns over the back of the couch, gaping up at you. "No fucking way. What kind of life is that?"

You hit him over the head with a throw pillow. He doesn't complain, knowing he deserves it.

"This is private!" you yell, looking between them. "It's none of your business-"

"I think we're well past 'private'," Makki chuckles, shaking his head. "That's what this is about, then."

You point at him, angry and humiliated. "No, it's not."

"Yes, it is," Mattsun chimes in.

"You shut up."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Come on, Y/n," Makki says, starting to pace. "You're frustrated because you can't finish. I get it. I'd be frustrated, too."

"In more ways than one," Mattsun chimes.

You both cut glares at him. "Shut up, Mattsun."

He just digs a deeper hole in his ice cream.

Makki swallows, turns to you. "Let me help."

The silence in the room is painfully loud.

You hear a shift behind you, finding Mattsun on the other side, staring — deadpan and knowing something you don't — at Makki. His spoon is halfway to his mouth.

You look between them. "This is a joke."

Mattsun lifts his brows and glances at you before looking away, suspiciously interested in the bottom of the pint.

You say it again, directed right at Makki. "This is a joke."

You need it to be a joke.

He doesn't respond, just staring at you. Vulnerable, open. Eyes searching yours, trying to communicate something you don't want to hear.

You don't want to hear it.

You push past him, stomping down the hall and to your room.

The slam of your door drowns out the sound of Mattsun addressing Makki.

"You're an idiot."

—

There's a knock on your door a few hours later, long after the apartment's gone silent. You're slumped low in bed, swallowed up by blankets as you scroll mindlessly through your phone. Trying to forget the conversation that just happened. Trying not to let it overtake your every thought.

"C'm in," you mumble, chewing on the inside of your cheek anxiously, distracted.

The source of your anxiety appears before you, standing in the dark of your bedroom, moonlight gleaming off of pink hair.

"Hey," he breathes. "Can we talk?"

You groan, starting to turn your back to him. "Go away."

"Please," he tries again, closing the door behind him quickly and padding to your bed. He perches on the edge, staring at you with pleading eyes. "Please, Y/n. You know I wouldn't fuck with you. Please just hear me out-"

"No," you laugh. "I don't need you pitying me-"

"It's not that!" he whines, the sound sharp and full of frustration. It echoes off your walls, and you both turn to look at the door, silent. When there's no sign of Mattsun stirring on the other side of the wall, Makki turns to face you again.

"Y/n, you know me. You know me."

You let out a rough breath and toss your phone down on the bedside table. "I'm not even your type, Makki."

He stares for a long moment, eyes flitting between yours. And then he laughs, breathy and full of air.

"The fuck?" he says, disbelief coloring his gaze. "How would you know?"

You blink, stunned, and just raise your brows at him. "Because I see the girls you bring home?"

"So?"

"The fuck do you mean, 'so'?" you laugh. "So, I see the girls you bring home." Your voice takes on a jagged edge, dragging between the two of you painfully. "Stop fucking with me, Makki. I mean it."

He doesn't like the tone in your voice, it seems.

"I'm not," he bites. "I'm telling you straight to your face that I meant every word I said, and you're calling me a liar. Why would I lie to you?"

He wouldn't. You know that he wouldn't. But that scares you more than if he had, because it makes this thing hovering between you two real. Tangible.

He sees it in your eyes — you don't have an answer for him.

His gaze warms, settles. "Oh, I see," he breathes, tilting his head to examine you. His expression opens up, and you can see the fond twinkle in his eye. "You're just scared."

You shoot him a glare. It doesn't land the way you want it to, because he just cracks a soft smile. "Shut up. I'm not scared. I'm angry."

"No, you're not," he says softly, shifting toward you on the bed. "You're scared about what'll happen if you say yes."

You purse your lips, look away. Look back. Chew on your lip. "Well-" You can't bring yourself to look him in the eye. "Aren't you?"

