Just a uní student trying to avoid to study, so she writes hc of whatever she is obsessed at the moment I accept requests, if I have time all do it. |19| she/her | arospec
I have not proof reading so there might be some mistakes. hope you enjoy <3
This is kinda pt2.
pt3.
You met Oikawa during his first year in Argentina. You can still vividly recall that day.
It was in the summertime, a Tuesday afternoon. you were in the park with your niece and nephew after picking them up from your sister’s house. She asked you to babysit them while she was at worked and you of course agreed because they were not a big trouble, actually it was pretty fun.
That was a particularly hot day so in due moment you all went to a supermarket to buy some ice-cream and snacks for the evening.
When you arrived to the store they ran straight to the ice-cream aisle. The two kids left you a little behind, but you could see when they suddenly stopped and stared a grown man that you didn’t know.
They turned to you, mouth wide opened, gasping and pointed the man. You finally got to them and whisper.
“Who is he?”
“THAT IS OIKAWA TORU” your niece screamed in the whisper, but you still weren’t able to recognize the name.
“Is the volleyball player that we so often talk about, the japanese one! He is here!” It started to make sense to you and you remembered that at some point they mentioned his name to you. He was the setter of their favourite team.
“If you love him so much go and ask him for a photo, this will probably be your only chance” they looked you terrified, as if they didn’t have the personality enough to do that. Both of them looked you with puppy eyes and ask you to go with them and you do the talk.
You gave in to their request.
During all the time you talked, he already had walked to others aisles so you needed to find him, your nephews following behind.
In the vegetable aisle there was him. You approached to him and clear your throat as to grabbed his attention.
When you first saw him back in the ice-creams aisle you didn’t really take a look of him, but now you were so much closer and could appreciate all his features: his brown eyes, his little long and wavy hair, his smile…
“Hi” he said, clearly not speaking any Spanish.
“Hi, i’m (y/n) and this are my nephews” you told him their names as you pulled them behind your back to stop them hiding from him “They are really big fans of your club, and of course you, so they wonder if they can take a photo with you”
Oikawa looked at them and crouched down to be at their eye level, because oh my god he was so tall. He tried to have a conversation with them, your nephews could understand and speak a little of english, but you sometimes you had to intervene and help them.
“Estábamos tan emocionados de ir a verte a las finales del campeonato, pero no pudimos conseguir entradas” your niece pouted. Oikawa looked at you waiting for your translation, he was trying to comfort her holding her hand because what she said it made her a little sad.
“They were eager to go and watch the finals, but they didn’t get tickets before it sold out”
Oikawa looked at your nephews and looked at you.
“I can give them tickets. Every player has some for friends and family and in my case all of them are in Japan”. He said shyly rubbing the back of his neck.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I was giving them away anyways”
Your nephews didn’t understand what’s going on, so you had to translate them the made proposal. They were so happy, their face lighted up, hugged Oikawa and almost made him loose balance. The three of them laughed.
When the kids calmed down a little bit, the setter stood up and now you had to look up to meet their eyes.
“Thank you”
“Eh- Can I have your number?” once again he said shyly, his cheeks going a little red (yours went red too) “Mm-you know- to send you the tickets”
He gave you his phone to save your number and then send you a text so you will have his.
“I will coordinate it then”
“Once again thank you”
“Seriously no problem”
You and your nephews said goodbye to him and walked away to buy the stuff you were going to in the first place. They were so excited that they didn’t trouble to pick an ice cream flavour and let you choose.
After the checkout and on your way home, they realized they forgot to take the picture. You couldn’t avoid but laughed a little, but they were really upset.
“Don’t worry, you can take one after the game”
The next days Oikawa texted you a few times: sending you the tickets, asking your address to send the vip pass, wanting to know a little more of your nephews (and you).
Before you know it, it was Saturday and your sister was picking you up to go to the game (as the setter send one extra ticket she joined you).
When you were in high school you never were interested to play volleyball as your sister, so you actually have never even watched a profesional game vía tv. Therefore along the last week your nephews tried to teach you all the rules and the players so that you would be too lost.
Oikawa the day before gave you all the instructions you would need: where to park, what entrance use, what you would need to show to the security guards, how to find your seats etc.
There was still some time left, but the stadium seemed to be full by now. In the court the teams were already doing stretches and some drills to warm up.
“Look there he is” your niece pointed to the setter that was a few metered away.
“Well he is even more handsome in person” your sister whisper only for you to hear and you laughed. When you looked back at him he was watching you and waved his hand.
As soon as the game started you were impressed by the athleticism of all the players. They were able to jump so high, spiked the ball at such velocity, the blocks and of course the set that Oikawa was able to do. The game was so awesome that you cursed yourself for not watching one before.
They won 3-1. They were national champions. The players went to celebrate with the public and Oikawa went were you were. Your nephews being the happiest, went down the stairs to the barriers and started to celebrate with him.
Your sister went closer to them and took his children a photo. You then saw Oikawa whispering something to her ear, as you were far from them there was no way you could hear, but both of them look at you.
“Yeah, is single” your sister answered and he just smiled relieved. You were puzzled about what was going on. Your niece, send by her mom, went up to you and pulled you down to where the others were.
You congratulated him for the win and once again gave him thanks for the tickets. As usual, he said nothing to worry about. It was a little awkward, like if you both wanted to say something else but were afraid of.
While this were going on his teammates were still celebrating around, there was people working to made the podium for the award ceremony and a reporter was signalling him to make an interview.
“Mm-I need to go-but, I was wondering… would like to have dinner with me sometime?”
It was a little bit of a shocked but you didn’t hesitate to answer him. It was surreal, but even after only knowing him only for a week something inside you was telling you that it was him.
He told you that will text you, before saying goodbye to your family and to you and going back to the reporter.
“Oikawa you look happy, what does it feel to win this championship during your first year with the team”.
He of course was happy for winning finally a championship after all the hard work, but the real reason he couldn’t stop smiling was you. Of course he wouldn’t tell that to the interviewer so just went on about the game.
You all stayed to watch the award ceremony, Oikawa got the mvp, before you left.
When your sister left you home your phone buzzed:
“What about tomorrow at seven pm?” you couldn’t wait.
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.
About: A one night stand with Oikawa basically- but it's on his birthday.
A/n: I actually wanted to post this on his birthday, so please accept this as a belated tribute to our pretty setter.
His whimpers and moans are probably the hottest things you've ever heard.
Contrasting the overly confident smirk that he had been sporting the whole evening before, it makes him look infinitely more attractive and real.
"You feel... so good... so impossibly good..." he moans right next to your ear, his hips rhythmically pressing against yours while he keeps on grinding against you. You're both still fully clothed, yet you feel hot – he's making you feel hot, and seeing him lose control like this is incredibly arousing.
"I want more," you whisper against his ear, breathless and needy, your body on fire while he keeps on dry-humping with you. Almost his whole body weight is resting on you, but you don't mind it. He's still wearing his white shirt and black pants, and you're also still fully clothed with your shirt and skirt while you both rest on the bed. "I know, I know, I got you," he groans against your ear, lifting his body weight with one arm to pull back a little, and his free hand finally wanders under your shirt to feel your bare skin. You gasp when he roams his fingertips over your stomach, moving further upwards in a controlled and steady way until they reach your bra. You arch your back to press further against his touch, and he hastily squeezes your breast through your bra. "Can I touch you more?"
You nod, an approving groan leaving your lips when his warm fingertips slip under your bra and free your chest. The second he feels your soft skin underneath his warm fingers, something changes in his gaze, and he leans down to connect his lips with yours deeply. Your arms tighten their grip around his shoulders, one of your hands now buried in his brown, fluffy hair, your nails softly raking against his scalp.
