cold as ice, baby | hinata hajime
kinktober day one: fingering
word count. 2.9k
content. MINORS/AGELESS BLOGS DNI, trans!hinata, gender neutral reader, fingering, established but new relationship, kissing, no real power dynamics but hinata likes being in control, biting, reader doesn't get touched but it's implied at the end
♪ freak - lana del rey.
kinktober mlist | regular mlist
Some days, Hajime's self-loathing is no joke.
It feels like the heat in Jabberwock intensifies it sometimes. Sort of... bastes it. Like it's cooking in its own filthy greasy residue and making him feel all oily and gross and hot. So, so hot. Under that stupid sun he cooks, and he sweats, and he feels like they can all smell it on him.
Probably not though. He showers every day, and nobody gets close enough to try.
It makes him feel a little sick, is all. How much he wants you sometimes. He feels gross, barely a step above Hanamura or maybe worse. He feels like he should go to jail sometimes for the way he ogles you. It's a hot island, so sometimes you have so much skin out, shoulders and legs, gleaming from sunblock lotion, slightly tacky from the whitish paste. Or the sea salt in your hair, or the chapstick you'd loaned from Saionji on your lips, apple and cinnamon. Or the swimsuits. Hajime's mouth goes dry.
He does not want to think about you in swimwear. Because then he's not going to stop thinking about you in swimwear, and it'll lead somewhere bad, which is the whole fucking issue, really.
You're so new, the both of you. He's liked you for ages, but you've only been official for a month or so. He can't just pounce on you like a starving lion. Even though he wants to. Even though he really, really wants to.
He watches you sit cross-legged with Tanaka to feed his hamsters, or get a piggyback from Owari with her strong hands on your thighs, or sit down and braid Ibuki's hair into loving little plaits, your fingers skating over the pale skin of her neck and scalp.
And it does something to him. He imagines your hands, smoothing down the tawny skin of his arms, his waist, encircling his ankles, gripping his throat, buried in his hair. He looks at your fingers and imagines them balling up the stupid standard-issue bedsheets underneath you. He sees you stretch out your legs and sees them bent in half, over his shoulders, around his waist like a vice, your pretty eyes clenched shut, your pretty mouth hung open.
Heat pools in the pit of his stomach.
Avoiding you and taking a lot of cold—unforgivingly cold—showers makes for a good temporary solution, but oh look, hasn't he just shot himself in the foot and scored a home goal with it? Because it just means you come knocking on his cabin door looking for answers.
At night.
When everyone's asleep, and you're alone, and he's only wearing his boxers because of this stupid perpetual heat.
"Have I done something wrong?" you ask, your voice all small and hurt, and Hajime wishes the ground would open up and swallow him whole.
"No! Nonono," he blurts out in a panic, and he steps aside to let you in like a moron, like the idiot he so clearly is. It's not the first time you've been in his cabin, obviously, but it's night and you look all soft and vulnerable and he thinks you're freshly showered because he can smell the coconut bodywash you like to use.
But then reality breaks through because you look—honestly hurt, crossing your arms and shifting your weight from foot to foot, avoiding his eye, and then Hajime mostly just feels like a huge piece of shit.
"I'm sorry," he sighs, and pushes the heels of his hands into his eyes in a gesture of weariness. "It's—it really isn't anything you, uh, did. It's me. I'm just... weird."
"Weird about what?" you press, stepping forward. "C'mon, you can tell me. Whatever it is, we can just... talk it out."
You're so sweet. "It's—uh, honestly, it's just kinda really embarrassing. And stupid. And... weird. And I really don't wanna weird you out, or like, make you think I'm... something I'm not, 'cause I'm not, like, the thing that you're gonna think I am but I just—"
"Hajime." Your hands on his shoulders, clamping down. The warm soft skin dimples between your fingers. Hajime's voice dies in his throat. He stares on, cheeks cherry-red, entirely too hot, sweat collecting unpleasantly on the nape of his neck. "I can guarantee nothing you tell me is going to freak me out, or whatever it is you're scared of. And I can see it's clearly... weighing down on you."
You're so nice. Weighing down on you is such a nice choice of words. In reality he probably looks constipated from stress.
"It's just—" His tongue flicks out nervously to wet his lips, and your eyes absently flit down to track the movement, oh fuck, "It's just..." Bad idea bad idea bad idea. "I kind of... I don't want to come on too strong and... scare you off."
Your brow knits; he thinks he sees some sort of understanding fall into place behind your eyes, but it's kind of distant. "Come on too strong how?"
His blush spreads from his cheeks to the tip of his ears, down his neck. "I... ahaha..." The nervous breathless stupid laugh he gives makes him want to strangle himself. "Y-you know. When I'm around you, I..." He swallows hard. "It—I can't help but think about... stuff I shouldn't."
He sees the moment it clicks into place for you; the slight widening of your eyes, the parting of your lips. "A-ah."