He just shakes his head, that twinkle growing stronger. Fonder. "Nah, not really."

"You don't think things'll get weird?"

"I won't make 'em weird," he whispers, scooting closer, closer. Until he's right next to you, his fingers grazing yours on the mattress. "Will you?"

You might. If that gnawing ache in the pit of your stomach — the one that's always there when he's around — is telling you anything, it's that you might make this weird.

You want to tell him no. You want to assure him that it could be just sex.

But it doesn't feel right to lie to him. It never has.

"I can try," you choke out, your voice cracking. "I'll do my best."

He hears it — 'I'll do my best'.

You're willing to try this out with him.

He leans toward you, head dipping until his nose brushes yours and his hair tickles your forehead.

"This doesn't have to be perfect," he says, his breath warm on your lips. "I just wanna help. Even if it's messy."

He hears your breath hitch, hears it lodge tight in your throat.

He takes it for what it is. Permission.

He tastes like toothpaste. You hope you do, too.

He pulls back for a moment, just long enough to stare down at your mouth. "So," he breathes, eyes blown wide. "Is that a yes?"

You just fist the front of his shirt and drag him in.

It's a little awkward, kissing your best friend of over a decade. You're not bad at this, and neither is he, from what you've always heard through the wall, but there's something new and unfamiliar about being together like this.

His teeth hit yours more than once, and your nose bumps on his more than once. And there's a scramble of limbs, a knock of elbow on skin and knee on thigh and quiet stutters of pain and confusion.

You wonder why. Why is this not sexy and smooth and perfect, even though you know his reputation? Why is this not movie-perfect?

But then you catch the warmth in his cheeks, the shy glance of his gaze down your body. The tremble of his fingers on the mattress, mirroring the weak shake of yours in his shirt. The pant of breath that leaves him every time you break the kiss, desperate and nervous.

He's nervous.

Hanamaki Takahiro is nervous.

Your heart swells at the revelation, and you find yourself melting for him, malleable and easily molded.

When he pushes you down onto your back, you go without question.

When he dips his head down your jaw and neck, you turn your head and curl your fingers around his bicep and through his hair, tugging him toward you. Telling him this is okay.

When he nudges your thighs with his knees, you open up for him, willing and encouraging. He sighs against your skin, shivering slightly, and you wonder if he's noticing it, too. If he likes it, too.

That you're nervous.

"Can I ask you something?" he finally breathes, mouth warm on your throat and hands kneading the soft skin of your tummy almost absent-mindedly. You nod, and he smiles, his laugh betraying how out of breath he is. "What have you tried? What hasn't worked?"

Your nerves clamp up, threatening to shut down. He feels the way your muscles tense, and he moves fast to stop it from happening.

"It's okay," he whispers. "I just want to help." When you still don't relax, he settles down over you, hands running up and down your sides, your thighs. "Please let me help."

You groan quietly, trying to focus on the feeling of his hands sliding over your skin. "Uhm," you swallow. "I guess everything."

He hums against your throat. "Do you get stuck in your head?"

You purse your lips. "Maybe."

"Even alone?"

You sigh, nodding. "I can get closer, but it always takes too long. I start to feel a little stupid."

"You're not stupid," he breathes. His fingers slide along the band of your sleep shorts. "It takes as long as it takes."

"I know," you grumble. "Or… I don't know. I guess I know that."

"Have you only tried the simple stuff?"

You twitch, feeling your face warm considerably. "Meaning?"

His fingertips curl under the band, tugging lightly before letting go. He repeats the motion while he talks.

"Vanilla stuff. Fingering, oral, missionary."

You huff, starting to get shy. He doesn't let you curl up, his body keeping you right here with him. His knuckles brush comfort against your tummy, soft and warm.

"I mean," you swallow. "Sure. I've done things by myself. And I've done oral, but it doesn't really turn me on."

He pauses, and you feel his eyebrows scrunch in confusion. "Wait, what?"