He grinds his hips against yours again, and you feel like seeing stars at the delicious friction. "Again," you gasp at his lips, and he complies, slower this time but harder, his hand now cupping your bare chest tenderly. You haven't seen him naked yet, but you can feel that he's packing.
"Is it okay if I get some clothes off you?" He looks intently at you, analyzing your every reaction and checking if you're uncomfortable.
"Yes," you almost moan it out when he grinds once more before he sits up and pulls at his own shirt. He is quick to discard it on the floor, and you're left with big eyes, stunned at his glorious physique. Your reaction doesn't visibly faze him, and he instead grabs your shirt and gently pulls it towards your head. You slightly lift yourself from the bed to help him undress you, your cheeks involuntarily heating up when you're left with your bra that has been pulled down on one side.
He takes a few seconds to stare at your body, and you shiver under the intensity of his gaze, but his eyes are warm when he looks at your face again. "Can you tell me your name? I don't remember you introducing yourself tonight."
You blink twice – almost not believing that he is asking for your name – from all the times this could have happened – right now?!
"Oh, it's y/n. Sorry."
You turn your face to avoid looking at him, suddenly embarrassed about how the night has turned out so far.
"No, no, sweetie, don't get shy on me now." He gently grabs your chin and forces you to look at him, which you reluctantly do. His smile is warm and pure, and you feel the butterflies in your stomach again – just like the first time you've seen him this night.
"I just want to know what I should be moaning when you're making me feel so good already." He playfully winks, and that actually makes you smile. That's probably why you decided to go with him tonight. One of his friends accidentally bumped into you, mumbling an apology about spilling a bit of his drink on you, and you quickly assured him that it's fine, yet he offered to buy you a drink to make up for it. You had refused his offer, being touched but not fazed enough by the little bit of water that has landed on your skirt. When someone called out a cheerful "Mattsun – who are you talking to?" and then you saw him. Tall, gorgeous, with fluffy brown hair and a captivating smile. And you couldn't refuse when he asked you if you want to go to upstairs for a drink, his hand not so subtly resting on your thigh – and you loved it. The attractive stranger with the flirtatious smile that makes your walls crumble – that now has you pinned underneath him, yet you still feel comfortable and safe with him.
"What is your name?" you ask, your eyes curiously roaming around the room to see if there is any hint about his identity. You're not prepared for the look on his face, though, when you focus on him again.
"My name? You don't know – wait. The party-" His eyes are big and round, genuine surprise showing on his pretty features as he stumbles from one word to another.
"What? What are you talking about?" You frown, and he blinks two times, as if he's trying to rid of his confusion.
"The party was actually..." he starts and stops again to think for a second about his next words. "I'm Tooru." He finally finishes, and you nod, still a bot confused about his reaction. "Okay."
His lips suddenly curl into a wide grin, and you're caught off-guard when he presses another kiss against your lips, his hands now both roaming on your sides and moving to your back to fumble with the clasp of the bra. He quickly opens it, and you briefly wonder what he must be doing to have such godly hands like this, and you bring your hands to your shoulders to help him remove the straps.
He is quick to caress the now-exposed skin and to softly dip his fingers into the curve between your shoulders and your neck. His eyes basically drink in the sight of your naked upper body – there is no other word to describe his gaze in another way. He firmly presses his palms against your shoulders, moving his hands down the side of your chest, his fingertips barely brushing against your nipples, as he moves on to your skirt. You expectantly hold your breath for a few seconds when his hands move to the button of your skirt – and you squirm at the ticklish feeling when his knuckles roam against your stomach.
"Sensitive here much, huh?" His teasing grin makes you squirm a bit more. "A little."
"I'll keep that in mind." He slowly leans down, his lips caressing your stomach now, and his hands suddenly grasping your hips to keep you from escaping his ministrations. He nibbles on your skin, slightly sucking as if he was trying to leave marks on your stomach, just around your belly button. "Tooru –" a choked-out moan escapes your lips, your body unable to move even the slightest bit with the strength this man has in his hands. The tingling sensation seems to go right between your legs, your thighs desperately clenching together the longer he continues.
A grin adorns his lips, even brighter than you've seen before, a mischievous sparkle in his eyes when he leans back and looks at your messy state. "You look so sexy right now, sweetheart."
"Sexy?" He doesn't even mind your comment but instead moves to the buttons of your skirt, one elegant eyebrow raising in your direction as an unspoken question.
You clear your throat before you nod, slightly raising your hips – as much as you can under him – to help him shimmy down the fabric to your feet, before he carelessly throws it away. His eyes move quickly – from your legs to your hips, to your chest, and to your face and down again – you feel like you look like a mess, but he doesn't seem to mind. In fact, the rather prominent boner that he's sporting in his dress pants tells you a quite different story. His eyes finally stop moving, his gaze now fixated between your legs and you briefly wonder how he had managed to pull down your panties without you noticing.
You whine when he suddenly leans down and dives his face between your legs, his lips latching onto your cunt with a precision that makes you shiver almost violently. Your legs involuntarily try to squeeze together, and one of his arms comes up to make sure that you're not squeezing his head too hard. "Sensitive there too, my pretty y/n?"
"A bit." You wiggle in his grasp when you feel his hot breath fanning your pussy, knowing that he is staring at your most intimate body part– but you don't try to back off.
"What do you want me to do? Can you tell me?"
"Just – keep on doing what you're doing."
"Right now? Right now I'm not doing much." He replies with a teasing smile on his damn pretty lips and he rubs circles on your thigh, causing goosebumps to appear on your arms. "I meant – being between my legs – eating me out..." you clench your fingers harder around the bed sheets, and he hums approvingly and licks a long strip along your folds, his tongue putting extra pressure on your clit. "Sounds good." Nothing could have prepared you for the way he starts eating you out, slow and firm, adjusting when he feels you pulling back or begging for more.
You get lost in the feeling, his lips on you, his tongue on you, and his hands holding you steady, his moans and lewd slurping sounds filling the room, and you would feel embarrassed if he wasn't making you feel so good. "Feels good, Tooru – want more –"
He presses gentle kisses against your thigh, a smirk on his lips. "More, huh? I can give you more. I can give you everything you want, my princess."
Your eyes widen at the sweet nickname, your face flush by now, and when he suddenly sits up and brings his forehead to yours. He breathes heavily, his lips tasting like you when he kisses you, and you're stunned when he suddenly flips you both until you sit on his crotch.
"Tooru –"
"Sit on me, princess. Take what you need." He looks at you expectantly, and you blush even further and soot down on him until you feel his cock pressing between your ass cheeks. You slightly move back to open the zipper of his pants, finally pulling down the fabric and freeing his cock when you pull the pants along with his boxers down his legs- just like he did it for you before.
He is big.
You stare at him for a few seconds, relieved that he's not rushing you or making any cocky comments when you're silent for a few moments. He patiently waits until you take a deep breath and lean down to mentally prepare yourself to take him.
Lifting your body, you line up his cock and slowly and carefully sink down on him, feeling the head of his cock pushing inside of you, making you feel so good and so full already.
A groan escapes his lips, and you gasp when you finally feel all of him inside of you. His hands move to your hips, gently caressing the flesh under his fingers as he rocks you a bit. You brace yourself against his chest and experimentally move your hips. He releases a deep breath, and you gasp for air at the delicious feeling that spreads through your whole body. "Feels good, Tooru." You move again, faster this time, and slowly start riding him, bouncing your body rhythmically on his cock, much to both of your pleasure. "Yes, just like that," he moans, the sound so desperate and lewd that you force your eyes open to look down on him.