Mortification floods him like a tsunami. "Sorry! Fuck, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I never should've—" He's burning alive, he's actually baking like one of Hanamaru's luxury strips of meat that he slowcooks in the oven for hours on end so the whole hotel building ends up stinking of fucking, chicken and stock and rosemary all day—
"Hajime, hey." Your hands squeeze on his shoulders. "Just—breathe for a sec, please, you're freaking me out but not for the reasons you think you are."
Hajime gulps, eyes you nervously, and takes in a few desperate pulls of air. He feels small, like he's actively shrinking.
"First of all. It's not... like, weird, you know, to f-feel that kind of stuff in general," you say, incredibly haltingly like it's very awkward for you. "But it's even less weird when you're actually, you know, in a relationship, and I—I don't want you to feel weird about this, that's all, or about telling me when you're—you know. Because I'd be down. I mean, to help. Assuming that's what you want, I mean."
Hajime stares at you. His brain abruptly throws up its hands, bluescreens, and goes for a smoke break.
"Wha—wha?" he says intelligently. You smile fondly, the kind of smile that reminds Hajime why he fell in love with you in the first place.
"Do you want me to help you out?" you repeat, very clearly, and Hajime buries his face in his hands. Heat shoots through him like liquid lightning, illuminating every pore of his body. He can feel it gather between his legs.
"You don't have to," he mutters, heart thumping against his ribcage.
"Hajime," you say pleasantly. "D'you think you're the only one who's had to hold themselves back?"
It's pure, unadulterated shock that makes him lift his face out his hands to gawp at you, but the moment he does you cup his face with both of your hands and kiss him. He wonders if you can feel the heat of his burning skin on your palms, whether you care, and then your tongue is in his mouth and he stops wondering anything at all. He groans softly against your lips, and finally his useless hands move and he's grabbing, curling a fistful of your shirt in one hand and cupping the back of your neck with the other. He feels like he's been depriving himself of you for so long, and for fucking what? You feel incredible.
He walks you backwards until your knees his the frame of his bed and you're unseated with an undignified yelp. You bounce on the mattress, peering up at him. Hajime swallows hard. "Is this... okay? We don't have to—anything you want, God, anything—"
You put two hands on his waist, just above the waistline of his boxers, and Hajime stammers to a halt. He gazes at you, wide-eyed, brilliantly red. You press your lips to the skin just under his navel and his stomach sort of convulses at the sensitivity, and you keep going, down the trail of hair that disappears behind the waistband of his underwear, kissing over the fabric until you get to—
Hajime jolts and swears. His hands clench reflexively into fists at his side. "Lay down," he bursts out, and then flushes deeper. "Uh... please. If you want to. I—"
You giggle and pry your hands off him, leaving him feeling colder than ever. Hajime watches, mouth dry as you drape yourself lazily over his bed. Your sleep short ride up your thighs, the collar of your shirt dips down, and all the skin is making his head dizzy. He clambers over you a little clumsily, hitting your knee with his with a thud that makes you wince.
"Sorry!" he panicks, hands fluttering nervously over your leg. "Sorry, did that—that was an accident, I—"
"It's okay, it's okay," you laugh, the back of your hand covering your mouth. "Jeez, Hajime. Relax a little maybe."
His flush must be crawling down his chest at this point. "Yeah. Maybe." He glances around. "Kind of hard."
"Is it?" you ask with a pointed glance at his boxers. He groans, but the levity is extremely welcome, makes him feel less anxious. Reminds him it's just you, and you would never seriously laugh at him. Reminds him that he's safe.
"Is it okay if I'm—I mean." He wipes his clammy palms surreptitiously over his thighs. "I feel better when I'm more... in control. Y'know?"
You smile up at him. "That's fine with me. Are you going to boss me around now?"
Hajime laughs feebly, glancing away. He thinks it's a reasonable pretense that the idea doesn't make him ten times wetter.
He kneels between your legs and kisses you. You're so soft, skin warm and pliant and fresh from the shower. He can't hold back a moan when your tongue slips against his, and when your hand slides over his waist again, the pinky finger of your hand grazing the band of his underwear, he finally plucks up the courage to grab your wrist and drag it.
He lets out a choked sound into your mouth as your pliant hand slides between his legs. Pulling back from the kiss, panting hotly against your mouth. "Okay?" he asks hoarsely. "Please, oh my god, I need... only if you want, only if you want to..."
Your hand twitches to life inside the tight grip of his fist, and you skim your fingers over the wet spot of the fabric of his underwear.
Hajime shudders, dropping his head into the crook of your shoulder. "Ah... oh, fuck..." His shaking hand drops your wrist, reprimanding himself fiercely for maybe grabbing you too hard, but you didn't say anything, but he shouldn't just grab you and lead you like you're cattle, he opens his mouth to apologise when you cup his cunt through his boxers and he loses the ability to do anything at all. Anything other than moan into your skin, starting to get salty from the heat and the proximity, and he goes delirious with the idea that he's ruining you a little. Like you've just showered, you'd scrubbed your body all over with lovely scented soap and he's going to undo it methodically, deliberately, and you're going to let him, when it's all over you're going to smell like sweat and him and you'll have to clean all over again.