"I dunno," you say. "I get why guys like it, but it's always rough and not really romantic at all. It just kinda feels like I'm being used-"

"What?"

He's lifted his head by now, eyes searching yours urgently. When you just stare back, equally confused, he narrows his eyes.

"You've never been eaten out?"

Your face starts to burn. "What-"

"I-" He starts to laugh, but it doesn't feel humorous. "I have so much to say about the other stuff, but we can talk about that later." He sits up, settling back on his knees and staring down at you. "You've never been eaten out?"

You just shake your head.

He squints. "Why?"

"Never asked."

His smile looks dangerous. "You should never ask. He should be begging to do it."

You laugh, but it gets caught in your throat when he just stares. He means that.

And he proves that he means it, because his fingers are curling into the band of your shorts again, stronger than before. His eyes meet yours when you gasp, his gaze burning hot.

"Please?"

"Why?" you whimper. "What do you get out of it?"

"Everything," he breathes. "Can you please let me try? Let me show you."

You want to say no, but he's looking at you with such desperation, like it's paining him to know you've never experienced this.

You just nod, staring up at him anxiously.

His eyes glint with pleasure, and his smile is nervous but laced with excitement. He tugs on your clothes earnestly now, sliding your shorts and underwear over the curve of your ass and down your thighs.

"I-I haven't shaved," you stutter, shocked at how quickly he undresses you.

"Good," he mutters, entirely distracted. "Don't."

Your clothes hit the floor. It's the only warning you get before he's gripping your thighs and parting them, pushing your knees up to your chest.

You squeak, heart jumping at being so suddenly exposed. "Makki!" you whisper furiously, fingers scrambling to find purchase on anything around you.

He's not listening. He's just staring down at you, pupils blown wide. His mouth drops open, and you hear a quiet moan slip past his lips.

"Fuck," he breathes. "Would you look at that? She's perfect."

Your body betrays you.

Makki watches your hole clench around nothing.

The grin that splits across his face is feral, terrifying. You think you may have just woken something in him that you've never seen before.

"Oh," he coos, and you get the distinct feeling he's not talking to you anymore. "I'm gonna be so good to you."

You try to clamp your thighs shut, but his strength has always been deceptive. He just flicks his eyes to meet yours, hands keeping you in place, right where he wants you.

"You're so pretty, Y/n," he says, pushing his lips to the inside of your ankle once, twice. Slides them up your calf, takes his time and nibbles at the plush skin behind your knee.

Watches you carefully as he goes. Watches the way you squirm and pant and flush with warmth.

"Makki," you try.

He just grins. "You're gonna have to be quiet. Don't want Mattsun to wake up, do you?"

You push your lips together tight, shaking your head frantically.

"Good," he giggles, still kissing at the underside of your thigh. When he starts to move, teeth nipping at your skin, you squeeze your eyes shut, your nerves buzzing.

"Don't be scared," he whispers.

You're trying. But this is scary.

"I'm gonna take care of you."

"I know," you breathe, shaky.

"It's okay if you don't come, you know. This isn't a race. I got nowhere else to be."

You relax a little — just a little, but still, it's something. You wonder how he could tell. How he knew that you'd always worried about that, especially with someone else.

"Here," he says quietly. You watch through half-open eyes as he lays your leg down for a moment, just long enough for him to strip out of his t-shirt and hand it to you. "Put that over your eyes."

You do as you're told, because you've always been bad at saying no to him.

It blocks out the light, blocks out any chance you have of seeing him. You feel that it should make your nerves worse, but they're loosening slightly. You don't have to watch him, don't have to search his face and wonder how he feels or if he's enjoying himself.

You get to just lie here and inhale the scent of him, warm and spiced and completely familiar. Comforting.

You jolt when his lips touch your thigh again, kissing softly.

"I'm going to touch you now," he whispers. "I want to make you feel good, but tell me if you want to stop. No matter what, okay?"

"Okay," you breathe.