He looks so hot under you.
You pause for a second, taking in the sight in front of you – the handsome dark-haired man, whose face is contorted in pure pleasure and who doesn't mind you seeing him like this.
Oikawa suddenly opens his eyes and grabs your hips firmly when he notices how you stopped, his legs readjusting, and he powerfully thrusts up into you. You claw your nails into his chest, not expecting the sudden force that he managed to pull, and you gasp his name under your breath when he does it again, even harder this time. You let him do it as he likes, using your body, and making you both feel good – the only thing you can do is moaning his name and clenching around him in ecstasy. His grip around your hips will leave bruises for sure, and at the same time, you know that you're leaving marks on his chest with your nails, but you're both too thrown into pleasure to notice that. You can feel him bringing you closer to the edge, closer and closer with each thrust, your body bouncing on him like crazy.
"Fuck – so good – so good –" he groans out between gritted teeth, his eyes zoning in on his cock that appears and disappears inside of you again and again. "I'm-" you gasp out, clenching down almost violently around him, and you basically feel him throb in response. "Cum for me." His thrusts get even deeper and faster, and his blissed-out expression suddenly sends you over the edge – the fact that this gorgeous and attractive man is pussy-drunk from fucking you – it makes you see stars while you mewl and clench around him hardly, not caring about how lewd you sound while you moan his name. And that's when you feel him throb again, harder this time, and suddenly stilling his movements, a sudden warmth spreading through your body when he fills you up. The delicious feeling of being stuffed to the brim, of being full of him makes your body tremble in delight, and you gasp his name one last time before you relax your muscles.
You finally sink down, your body limp from exhaustion, a thin layer of sweat covering your body and his too, as you notice when your head falls down his chest. Your rapid breaths fill the room, while he's still inside of you, slowly softening, and his hands release their death grip around your hips and move up soothingly to your bare back.
"That was..." he starts, suddenly stopping his movements.
You hold your breath while you wait for him to continue. "That was amazing. You're..." He trails off again, and now you slightly raise your body to look at him. He looks positively sinful, with his now disheveled hair and his flushed cheeks. Even from your position, you can see the scratch marks on his chest and you make a mental note not to rest your face against them to not hurt him further – not that he did seem to mind.
"I have a birthday wish." He continues, looking at you intensely.
"Birthday wish?" You echo, the wheels in your brain turning and trying to make sense of his words.
"I already noticed that you didn't know. The party downstairs is my birthday party." He vaguely gestures downstairs, and now you notice the shiny trophies on a shelf – a few with big engravings of his name. Oikawa Tooru.
"Oh." You suddenly pale at the realization, and avoid looking at him. He is THE Oikawa Tooru – the one that your friend couldn't stop swooning about, and you definitely now have an idea why.
"Congratulations. I had no idea, I'm very sorry..."
"No need to apologize. But I really do have a wish." He quickly interferes before you continue apologizing, and you raise your brows at his sudden request. So far, he seemed more like a giver than a taker.
"What is it?"
You finally look at him again, and the pure warmth and happiness that radiate through his honest smile make your heart skip a beat.
summary: on the day you're supposed to marry someone else, you give in to the pull between you and charles for the last time
content: m/f s*x, r*ding, angst.. lots of it
words: 3k+
He announces himself with two sharp knocks on the door. You don't turn around but your heart squeezes painfully in your chest anyway.
Your mother greets him with a smile, old affection slow to die despite you about to marry someone other than Charles.
"Can I have a moment with the bride?" he asks, voice not betraying him. But there's pain in his light eyes. She nods, a careful expression on her face before kissing him on the cheek. She squeezes his hand before she goes. Looks like she wants to say something but doesn't.
There's too much left unsaid, but you wait for the door to fall shut to turn around. You're not in your dress yet, just a simple dressing gown as your mother and you worked on your hair. You weren't as successful as you'd thought you'd be; too distracted by everything about to happen.
"Excited?" he asks, fingers restlessly drumming against his thigh. His eyes keep flicking over to the dress. Like he can't help but punish himself by looking at it. Like he can't stop imagining it worn on a different day, for him. And you. Just how you dreamt of for all those years when you were too young still to think about stuff like marriage and starting a family despite wanting both so so badly.
Where did it all go wrong? You know the answer of course, but looking at him, in his tailored suit with his combed hair and those same eyes you used to feel grounded by, you can't quite put it into words. What made you leave.
"Yes," you say, a little too late. But honest anyway. Your stomach has been fluttering all day.
He nods, accepts it without comment. Has learnt over time to take what you say as the truth and nothing but the truth.
"Why are you here?" you ask when he doesn't say anything. You can see it in his posture, how his bruised heart is beating away in his chest. How he's trying so hard not to snap and say what he really feels.
"I just--" he stops, breathes in. Out. Once and then twice more. "I need to--"
And then his lips are on yours and shock slips away too quickly for you to do anything but kiss back. Eager. And familiar and hurting. Not as badly as Charles maybe, knowing that your whole future is going to start beyond that door. A groom and guests waiting to celebrate your union as Charles watches on, but the pain is still there. In the way your hands slip into his hair. How you pull on the strands to have him moan and hiss.
It's enough of a distraction to have his hands fall away from your face. To your chest and down. His hands shouldn't feel as good on your skin as they do. As right. But they do and a part of you takes sick fascination in it. How you are prepared to promise yourself away to someone else and still think nothing compares to Charles' hands on you.
Your lips part and then he trails his mouth down your neck. Careful and soft not to leave behind any marks. He's considerate like that. Like he knows you'll have him here, behind closed doors one last time and he has accepted it. That he has no claim on you or your body beyond what you give him.
It's easy though, to let him touch and move you. Tug you off the small seat and against the edge of the vanity. Makeup bottles rattle when you bump the edge with your ass and then you're turned around and come face to face with yourself. And Charles to your back.
You stop for one breathless minute. Take in his flushed cheeks and glistening eyes. How even now, he looks beautiful in his suit. Regal. Like he belongs in it at the end of an aisle with flowers to your feet.
It's a nice fantasy, but one you have to close your eyes against. Your head bumps against the mirror softly. Fogs up as you sigh into the clear surface as his hands slip under your robe. Where you're already a little wet. A little turned on since you first glimpsed him in his suit.
"Fuck," he whispers, lips brushing your shoulder before he pushes off. Like he needs to see for himself. Your legs part a little more as you hold onto the vanity. Try to find purchase where there is none with Charles by your back.
His hand wraps around your hip. Squeezes the flesh softly before sliding around your waist. To your stomach. Where he rubs a couple of soothing circles into the skin. Traces his fingers down. Between your legs. Around your folds. Has your hips rock forward in two seconds flat. But he doesn't give in at first. Doesn't give you the satisfaction of touching your clit more.
You roll your eyes. Too impatient to play this game. Rock your ass against Charles' trousers. Where he's straining against the fabric already, just as eager as you feel. Rub your ass against him some more, have him stutter forward. Until he pins your hips against the vanity with his.
"Charles," you say, name easily uttered in the silence. It feels right, hearing it roll off your tongue as you ache for him. "Touch me."
And he does. Like it was that easy. Like all you had to do was ask for him to break. And give in like he's been wanting to since he knocked on that door.
He has you against the vanity. Right next to where your wedding dress is hanging. Shimmery and beautiful in the low light.
His pants are down by the knees and your robe is hiked up by the thighs and there's a certain desperation you've grown to recognize in the way he grips your hips. The way he intertwines your fingers of one hand to places against the mirror, like he wants to leave a trace behind. That he was there. Making you feel good, desired, on the day you're promising yourself away to someone else.