It's an intoxicating thought, the idea that someone as soft as you would let someone like him mess you up.
Your hand slips under the waistband of his underwear, follows the trail of hair down and finding him soft and hot and dripping wet. Hajime curses as your fingers skate almost curiously over his clit, his folds.
"Oh shit," you curse, mumbling almost more to yourself. "Y-you're so wet."
He makes a high, embarrassed noise in the back of his throat, eyes clenched shut, and his hips rock up into your hand in a gesture that feels inherently needy.
Despite his grossly obvious urgency, you take the time to bring your fingers back to your mouth and press them inside. Hajime watches, slack-jawed, pupils blown. When you take your fingers out, they're gleaming wet, and you grin at him. "You taste amazing."
Hajime is assaulted with all new images; your head between his legs, his hand on the top of your hair or tangled in your hair. Your tongue, soft and skilled against him, dripping spit and cum onto the carpet, and he has to stuff his knuckles in his mouth to stop himself moaning out loud. Sweat drips off his forehead and lands on your chest.
"Y/n," he croaks. "I'm gonna lose my mind."
You smile almost shyly, as if you didn't just have your fingers in your mouth right in front of him. "O-okay. Okay. Just, um... okay, I got it."
Hajime swallows hard. "Y-you're still sure?"
"I'm so sure," you tell him earnestly. And with that your hand glides down, over his collarbones, the twin scars arching beneath his breastbone, down his tense stomach and under his boxers again. This time, your fingers move with purpose. They roll over his clit and down the centre of his folds, parting them, dipping inside just slightly before coming back up. He feels a shivering mix of pain and pleasure as two of your fingers circle his clit, an indication that he's almost too sensitive; he feels like he's on fire, like forks of lightning are emanating from the vertice between his legs, and he lets out choked, high noises against your throat.
Mindlessly, it seems, his hips roll against your head, seeking something more. You take the initiative to prod with one finger, dipping lower from the other before teasing at his entrance. His thighs shake and part slightly for you, and you slip inside without another word.
The breach feels like breathing for the first time; he's so wet and so sensitive that you slide inside with barely a hint of pain, easing in up to the first knuckle.
"Ohhh god," he groans, feeling mindless, feeling weightless. "Ohgodohgodohgod..."
"What should I—"
"More," he nearly begs. "I want you inside."
The word should be embarrassing, but they just aren't. Not in front of you. You get your finger in slowly, inch by inch until your knuckles press up against him and he's clenching the sheets with his free hands.
He almost convulses when your finger curls up like it's searching for something; it presses against a spongey spot inside him and he whines from somewhere deep in his chest, and he hears you swear to yourself as you start moving in and out.
"Nngh, oh—hah..."
Oh he's gonna die. Your fingers are inside him. He's gonna fuckin' die—
One turns to two turns to three, your thumb rolling constant circles over his clit, sometimes catching so sensitively that he has to bite back whimpers. There's the stretch and the burn but even that is okay, feels good after a few moments. He feels distantly really bad that he's not touching you, but he will after, fucking hell he will after, whatever you want him to, he'd kiss the fuckin' ground you walk on for making him feel so good right now. All too soon he feels the familiar tightening in his stomach like a band.
"H-hey," he gasps out. "I think I—I'm c-close, so..."
"O-oh," you say, sounding equally breathless. "It's okay."
Your fingers push up into him, curling almost viciously into that spot inside him just as your other hand taps his jaw and guides his face to yours for a kiss. It's barely more than panting against each other's lips as your thumb presses down hard on his clit.
"Fuck, fuck," he cries. "Fuck, you're so fuckin'—so perfect—'m cumming, shit—"
He sobs out as he cums, alight from the inside out, shaking like he's just been hit by lightning. The pressure is so much that he needs an outlet, his finges pressing bruising marks into your hip and thigh, and he turns his head and bites down almost feverishly on your collarbone.
You tap his arm with a yelp, fingers jerking inside him as he starts to come down. He can feel his release dripping down his inner thighs and he lifts his head groggily.
"Shit," he mumbles eloquently, staring at the teeth mark on your skin. He didn't break skin, thank fuck, but he still feels mortified. "Sorry. Oh my god, sorry. That was—that was a total accident, I..."
"Ah, it—it's okay." You swallow hard. "Was that..."
Hajime shakes his head dazedly. "Amazing," he croaks. "Y-you're amazing." He gets the werewithal to roll off you with his shaking limbs so his weight isn't pushing into you anymore.
You let out a long, slow breath. "Was pretty amazing for me too."
Hajime glances at you with a trickle of amusememt. "Not yet it wasn't."
Your brow scrunches in confusion—but realisation dawns when you feel his hand slide up your thigh. In his eyes is a question, one that you nod hastily to. Hajime grins weakly.
"Good," he breathes. "As soon as I get my breath back, it's your turn." And it sounds like the sweetest thing ever when he adds, a moment later with a twist of that characteristic cockiness that leaps out at the most inopportune of moments: "I can't wait to see how pretty you're gonna look when I make you cum."