His hands slide under your shirt, and you tense. "Don't freak out," he says. "Don't think about anything but how it feels."

You chew on your bottom lip. "But what if you don't like it?"

He doesn't say anything, just shifting his weight. Shifting his hips until they press against you.

He's hard. Completely and totally.

You gasp, a molten feeling swirling under your navel.

"Better?" he laughs.

You just pant and throw your arms over your face, pressing his shirt to your nose and breathing hard.

His hands slide over your breasts, palms hot and fingers kneading eagerly. You whimper, and he shushes you quickly.

"Quieter," he says, thumbs rubbing circles over your nipples. You squirm, your hips shifting and a warmth spreading in your gut. "If you wake Mattsun up, he's gonna hear all your pretty sounds." His lips find your thigh again, and he mumbles against it. "I don't want to share this."

You clench around nothing again, rocking your hips forward and panting when you find no relief.

"I got'chu," he says in reponse, dropping down and pressing kisses to your hips, thighs, tummy. "I'll make it good, I promise. Don't think about anything."

You just nod, head cloudy from the smell of him, circling your brain like a toxin.

His lips find your clit, a gentle kiss pressed there, and you jolt, realizing just how effective this drug is.

He slides the flat of his tongue through your folds, searing hot.

Your back arches off the bed.

"Mak-mmrph-"

You thank him silently, because he'd had the foresight to slide one hand up the rest of your shirt and through the collar, palm clamped tight over your mouth.

He slides his tongue through again, circling your clit and then latching on. He suckles gently, testing your reaction and seeming pleased when you start to shake. He drags his tongue against it once, twice, starts to suck properly. You realize far too late — he's holding you down because you won't stop shaking — that the buzzing you feel radiating through your bones and up to your throat is the feeling of him moaning against you.

You groan, open-mouthed and drooling, against his hand, eyes wide open and completely unseeing.

You feel that wave start to form, and the thought that it might actually break and crash for the first time in your life fills you with a desperation you've never experienced before.

You start to rock against his face.

He stops and pulls away.

You're lucky he still has a hand on your mouth, because your cry is angry, frustrated.

"What the fuck-" you whine, muffle.

He just licks at your thighs, out of breath. "I know, baby, I know. I need you to turn over for me."

"What-"

"Please just do it," he begs. "Please. I need you on your knees."

It's a mess of shaky limbs and urgency, but he manages to get you right where he wants you: your face buried in his t-shirt while he drags you down onto his tongue like a man starved.

This position freaks you out a little. "Won't I crush you?" you try, muffled.

"That's the whole point," is all he says, hands tugging you down over and over again until you stop resisting. Until your thighs shake and slide apart, dropping you right down over him.

"Oh, thank god," he mumbles, lips latching onto your clit as his tongue laps desperately at it.

It's noisy and messy and there's a part of you that's worried you're not being quiet enough, but Makki's sliding two fingers into his mouth and then bringing them up to your entrance, and suddenly you don't care at all about the noise.

The sound of him spitting on your cunt is loud and echoes in your ears.

You preen, hips rocking frantically. The wave rises high again, searching for the break.

He pushes his fingers past your entrance and starts to fuck you like this, pushing you against his tongue in a rhythm that has both of you moaning.

He spits again. Curls his fingers. Laves his tongue over your folds and then latches tight to your clit, sucking gently and moaning when you slide your cunt againt his tongue.

"Fuck," he mumbles against you, the vibrations strong. "Please , Y/n. Please. For me, baby."

You know what he's asking for.

You just aren't prepared to actually give it to him.

When the wave breaks and crashes, it comes with the violent jerk of your body and cries of release that you've never felt before, let out into his shirt. He holds you steady, and you can tell by the way he's whispering "that's it, that's it, fuck you feel so good," that he's just watching this happen to you and helping you through it.

Your body trembles, shakes, stutters, and then your limbs go numb. You don't know what happens next, but you end up on your back, panting hard, and Makki exists in the space around you. His mouth finds your hips, your tummy, your thighs, kissing fervently and eagerly.