Someone that is not Charles. Who despite you breaking and ripping his heart into a million tiny pieces, is here. A steady presence to your back. His cock hot and heavy in you. Filling you just so to have you moan and whimper his name with every deep stroke of his cock.
Your eyes meet in the reflection and it's like he can't bear it. Having your eyes on him when he makes you feel so so good. Because he knows it won't last. The same way you know it won't. It's a silent agreement, one that sits heavy between you as he snaps his hips into you. Body opening so beautifully for him despite it.
It always has. You can't imagine a time your body won't feel like a live wire when he touches you.
It's worrisome, thinking that Charles of all people will remain the sole reason your body trembles the way it does now, but at the same time it seems... right. Why lie to yourself when your body would betray you no matter what? When you wrap your free hand around his wrist on your hip and pull it around your waist? Between your legs. Where you're dripping now, stretched around his cock.
You moan, the sound hoarse as he touches your clit again. Rubs circles into the tender folds. Has you arch your back a little more.
He looks lost to the pleasure when you look back up into the mirror. Eyes almost completely closed as he looks down. To where he disappears in you. Where you're wrapped around him, tight and wet and so so close to coming on his cock. His hand falls away from around your waist. Comes to settle on the small of your back before he pushes down.
You fold easily. Feel him slip in that little bit more. Just enough to nudge your g-spot. Just enough to have you see stars where before you could see the gentle slope of his jaw. How his eyelashes fanned across his cheeks.
Pleasure zings down your back. Pulled tight like a rubberband about to snap. Has been for some time. Pretty much since Charles' thrusts have tapered off into a deep grind. One that has your toes curl against the carpet.
"Touch yourself," he says at some point. And it's like a switch has been flipped. Your fingers move with practiced ease and then Charles pushes in, pushes close. Until he can kiss the back of your neck. Nibble at your earlobe.
The sounds he makes get you there in the end. How the air seems to get punched out of his lungs every time he bottoms out. Like he's surprised by how good it feels. How good you feel around him, even after all that time.
You come with his name on your lips. Where it belongs, you think for one breathless moment, guard all the way down until your body trembles from oversensitivity.
He stops then. Still hard. Still desperate to get off.
Your eyes meet again and then he pulls out. Turns you around. Grabs you by the wrist. Fingers of that hand still glistening from where you touched yourself.
His cheeks hollow around the digits and your eyes flutter a little. Pleasure still coursing through your veins. Especially now, seeing him suck your fingers clean. He always enjoyed being on his knees for you. Said he loved your taste. The way you just couldn't help but fuck yourself on his tongue. Use him until you got off.
Your fingers slip free and then you're kissing. One hand wrapping around his cock. The first touch has him gasp against your lips, but you don't stop. Move your hand instead, slow. Flick your wrist in that way you remember him liking.
He tumbles into the bed with you on top of him.
And it's a practiced move. This dance. Falling into bed together. Him throbbing in your hand until you manage to pull your robe off. Drop it to the ground. Careless. Too focussed on feeling his tip nudge against your slit.
You don't draw it out. Slip down his dick, until he bottoms out. Until his hands fly to your waist. Like he has to restrain himself from fucking up, into you from the get go. You wouldn't mind, but this is good too. Perfect even. A little like a religious experience.
Better than one in some ways, having him looking up at you as you look down on him. Feeling the way he throbs in you. Buried from tip to base on the day you're getting married to a cheap imitation of what you and Charles have. Had.
You grind down, relish the feeling of being filled the way you are. Gasp and moan when he fucks up into you after all. Restraint only getting him so far before he snaps. You came once already after all. Charles is rarely selfish outside of the bedroom, but here, right now, he can't help it. Can't help wanting to cum in you, have you tremble on his cock.
"Not fair," you mumble, voice quiet as you look down at him. His beautiful face. Those flushed cheeks. But the kiss you draw him into contradicts anything you could have followed that up with.
It's a deep one. Filthy much like everything you've done so far and your hands are making a mess of his beautiful hair. Twisting and pulling on the strands until the product seems to melt away entirely into a sweaty mess. One you're starting to turn into as he continues to move his hips up. As you continue to stay still. Have him be the one to do the work.
His eyes never once leave your face but his hands remain restless. They come up to your tits. Trail down your waist to your ass. Have you arch into them eagerly before he gives your ass a light clap. One that stings. One that turns the skin hot beneath his hand. Where he grips you, almost owning. If it weren't for the wedding dress hanging from the vanity. If it weren't for the silver ring around your finger -- one that's not identical to the one Charles gave you back then, when you were dumb and in love and taking on the world seemed like the easiest thing to do with him by your side.
How young and naive you were back then. You're still young now, but more jaded. Changed in a way that allows you to fuck your ex on your wedding day. You'll be thinking about this later, when your groom zips down your dress. When he kisses your skin and thinks he's the only one that has touched you that day. When he thinks it's him you think of, late at night.
It's a secret you and Charles will share. One he'll leave with as he watches you walk down the aisle.
He pulls you down into his lap. Quick. A little rough as his fingers dig into your sides. Like he could tell your mind was elsewhere and he couldn't have that happen. Not when he's in you. When he's the one making pleasure slowly coil in your stomach again. It's embarrassing almost, how quick he gets you where he wants you.
But you can tell he's close too. In the way his eyes glisten. How his thrusts turn sloppy and you're the one back in charge. When he's so close to cumming.
You move your hips up and down. Smile, strained and with a moan withering behind your teeth when he thrusts up once. Twice more before his fingers dance down your stomach and to your slick folds. His thumb draws over the stretched skin of your cunt, where you're wrapped around him again.
But his eyes remain on your face. As if he has to look at you falling apart. Memorize the way you look riding him.
His fingers feel heavenly on your clit when they slip back up. Better than yours, because they're Charles'.
When he cums in you, you do so a second later. Follow him over the edge until pleasure snaps. Until it overwhelms your senses. You fall forward, spent, despite your hips twitching back and forth on his softening cock. Bury your face in his sweaty neck. The collar of his crisp shirt ruined.
Your name is whispered into the space above your head. Quiet. Unsure. Like Charles doesn't know what you just did despite his cum slowly trailing between your legs.
You pull off, but don't move away. Stay like that, wrapped up in his body for another moment. Rub your forehead against his chest. Scared what you'll find when you look up. What truth Charles will have unveiled to you with his eyes.
He's an open book to you. Or used to be, but the shuttered look on his face isn't what you expect when you roll away. Into the space next to him. Where he's one warm line against your naked body.
You feel terribly exposed suddenly. With him still in his suit for the most part. With his eyes being unreadable. Lips pinched together like he has to stop himself from saying something.
You shrug into the robe again. Try to find security in the soft way it caresses your body but all it reminds you of is how just minutes earlier Charles had touched you. How his hands had cupped your breasts and his lips sought out yours.
When you stand up, so does he. And it's quiet between you. Now that the sound of each others names have stopped slipping off the others lips. You move, try to put space between you and the bed. Almost sit back down at the vanity, where even now, a mark is left behind. The one your intertwined hands left behind.
"It's a beautiful dress," he says from behind you, voice quiet. You nod, eyes trailing over delicate lace and beautiful folds just to your side. Your husband will love it but he won't appreciate the thought put into it before pulling it off your body tonight.
"I would have loved it," he adds. Doesn't meet your eyes as he does. You don't know what he'd find there anyway. Pain, maybe? For doing this to him? To yourself? Your mind's a mess, but one you appreciate over grasping what you just did.
His hands tremble a little around the buttons of his wrinkled shirt, still made up for the most part. You sigh as you step in, a distant rehearsed memory prompting you to help him like you did so many times before. At events or before important meetings with Ferrari.