"So good," he whispers. "Perfect, so fucking perfect." He kisses his way up your body, fingers grabbing you and dragging you this way and that, giving him all the access he wants. "You did so good, baby, you're amazing."

You whimper, exhaustion crashing over you. "Thank you," you whisper weakly. "Thank you, Makki."

You start to fade away, sleep claiming you almost violently. You feel him settle in beside you — you register in the back of your mind that he plans to sleep next to you tonight — and then he presses a kiss to your temple.

"I'm gonna take care of you," he whispers. "I can't wait."

You don't respond, letting your body fall into slumber.

—

You expect him to be gone in the morning.

When you crack your eyes open, you fully expect to be alone. You know Makki's reputation, and you've heard the sneak of footsteps in the middle of the night, the door open and closed as he kicks girls out. You expect it to be the same.

You aren't expecting to feel his arm curl around your waist, your body dragged closer to his. You aren't expecting his face to press into the crook of your neck, his breath warm and his body warmer.

"Mornin'," he mumbles, kisses pressed to the side of your throat. You don't respond, just staring at the ceiling, unseeing. He doesn't notice, his hands and lips wandering. You think maybe he's trying to start something, that he wants one more hit before he leaves for good.

But it never comes. He never pushes past this, just enjoying the feeling of your body under his fingers. He just kisses along all the skin he can reach. And then he sighs, nuzzling close to you.

"You okay?" he finally asks, forehead pressed to your temple.

You can't help it. "You're still here," you whisper, voice weak.

He lifts his head right away, eyes full of shock. "What? Of course I am."

"I wasn't expecting-"

"What?" he laughs again, watching you carefully. "You thought I'd be gone?" When you don't answer, he gives you a meaningful look. "I wouldn't do that to you."

"I just wasn't sure…" You try to turn away, but he's quick to guide your face back to him. "I thought maybe it was a one-time thing. Especially since-" You flush, rolling your eyes when he grins knowingly. "Since it worked."

He just shakes his head, still smiling. "While I am very happy that it worked-" He laughs when you elbow him. "I'm not done with you."

"That's so threatening."

"Yeah, kinda." He dips his head, laying his lips on yours. "You're kind of stuck with me," he mumbles against your lips.

You're about to tell him that that's fine — okay, even.

But your bedroom door is flying open, crashing against the wall and bouncing off.

"Oh, hell no," Mattsun says, talking over your screams of shock. "If you guys are gonna keep fucking, you need to learn to shut the fuck up!"

"Get out, Mattsun-" Makki tries as you scramble to make sure the blankets are all in the right place, but your roommate's not done.

"I get that you're helping her discover what she likes and all that, but I don't need to also discover that!"

"Mattsun!" you yell, throwing your pillow at him. "Go away!"

"Yuck!" he shouts, dramatic and unserious and stomping out of your room like an idiot. "And don't fuck on the couch! I sit there!" he bellows, already halfway down the hall.

You huff, turning to bury your face in the mattress. Makki just laughs under his breath.

"I kinda wanna fuck on the couch now," he says, giggling when you kick him. "Don't tell me you're not tempted."

You are.

—

"Finally!"

"Oh, fuck, this is actually happening?"

"Finally, finally, finally! I told you!"

"Holy shit, he actually made a move."

You listen as Oikawa and Iwa go back and forth, their reactions to the news different but entirely the same.

"God, what am I doing?" you whine, pacing the living room. Makki and Mattsun are both at work, so you're free to freak out on the phone as much as you want. "What if this is a mistake-"

Oikawa butts in quickly, sensing your avoidant nature. "No! Shut up, shut up! Tell the voices to shut up!"

"Shut up, voices," Iwa offers, unhelpful. You can hear him typing, and you figure he must be trapped in his office writing player evals and referrals.

"What if this is a bad idea, guys?" you worry. "What if I fall for him and make it weird? What if I'm not even his type-"

"Hajime, she's not listening," Oikawa whines, high-pitched and obnoxious.

Iwa responds, addressing you. "Shut up. Shut up, shut up, shut up. Quiet, voices. Get back. Hiss. Boo." When you just laugh, mumbling 'what the fuck' under your breath, he starts over, his voice betraying his smile. "You're overthinking, Y/n. You like doing that."

"I know," you grumble. "I don't wanna lose him."

"You won't!" Oikawa says. "He wouldn't have offered to help if he thought it would get weird! He cares about you too much."

"If it makes you feel better," Iwa says, still typing. "If you told me you had trouble finishing, I would not have immediately offered to fuck you and fix it. So… Maybe that's a good sign?"

You stay silent, just listening as Oikawa howls on his end of the call, laughing so loud that you have to pull your phone away from your face. "Alright," you eventually say. "Fine. You made your point."

"Good," Iwa says. Oikawa is still laughing. "Also. Just so you know. You are his type. You're just too scared to see it."

When you hang up, it's with Iwa's quiet 'good luck' and Oikawa crying from laughing so hard.

—

[2:04 PM]

Mattsun: youre a fucking idiot

Mattsun: you know that right??

Takahiro stares down at his phone, reads the messages in between boxing cakes.

"Have a good day," he mumbles to the customer, listening to the bell over the bakery door and trying to figure out what to say.

Mattsun texts again a few minutes later.

[2:07 PM]

Mattsun: you better have a plan to tell her this is more than just sex

Mattsun: shes gonna run if you let it drag on too long

He knows. God, he knows. He did this all backwards. But what was he supposed to do? What was he supposed to say when you admitted that you had trouble? That the guys before him were all assholes and idiots and never treated you right?

[2:10 PM]

Mattsun: makki if u fuck this up i'll kick your teeth in

Mattsun: she likes you, you know

Mattsun: like. a LOT.

Mattsun: you think it's a coincidence that youre magically the only one that can make her come????

Mattsun's always been crude, but Takahiro doesn't even react to it this time. His vision blurs, and he can barely hear what the next customer asks for. His ears are ringing too much, and his heart is beating too loud in his chest.

You like him, too?

For how long?

As long as he has?

[2:11 PM]

Mattsun: im going out tonight. not coming home.

Mattsun: fix it, hiro.

—

There's something different about him right now.

You know that it's only been one night. That you've only experienced this Hanamaki Takahiro once.

But the difference between last night and right now is striking.

Last night, he'd been urgent, eager, nervous.

Right now, he's… something else. Something unfamiliar.

He's desperate.

There's something he's not telling you.

He's just grabbing you like it means something, like this is more than just trying to make you feel good.

"Makki-" you try, managing to pull back from his kiss just long enough to say it. He drags you back right away, lips latched onto yours, magnetic and real.

He's making noises he didn't make last night. Feral, whiny, needy.

He's got you in his lap on the couch, hands pulling and yanking on you until you'd given in and sat your full weight on him. The sound that had passed his lips when you'd done it had been high-pitched and needy.

He's moving like he can't get enough.

Last night had been about you. But something tells you that tonight is about him.

"Makki," you pant, pushing on his chest until he lets you back away. "What's going on? What is this?"

His face is flushed — more nervous than last night, more needy than you've ever seen him — and his pupils are blown wide, his eyes watery as he takes you in.

"Need you," he says, his voice shaky. "'m sorry. I just-" He swallows hard, his throat bobbing. "I need you, Y/n. Been needing you all day."

Your stomach flips, nervous and wild, and you feel yourself warm as you look down at him. "W-What? Me?"

You can't fathom that this isn't just about helping you. That he's not just doing you a favor.

"What'do you mean?" he laughs, the sound weak. "Of course you. Always you."

You back off even more, staring down at him properly. "Makki-"

"Hiro." When you just blink, he purses his lips. "Please."