"You would," you agree, "You would have loved to see the way it shimmers in the light as we danced."
He hums, pained and then grabs your wrists. Clears his throat before dropping them again. Reminds himself that he has no right to touching you anymore. You would have let him. You would have even kissed him again. Or for the last time. Whatever version you like to tell yourself. All you really know is that you already miss it, the heat of him on your body. How he filled you.
There's evidence of him on your skin still. Between your legs. Slowly trailing down the soft skin of your inner thigh. But it's not enough to trick your brain into believing you'll ask him to stay.
You couldn't, even if you wanted to. It's too late, you tell yourself.
A part of you knows that you'll have to tell yourself that one over and over.
_
Later, after you've showered, after you've washed away all traces of Charles, watched what you two did swirl down the drain and your mother touched up your lipstick -- the ghost of Charles' mouth on yours still warm -- you walk down the aisle and towards a new future.
One that doesn't have Charles standing on the other side. Instead, he's sitting in the second row to your left and he admires the way your dress shimmers with every step just like you said he would.
Warning: it mentions blood but nothing explicit. It may have some grammar mistakes, sorry English it’s not my first language. Hope you enjoy it.
Summary: you have been dating chifuyu for a while and he is always wounded.
…………………………………………………………………………….
Everyday since you started dating Chifuyu he would wait for you in the mornings to go together to school.
This day wasn’t the exception as you saw your phone light up with his message letting you know that he is outside.
You found him outside leaning agains a tree with his arms crossed almost falling asleep standing. You got close to him and kissed his cheeks.
He opened his eyes and you could see his beautiful blue eyes.
“Good morning love” he picked your hand and intertwined his fingers with yours as you started your way to school.
“How are your wounds?”
“Healing”
When you first met Chifuyu you knew he was in a gang and that they got in fights pretty often, but that didn’t mean that you were amused with how often he would asked you to help him with them.
You didn’t like to see him with hurt, with cuts and blood. Despite he telling you that the other guys were worst than him and that they didn’t really hurt him.
A few days ago he was in fight with Moebius. Overall it went well, but two of them ended at the hospital with knife cuts.
You wouldn’t know what to do if Chifuyu were one of them. You wouldn’t know what to do if you loose him.
“Babe I’m okay” he said pulling you out of your thoughts while gripping more to your hand to reassure you.
You arrived at school and as you were in different classes you had to go in different ways, but he would let you go until to know you were good.
“I’ll see you at lunch, okay?” Both of his hands were cupping your cheeks. He was no afraid of pda so he kissed you. It helped you to relax a little bit “I love you”.
“Love you too, I’ll go to your class once mine is finished” he nodded and kiss you one last time before letting you go your way.
Your class was really boring and you weren’t really paying attention to everything the sensei was saying. You was caught by your own thoughts when someone tapped your shoulder and pointed to the door; Chifuyu was waiting there for you.
“Sensei Tanaka has asked for (l/n)” he said to your teacher.
You knew he was lying and using it as an excuse to get you out of the class to talk with you. Something serious must have happen if he didn’t just text you.
You were allowed to left the classroom and followed Chifuyu to an empty hallway.
“I need to leave school, Baji needs something” he blurted out. You frowned at him.
“Can’t he wait?” You knew that the black-haired boy was the captain of the first division at ToMan and that your boyfriend was his vice-captain and that they were really close, but you couldn’t avoid to resent him right now.
“It can’t” you noticed that he was sorry, he didn’t really had other choice or he would choose to stay at class and then eat lunch with you. This was a ToMan business and you knew that anything related to it was very important to him.
“Does this involve a fight?”
“I really hope not” he took your hands and pull you in a hug. Chifuyu could read you as an open book and knew that you wanted to cry. He hated make you worry about him.
“Text me and let me know that you are okay please”
“I’ll do and I’ll come to you after this”
He let you hugged him for a few more seconds before pulling away. He rested his head against yours and with those blue eyes he let you know that he will be fine.
You kissed him before letting him go.
“Love you”
Then you had to go back to your class, but if you weren’t focusing before now you we’re definitely zoned out. You had a bad feeling.
The whole hour you couldn’t stop tapping with your foot as you grew anxious. If it was Baji just needing something you should have insisted in go with him.
When lunch time arrived and you still hadn’t received a text, you decided to ditch school. You were learning nothing anyways. You really had no idea where he could be, so just went home and tried to think good stuff.
If this was something related to ToMan, he probably was with them and even if they got on a fight they wouldn’t let anyone of them get really hurt. They were like a family and they protected each other. You trusted them. Chifuyu would be perfectly fine.
Suddenly your cellphone rang. You were surprised by the name that appeared on the screen. Please don’t let it be bad news.
“Takemichi? What’s going on? Are you with Matsuno?”
“Yes I am, he is asking where are you right now”
“Im in my house. Why isn’t he the one calling me?”
“We will be there”
“WAIT- Takemichi— what’s going on?” You desperately asked but he had already hang up. Your heart was racing and your mind couldn’t help to think the worst.
At least he was alive if he was asking for you, but he can’t be in a good state if he wasn’t the one calling. What the hell had happened? And why was Takemichi calling and not Baji?
You went to the bathroom and pull out the first aid kit, he will probably need it. Probably what we’re a few minutes you felt like a hours. As soon as you heard a knock on the door you ran to it and opened it.
You gasped.
What the hell had happened?
Takemichi was trying to help a person to keep standing. If you didn’t know better you would say that that person wasn’t Chifuyu. Not with all that bruises, wounds and cuts. But it was him, with his face full covered in blood as well as his blonde hair. His own blood.
“Why did you bring him here? He should be at the hospital!!” you hurried him up to bring him to the couch to get a better look at him.
“He wanted to come here”
You stopped listen to him and just put on to work on the very hurt guy. You tried to clean his wounds very careful, but there were a lot of them and you definitely didn’t have enough bandages for all of them so you send Takemichi to go buy some more stuff.
After he left you took a moment to breathe. You didn’t even notice it before but your eyes were crowded with tears that wanted to let out. Seeing Chifuyu like this was your worst nightmare and a part of you hated him for making you this.
“Love…?” barely been able to open one of his eyes he tried to scan the room to find you.
“M-here” He tried to sit himself up, but you approached to him and didn’t let him “Don’t move”
You sat on the floor next to him and as he went to grabbed your hand, you realized that his hands were clean. Not even one bruise.
“Chifuyu what the hell happened? You didn’t even fight back? Who did this to you?” Now you were seriously mad. You were screaming at him and crying at the same time. This was a lot to handle. You love him but this was a lot.
“It was Baji… he is a member of Valhalla now”
Had your heard well? Baji? The Baji who helped Chifuyu confessed his feelings? The Baji who used to bother both of you for all the pda? The Baji that just a few days ago was in this exact same house watching a movie with the two of you? That Baji?
Suddenly Chifuyu was sobbing. Your heart broke a little. If what was telling you was true you find it reasonable to not fight him back. Baji was like a brother to him. He would have never hurt him and if Baji did this it must have been a very good reason.
You lifted him up very carefully to not cause him pain and just enough for you to scoop under him and hug him while he cried.
“Love I’m really sorry, I never wanted to do this to you. I love you so so much. Please don’t leave me” He was being the most vulnerable you have ever seen him. Crying against your chest and holding you so tight as if he was really afraid you would leave him.
“Babe it’s okay, I’m not going anywhere. I’ll stay with you forever, I promise. You are the most important thing to me. I just got scared, but you being fine is the only thing that matters to me” you kissed his his temple and rubbed his lower back as many times it took him to ease his crying.
When Takemichi came back with the bandages you have asked him, he found you both in the sofa. Chifuyu had fallen asleep over you and you didn’t want to move to not wake him up.
“Are you good? Do you need anything?”
“I’m fine Takemichi. Thanks for bringing him to me”
He waved you goodbye and you were left alone once again.
There was still so much stuff that you couldn’t understand, but you were going to let Chifuyu explain them once he feels better.
Warning: it mentions blood but nothing explicit. It may have some grammar mistakes, sorry English it’s not my first language. Hope you enjoy it.
Summary: you have been dating chifuyu for a while and he is always wounded.
…………………………………………………………………………….
Everyday since you started dating Chifuyu he would wait for you in the mornings to go together to school.
This day wasn’t the exception as you saw your phone light up with his message letting you know that he is outside.
You found him outside leaning agains a tree with his arms crossed almost falling asleep standing. You got close to him and kissed his cheeks.
He opened his eyes and you could see his beautiful blue eyes.
“Good morning love” he picked your hand and intertwined his fingers with yours as you started your way to school.
“How are your wounds?”
“Healing”
When you first met Chifuyu you knew he was in a gang and that they got in fights pretty often, but that didn’t mean that you were amused with how often he would asked you to help him with them.
You didn’t like to see him with hurt, with cuts and blood. Despite he telling you that the other guys were worst than him and that they didn’t really hurt him.
A few days ago he was in fight with Moebius. Overall it went well, but two of them ended at the hospital with knife cuts.
You wouldn’t know what to do if Chifuyu were one of them. You wouldn’t know what to do if you loose him.
“Babe I’m okay” he said pulling you out of your thoughts while gripping more to your hand to reassure you.
You arrived at school and as you were in different classes you had to go in different ways, but he would let you go until to know you were good.
“I’ll see you at lunch, okay?” Both of his hands were cupping your cheeks. He was no afraid of pda so he kissed you. It helped you to relax a little bit “I love you”.
“Love you too, I’ll go to your class once mine is finished” he nodded and kiss you one last time before letting you go your way.
Your class was really boring and you weren’t really paying attention to everything the sensei was saying. You was caught by your own thoughts when someone tapped your shoulder and pointed to the door; Chifuyu was waiting there for you.
“Sensei Tanaka has asked for (l/n)” he said to your teacher.
You knew he was lying and using it as an excuse to get you out of the class to talk with you. Something serious must have happen if he didn’t just text you.
You were allowed to left the classroom and followed Chifuyu to an empty hallway.
“I need to leave school, Baji needs something” he blurted out. You frowned at him.
“Can’t he wait?” You knew that the black-haired boy was the captain of the first division at ToMan and that your boyfriend was his vice-captain and that they were really close, but you couldn’t avoid to resent him right now.
“It can’t” you noticed that he was sorry, he didn’t really had other choice or he would choose to stay at class and then eat lunch with you. This was a ToMan business and you knew that anything related to it was very important to him.
“Does this involve a fight?”
“I really hope not” he took your hands and pull you in a hug. Chifuyu could read you as an open book and knew that you wanted to cry. He hated make you worry about him.
“Text me and let me know that you are okay please”
“I’ll do and I’ll come to you after this”
He let you hugged him for a few more seconds before pulling away. He rested his head against yours and with those blue eyes he let you know that he will be fine.
You kissed him before letting him go.
“Love you”
Then you had to go back to your class, but if you weren’t focusing before now you we’re definitely zoned out. You had a bad feeling.
The whole hour you couldn’t stop tapping with your foot as you grew anxious. If it was Baji just needing something you should have insisted in go with him.
When lunch time arrived and you still hadn’t received a text, you decided to ditch school. You were learning nothing anyways. You really had no idea where he could be, so just went home and tried to think good stuff.
If this was something related to ToMan, he probably was with them and even if they got on a fight they wouldn’t let anyone of them get really hurt. They were like a family and they protected each other. You trusted them. Chifuyu would be perfectly fine.
Suddenly your cellphone rang. You were surprised by the name that appeared on the screen. Please don’t let it be bad news.
“Takemichi? What’s going on? Are you with Matsuno?”
“Yes I am, he is asking where are you right now”
“Im in my house. Why isn’t he the one calling me?”
“We will be there”
“WAIT- Takemichi— what’s going on?” You desperately asked but he had already hang up. Your heart was racing and your mind couldn’t help to think the worst.
At least he was alive if he was asking for you, but he can’t be in a good state if he wasn’t the one calling. What the hell had happened? And why was Takemichi calling and not Baji?
You went to the bathroom and pull out the first aid kit, he will probably need it. Probably what we’re a few minutes you felt like a hours. As soon as you heard a knock on the door you ran to it and opened it.
You gasped.
What the hell had happened?
Takemichi was trying to help a person to keep standing. If you didn’t know better you would say that that person wasn’t Chifuyu. Not with all that bruises, wounds and cuts. But it was him, with his face full covered in blood as well as his blonde hair. His own blood.
“Why did you bring him here? He should be at the hospital!!” you hurried him up to bring him to the couch to get a better look at him.
“He wanted to come here”
You stopped listen to him and just put on to work on the very hurt guy. You tried to clean his wounds very careful, but there were a lot of them and you definitely didn’t have enough bandages for all of them so you send Takemichi to go buy some more stuff.
After he left you took a moment to breathe. You didn’t even notice it before but your eyes were crowded with tears that wanted to let out. Seeing Chifuyu like this was your worst nightmare and a part of you hated him for making you this.
“Love…?” barely been able to open one of his eyes he tried to scan the room to find you.
“M-here” He tried to sit himself up, but you approached to him and didn’t let him “Don’t move”
You sat on the floor next to him and as he went to grabbed your hand, you realized that his hands were clean. Not even one bruise.
“Chifuyu what the hell happened? You didn’t even fight back? Who did this to you?” Now you were seriously mad. You were screaming at him and crying at the same time. This was a lot to handle. You love him but this was a lot.
“It was Baji… he is a member of Valhalla now”
Had your heard well? Baji? The Baji who helped Chifuyu confessed his feelings? The Baji who used to bother both of you for all the pda? The Baji that just a few days ago was in this exact same house watching a movie with the two of you? That Baji?
Suddenly Chifuyu was sobbing. Your heart broke a little. If what was telling you was true you find it reasonable to not fight him back. Baji was like a brother to him. He would have never hurt him and if Baji did this it must have been a very good reason.
You lifted him up very carefully to not cause him pain and just enough for you to scoop under him and hug him while he cried.
“Love I’m really sorry, I never wanted to do this to you. I love you so so much. Please don’t leave me” He was being the most vulnerable you have ever seen him. Crying against your chest and holding you so tight as if he was really afraid you would leave him.
“Babe it’s okay, I’m not going anywhere. I’ll stay with you forever, I promise. You are the most important thing to me. I just got scared, but you being fine is the only thing that matters to me” you kissed his his temple and rubbed his lower back as many times it took him to ease his crying.
When Takemichi came back with the bandages you have asked him, he found you both in the sofa. Chifuyu had fallen asleep over you and you didn’t want to move to not wake him up.
“Are you good? Do you need anything?”
“I’m fine Takemichi. Thanks for bringing him to me”
He waved you goodbye and you were left alone once again.
There was still so much stuff that you couldn’t understand, but you were going to let Chifuyu explain them once he feels better.
your husband oikawa being away in a tournament pt3
Sorry for it taking me so long but finally pt3 is here.
this is pt pt1. and this is pt2.
I have not proof read it so there might be some mistakes. hope you enjoy <3
You only ended the call, because you had to drive to your sister's house to look for your nephews while she was gone in a business trip over the weekend. It was much more easier you moving over to her house, that they moving to yours so it was arranged that way.