You stutter through it. "H-Hiro," you try. Something twitches against your thigh, and you know exactly what it is. "Are you okay? Did something happen?"

"No," he groans, leaning up to try to kiss you again. You don't let him. "Yes. No. I don't know," he sighs. "I just need you. Really bad."

"But-" You frown, look down at yourself. "I mean. Are you sure?"

He stares up at you, gaze unfocusing and then re-focusing, eyebrows furrowing. "Yes," he bites. "I'm sure, Y/n."

He's starting to get mad. You can feel it. "I didn't mean it like that, Makk-"

"Hiro," he strains. And then he moves.

You're on your back. He's bracing himself over you.

You always forget how strong he is.

"You did mean it like that," he says. "You always mean it like that. You've been worrying about that this whole time."

You huff, turning your head away. "Of course I have. No one else really likes the way I-"

"I do," he cuts you off. "I do. I really do, Y/n." You blink rapidly, eyes finding his. He's glaring, still. "I like the way you look. I like the way you feel." He leans back on his heels, hands dancing over your body. Over your sides and thighs and tummy and chest. "I always have," he mutters, distracted by how you look lying under him.

Your heart stops, starts again. "What?"

He doesn't answer. He just tugs on your shirt, maneuvering you out of it and tossing it off to the side. Your bra goes next, a sharp glare cut in your direction when you try to hide yourself, and then your bottoms.

He's completely dressed, and you're completely naked.

You whine, curling up and struggling against him when he unfolds you again, hands and thighs in places that don't let you close in on yourself. "No fair, Hiro," you mumble, reaching for his shirt. "At least gimme this."

He grins, snickers a little. "Got you used to it already, baby?" You just roll your eyes and tug on the hem, and he yields to you easily. "Okay," he whispers. "You can have it for now, but not later."

"Later?" you breathe, holding his shirt to your nose. It calms you, which should probably be embarrassing, but it's not. You don't care enough. It helps. He helps.

He's running his gaze down your body appreciatively, clearly distracted. "Later," he mumbles. "When I fuck you, I want you looking at me."

It's getting humiliating, the amount of times he's caught you clenching around nothing.

His grin is as evil as it was last night. "There she is," he breathes.

His mouth is a flurry of movement, first on your lips and face and neck and then down your chest, one nipple tweaked gently between his teeth, and then the other. Down your torso, canines digging lovingly into your rolls and tongue writing his name on your skin. His fingers follow, pushing and pulling and kneading and pressing you open.

When his lips find your clit, it's with a desperation and urgency that screams — yet again, not for the first time tonight — that this is for him.

Your back arches, one hand digging into his hair, fingers tangled tight. He moans, tongue flat and searing hot against your folds.

"Taste so fucking good," he rumbles, sucking and spitting and moaning against you. "You're fucking perfect, Y/n."

You whine, thighs squeezing around his head. You feel him groan, feel the laugh that comes out, half-insane. "That's it," he whispers. "Just like that."

You let him open you up the way he wants, fingers and tongue and your name, moaned again and again and again. You let him do it, just breathing in his scent and crying out when he builds that wave for you, perfect as the first time.

"H-Hiro," you cry, writhing and twitching, your back arching and your thighs starting to hurt from straining around his head.

"That's it, beautiful," he moans, two fingers curling into you once, twice, his tongue merciless on your clit. "Sing for me."

The wave breaks, crashes, floods. Your head flies back, chest pressed to the sky, his name ripped from your throat just like he wanted.

He laughs through it, deranged and feral, his tongue never stopping. He shakes his head back and forth, moans echoing off the wall as he laps at your folds and nips at the insides of your thighs.

He only stops when you start to push at his head, your senses overwhelmed.

"Good girl," he whispers, marking your thighs over and over. "Such a good girl."

Your breath is lodged somewhere between your throat and your heart, locked tight. You're shivering, twitching, barely held to the cushions by his hands.

"Fuck, Hiro." You crack your eyes open, watching as he leans back on his heels again. "Thank you."

He huffs, reaching over just to yank his t-shirt from your hands. He tosses it behind him. "That was for me, Y/n, not you."

You were right, then.

"This is for you," he mumbles, hands hooking around your thighs and dragging you flush against him.

The slap of his cock on your skin, heavy and hard and wet, makes you jolt, a noise of shock leaving you.

You stare down between you, eyes wide. "Oh, fuck," you mutter, the sound more a moan than anything else.

His gaze is heated in a way you've never seen before. "Good?"

You just flush, your skin burning and radiating heat in humilating waves. "Shut up," you whisper, head falling back against the pillow.

"Always wondered that, you know," he says quietly, reaching behind himself and pulling the other throw pillow around. He lifts you with one hand — that damn strength — and shoves the pillow under your hips. "If you'd like it."

You blink, struggling to process. It calls back what he'd said earlier, about always liking how you look.

"Makki?"

He doesn't scold you for the name this time, because he knows you're saying it outside of everything. Outside of the way he's gripping your thighs, the way his tip, throbbing and leaking, is pressing against your entrance.

You're calling for him outside of everything, just between the two of you.

His gaze is shy, the same way his name sounds nervous on your tongue.

"Did you wonder, too?" he whispers, thumb pushing the head of his cock just past your entrance. "Did you ever wonder about me sometimes?"

You're trapped between the humiliation of the question and the mind-numbing feeling of your body being stretched open around him.

"Y/n?"

He sounds so nervous. He wants this from you.

You nod, biting your lip and barely managing to answer him. "Sometimes."

His exhale is full of relief, laced with nerves. "Did you ever-" He groans, head falling to the side when he feels your walls flutter around him. "Did you ever wish it was me?"

Those other guys. Those other times. Did you ever wish it was me?

You mewl, hands searching desperately for him. He laces your fingers together tight, and you find yourself nodding frantically, your breath ragged.

"Sometimes."

He moans, pants and groans as he bottoms out, his fingers digging into your thighs as he holds them open.

"Me, too," he whispers. "Wished it was you."

Your heart stops in your chest and then starts with a shock. "W-What?"

"E-Every time," he stutters. His words are falling out now, and you get the feeling he's rambling. "Wished it was you every fucking time. Don't remember anything else. Anyone else."

He's found a rhythm now, the couch scraping against the floor as he fucks into you.

"Hiro," you cry. Your mind is racing around his words. "What? Me? Why me-"

"You, always you," he babbles, mouth pressed against your calf and teeth digging into your skin. "It's always been you."

The wave starts to build again, higher than last time. "Hiro, please-"

"I got you, pretty," he pants. "I always got you."

That feeling that's always there when he is — that gnawing ache — swirls and tugs, and you're overcome wtih emotion. Your eyes prick with tears, and you stare up at him through bleary vision. "Hiro, I-" You gulp down as much air as you can, punched out of you with every thrust of his hips. "I love-"

He exhales sharply, a cutting "Ah, fuck-" leaving him when he realizes what you're doing. He moans low and drops down over you, bending you in half. "Fuck, Y/n. I love you, too-"

You whine in response, and he laughs, eyes wild as he searches you.

"I love you," he says, nodding when you start to cry. "I've loved you a long fucking time, pretty."

You repeat it back, low and rambling, every time his cock smacks up against your g-spot. "Love you, love you, love-" The wave peaks, you gasp. "-you, fuck, love you, Hiro-"

It breaks.

You do, too.

You don't notice the stutter of his hips, the way he calls for you when he comes. You don't notice the way he collapses over you, lips all over you as he whispers it again — 'love you' — or the drag of the wet cloth as he cleans you up.

You only come back to him when you're in his bed, his body wrapped tight around you.

"Love you, Hiro," you whisper, your forehead pressed to his chest.

He says it back, soft and sleepy. And then he laughs, delirious.

"I'm gonna take such good care of you."

#makki~

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