When you knocked the door your niece was the first who opened it and before saying even hello she screamed to you:
“DID YOU WATCH THE GAME?”
Then your nephew came out from one of the halls running to you and asked you about a play they did.
“Did you wake up at 4 am to watch the game?”
“Worst!” said your sister from the same hallway from which your nephew came carrying a suitcase “They stayed up the whole night watching the rest of the games, they barely slept two hours”
You gasped and then laughed, it was unbelievable how much your nephews love volleyball, but somehow it reminded you a little bit of someone.
“Don’t you remember that you used to do the same? And mom always complained about it, so you just started to watch the games under the covers for her not noticing it”.
“Shhh, don’t give them bad ideas”.
“Soo did you watch it??” your niece asked once more and you told them that you where so tired that you didn’t wake up. She immediately went to their living room, followed by her brother, and turned on the TV for you three to watch the replay.
“Hey, first came here and say mama goodbye” both of them hugged her and told her that they love her so much “I’ll miss you, behave properly with your aunt, don’t cause trouble and please sleep a little more tonight or take a nap”.
“We will, love you, see you on Monday”
Your sister hugged them one last time and then said goodbye to you. As usual she gave you every detail you need to be careful about, reminded you the emergency numbers and told you what they needed to do over the weekend for school. You eased her down, this wasn’t your first time taking care of them, they will survive.
“Just go, i’ll make sure the house doesn’t burn down while you are not here” she punched your arm, gave you a quick hug and then left.
You went with your nephews and sit in the sofa to watch the game. Every now and then any of you would stop it and rewind it to analyze some of the plays. Over the years you have been with Oikawa, thanks to him and your nephews, you really have learned a lot about volleyball. As the news that you read in the morning the Argentinian team really did play an amazing game.
“That is an amazing back set! He is still trying to teach us how to do it properly” commented your nephew.
When you sometimes go to watch Tooru at his practices, you go with them too because they enjoy when after it they let them use the court and practice a little more. Your husband is always giving them advice and playing with even when you know he is exhausted after his own practice. They have fun together and somehow, Oikawa find this as a way to thanks them for guiding you to him.
Your nephews probably were the most excited when you started dating him and then when he proposed. It was out of their mind that they somehow where going to have the Oikawa Tooru as an uncle.
It took you a lot of time to end the game, so you had lunch a pretty late and after that they fell right to sleep in the house’s sofa. You took advantage of using that time to finish what you had left pending from work.
At about 8pm you got a message from your husband.
“Good morning, I’m awake” you smiled and called him “Are you at your sister’s?”
You affirmed and told him about your day with your nephews. He otherwise told you about what they were going to do before the game.
“Today I will watch the game, i’m rested, and either way they will wake me up to see it”
Your niece must have heard you talking with Tooru, because she got up from her nap and ask you if she can talk with him. You of course let her. As it wasn’t on speaker you weren’t able to hear what he was saying, but she asked him about the game, other players and laughed a lot. After a while she gave the phone back to you.
“Hey, do you think we should have children?” that’s was so out of context that it got you by surprised and you literally couldn’t form any word “I’m not talking about right now, don’t be scared, it’s just that we have never really talked about it so i was wondering if it was in your plans”.
To be honest, every time that you see your husband interact with your nephews you have a little bit of baby fever. It’s inevitable, because he’s incredible with them and probably will be an incredible dad.
“Someday… with you… yes”
“Okay… good” through his voice it was obvious he was smiling and so were you “We’ll talk more about it once i’m back, yeah?” you nodded, despite he not been able to see you “I’ll have to hang up, they are calling at the door to have breakfast”
“We will sleep early, so we won’t be able to call you before you leave for the game. Good luck! Be amazing and have fun playing against them”.
“For sure I will. Love you”
“Love you more, call me once you can after the game” Tooru assured you he will and after it he hung up.
As it was already 9pm you decided to order pizza to dinner. You and your nephews eat it while watching some tv serie in the living room, but after two chapters you told them that it was enough and about time to go to bed if they wanted to watch the game. After promise a lot that you will wake them up half an hour before the game they put on their pyjamas, brushed their teeth and went to bed.
“Goodnight”.
When you went to bed was around 23:30 pm and before falling asleep you got a message from Oikawa.
“Sorry but i can’t stop thinking about our children and I need to get this out to focus in the game… do you think they will like aliens?”
“So random! You like them, maybe they too, i don’t know, we can talk about our future children later but right now you need to focus on the game”
“Yeah, i know, it was just a very intrusive thought. Bye, love you, goodnight”
After that he went offline and you fell asleep.
A few hours later your alarm woke you up and then you woke up your nephews. The three of you set in the living room and your niece turn on the tv and put the game broadcast. The players of Japan were being presented and you cheer for the ones you have met. Then, it was Argentina turn and it was amazing being so far from home the amount of cheers the got, specially Oikawa, who by now was recognize as one of the best setters in the world.
“He looks amazing” said you nephew and you agreed. In his light blue uniform he looked impressive.
After some minutes to warm up, the game started and as usual Tooru was the one to serve first. In his high school years he used to have one of the best serves, but after years of training now he had a one of the most potent in a worldwide level so much so that he did an ace despite Sakusa, Yaku, Hinata and Hoshiumi were ready to receive.
The first set was for Argentina. Japan had a difficult start and weren’t able to get the momentum after your national team managed to be five points ahead of them.
The second one was a little more even. Ushijima and Kiyoomi managed to get through the Argentinian blockers a lot of times and that made the difference.
In the third set the things didn’t go so much better and Japan won this time 27-25.
“Uncle Tooru is playing so well, but everyone in the japan team is so strong”.
“Yeah, it’s awesome how high Hoshiumi and Hinata can jump, i wanna jump that high”.
When the fourth set started you could notice that something was different in the Argentinian team. They changed their rotation to defend and attack better, but it wasn’t just that, it was the vibes that they were given as if right now all of them were full immerse into the game. They were unstoppable. Miya Atsumu had a hard time setting the players without they finding a wall blocking them and their middle blockers weren’t able to touch half of the attacks set. Adding to that Oikaw’s serves were just getting better and faster.
Argentina managed to get the game into a fifth and final set.
“Japan is changing their setter to Kageyama”
Oikawa has told you his story with Kageyama and how for so long he was afraid of his ability. It took him sometime to comprehend that Tobio was probably one of his best rivals. Now, every time Tooru had to play against him you could see how much he enjoys it.
Both teams were playing their best and were making little unforced errors. Not one team could manage to have the momentum and be two points ahead. Definitely, an amazing set to watch. Japan was winning 13-12, but Oikawa managed to score a point with his classic setter dump that hadn’t used in the whole set.
Now it was his time to serve. Through the tv you could sense all the noise from the crowd. You and your nephews were nervous, it was a key moment to change the momentum, despite not being the match point would play a big part in determining the winner. Japan adjusted their positions to be better prepared. The referee blew the whistle. Oikawa took a big breath and through the ball up to the air.
Everyone in the house screamed. It was magnificent. Tooru did an ace serve just between Hoshiumi and Yaku. The score was 14-13, just one more point and the win would be to Argentina. Japan this time received the serve, Kageyama managed to set a back row attack with Ushijima, but the Argentinian blockers touches it. The ball went up again, Oikawa set the ball to his Outside hitter, but Yaku send it to Tobio once more and tried to do a fast attack, but two blockers read the play and stopped them. That was it. Argentina had won.
Everyone was screaming, in the stadium and in the house (you forgot that it was like six am).
When everything was a little calmer the players shook their hands and Oikawa took the opportunity to talk with the Japan members and even took a photo with them. A few moment later the tv approached to him to made the post game interview.
“Argentina had an amazing game today, you were at your very best today, managed to score 6 aces and threes setter dumps”
“Everyone at the team was at their best. It has been weeks of hard training, many of us not seeing family, so it’s amazing that it pays off. This win now put us at the front in the standing”
“During high school you played against some of the Japan’s players, what does it mean to you playing at a worldwide level?”
“It’s good to see old friends and it never disappoints”
“Thank you for your time, the team is calling you to continue celebrating, good luck for the next games!”
“Before I leave I just want to thank everyone supporting us, but specially my wife and my nephews that probably are watching us, I'll love you and see you soon”.
haikyuu characters reacting to you being pregnant pt1
Sugawara Koshi
Lately you have been feeling sick, therefore after your husband left for work you went to a pharmacy to buy a pregnancy test.
It was positive.
You will need to tell Suga but over the phone wasn’t an option and you weren’t sure you could wait until the afternoon.
So you decided to pay him a visit during lunch break.
“Hey what are you doing here?”
“Koshi, we need to talk”
He nodded and closed the door to have privacy. He was starting to get worry since you couldn’t stop fidgeting with your fingers.
“I think I might be pregnant”
Suga started to freak out. You never have really talked about it. Yeah, sure he wanted kids and he was great with them, but what about you? were you okay with it?
“are you sure?” you showed him the two pregnancy test. He rubbed his fingers through his hair and loose a little his tie.
You approached to him and held his hand to calm him down “Suga, if you are not ready there’s no need to take the responsibility… i will be-”
He shut you down with a kiss.
“Never think again that i will leave you. I love you and I already love our child. Sorry for freak out, but i assure that i will always be with you” he wiped a single tear that was running down your face before hugging you tight. Between his arms you finally could feel the pressure in your chest leaving “Can i tell Daichi and Asahi about it?”
“Maybe we should wait until after the doctor appointment”
“Yeah, you’re right”
The bell rang indicating the classes will resume, so you say goodbye to him and gave him a peck in the lips before you lip. You will sort out all the details later.
✫ ft. akaashi, atsumu, iwaizumi, and suna x mom!reader
✫ a/n: the kids are ages 1-3 (can stand, walk, talk in sentences). the babies aren’t really “jealous” in some of these. they just want some love and affection, too !!!
✫ warnings: usage of “mom” and “mama” to refer to reader
✫ AKAASHI leans into your touch after coming home from the office, his tie loosened and his hair a bit messier than usual. you two are splayed on the couch, his head resting peacefully on your chest as he updates you on bokuto’s recent msby game. and just minutes later, you feel your son pull on your leg. an eruption of babbles leave his lips as he whines and tugs. “mmm, it’s my turn with mom,” keiji whines into your collarbones. you can't help but laugh at your husband's child-like behavior. "keiji, get off, you're gonna make him upset." and as keiji nuzzles his face in the crook of your neck, your baby breaks out into a sob, "mama! mama!" filling the small living room. keiji gets up from his place on your chest and picks your son up, mumbling "i'm sorry, bud" into his equally messy hair. "mama's all yours," he kisses the top of his head and allows him to crawl happily into your arms. "you're as whiny as your mo-" "keiji." he can't even be upset at his limited time with you — the image of you holding his entire world makes up for it.
✫ ATSUMU lingers in the kitchen after tucking your daughter in to bed just about every night. he puts dishes in the cabinets, wipes down the counter, and traps you between his arms for a moment of intimacy. "mind if i kiss ya, babe?" he asks, knowing you'll let him anyway. "you'll do it no matter what i say," you turn your head to the side, creating distance between his lips and yours. "no! i'm a gentleman! that's why ya married me, isn't it?" a laugh leaves your lips and you're stepping up onto your toes to reach his. his hands wrap around your waist, pulling you close against himself. it's been hard to find time for yourselves — your daughter was at the age where she'd walk (stumble, really) away if you took your eyes off of her for even a second. and as you pull away from the kiss, breathless and all, you hear the pitter patter of her tiny feet approaching you two. "baby, why are ya awake? can't sleep?" atsumu bends down to her level, pushing her hair back from her eyes. she rubs at them and then wraps her tiny arms around his neck to kiss his cheeks. "i want a g'night kiss too!" she whines. "alrighty, baby, ya can get as many as ya want! make sure ya give mama a kiss too," he tells her before peppering her cheeks with loving kisses.
✫ IWAIZUMI used to wake up early every morning, getting ready for the day at a slow and relaxing pace, but he finds it harder and harder to do so when you cling onto him, asking for five more minutes of peace, five minutes of calmness before the storm (the storm being your daughter, of course). she's gotten clingier with every step she could take. she wakes up with the sun and makes her way to your bed, struggling to climb up with her tiny legs. the sight of her dad's arm around your waist brings a pout to her lips, her cheeks puffing out as she whispers a "daddy?" and of course, he's awake (he's been awake for the past 15 minutes). "wanna come up?" he asks her before unwrapping his arms from your body and lifting her onto his broad chest. she immediately crawls over him, kicking his face with her feet in the process, to place herself between you two. her little arms and legs wrap around your torso like a koala, and she looks up at you with a toothy smile. "my turn,” she says, nuzzling her head into you. you hear iwa mumble under his breath (something about waking the team up with kicks to the face).
✫ SUNA always searches for you and the twins in the crowd. his team had just won a game that he's been training especially hard for, and it's the first time in a while that you've seen his dimply smile on his face. he runs up to you and the twins with nothing but joy in his eyes. grabbing ahold of your waist, he presses a kiss to your lips — his teeth clash against yours and he's laughing into the kiss out of sheer happiness, but you don't mind it one bit. your sons pull at your clothes as they try to get your attention. suna catches a glimpse of their raised arms and pulls away from you to lift his boys into his own arms, one on each side of his body. they're cheering for their dad, clapping and yelling, “you did it!" suna's never been an affectionate guy, opting to show his love in more subtle ways, but he feels the urge to pull you and the boys in for a tight hug (one where you can feel the rapid beating in his chest). he kisses the top of your head before pressing one on each of the twins' cheeks. "let's go celebrate, yeah?" suna grins. he’d do anything to hold you three like that again after each win — his prized possessions in his arms.
haikyuu characters reacting to you being pregnant pt1
Sugawara Koshi
Lately you have been feeling sick, therefore after your husband left for work you went to a pharmacy to buy a pregnancy test.
It was positive.
You will need to tell Suga but over the phone wasn’t an option and you weren’t sure you could wait until the afternoon.
So you decided to pay him a visit during lunch break.
“Hey what are you doing here?”
“Koshi, we need to talk”
He nodded and closed the door to have privacy. He was starting to get worry since you couldn’t stop fidgeting with your fingers.
“I think I might be pregnant”
Suga started to freak out. You never have really talked about it. Yeah, sure he wanted kids and he was great with them, but what about you? were you okay with it?
“are you sure?” you showed him the two pregnancy test. He rubbed his fingers through his hair and loose a little his tie.
You approached to him and held his hand to calm him down “Suga, if you are not ready there’s no need to take the responsibility… i will be-”
He shut you down with a kiss.
“Never think again that i will leave you. I love you and I already love our child. Sorry for freak out, but i assure that i will always be with you” he wiped a single tear that was running down your face before hugging you tight. Between his arms you finally could feel the pressure in your chest leaving “Can i tell Daichi and Asahi about it?”
“Maybe we should wait until after the doctor appointment”
“Yeah, you’re right”
The bell rang indicating the classes will resume, so you say goodbye to him and gave him a peck in the lips before you lip. You will sort out all the details later.
