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THE KITCHEN INCIDENT ⋆✦⋆ iwaizumi hajime

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.

[sosterias]

Heyy, love your writing!! Can I request fratjo x reader, but he cheats on her with a friend of hers? Make it really angsty 🙂‍↕️

OMG ANGST, TYSM 🫶

Perm tags: @hearts2vivi @chewiebee @silentfriday @animefreaksss @ges1ca @emmammcoy @chromatic-evil @mrskamikazekaito @pjselee @fifi-reads @mimicosmos8 @ttyl0lxyx @mushyfrogcakes @tharunnihaa @blu3berryies @purelyangelicmeowz @minminsmoon @iluvmywives @seaacutie42 @beanwtf1 @tojisunicornbraidd @idontwantyouasmywifi @asian-woody @blossybliss @tialikesglape @masterandmargerita

[angelicchris]

𝓒𝐀𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓 — 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐨𝐝𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐭

꒰ — 𝐚 𝐛𝐥𝐮𝐫𝐛 — ꒱

“Blimey, how did this even happen?” Enzo Berkshire whispered from the entrance of the Slytherin Common Room, his eyebrows furrowed at the sight across the room.

“I don’t think even they know, mate,” Blaise Zabini said, the stone entrance wall shutting behind where he stood transfixed, his dark-brown eyes locked on the two entangled dozers.

You and Theodore Nott had both skipped out on dinner for the night, opting instead to work on the Potions essay Snape had assigned the pair of you — which you had both conveniently pushed off for weeks, and immediately regretted once you saw the workload that had been assigned.

Your identical copies of Advanced Potion Making lay open on the small table in front of the fireplace, along with twenty other library books you had borrowed; which Madam Pince would have a right fit about if she saw the notes you had sprawled in the margins.

Somehow, the two of you had ended up curled together on one of the leather sofas in the Common Room, your three-foot essay on Golpalott’s Third Law long forgotten.

Theo’s head was dangling off the arm of the sofa, his brunette curls tousled. Your head was resting on his chest, one hand placed over his beating heart. His arms were locked around you, holding you flush against him, your shallow breaths syncing with one another.

“Should we wake them?” Pansy Parkinson asked, her arms crossed as she stared at your sleeping forms.

“Ah, let ‘em rest,” Mattheo Riddle said, taking a swig from a bottle of Butterbeer he had brought back from the Great Hall for Theo. “Theo’s been having a hard time sleeping for days now, anyway.”

Draco Malfoy smirked, watching as Theo instinctively pulled you closer to him as he slept.

“Someone should go find that little blond stepstool who’s always following Potter around with that camera,” he suggested. “This is way too good to pass up.”

© 𝓐𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐂𝐇𝐑𝐈𝐒

𝓗𝐎𝐆𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐒 𝓛𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒 — @oopsiedaisydeer @drcamin @angvl3tears

[sumuse]

⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀mr. no relationship satoru

⠀ ⠀⠀ — fem! reader x situationship! gojo , angst, suggestive content, cursing, gojo is toxic (boooo)

⟢ 𝗆𝗒 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝖾𝗌: i know im gonna make some people tingle with this cliff hanger but it adds drama if u get what i mean… universal experience to all us pretty girls and a RATTY TOXIC MAN.

[fanficlyssa]

Nerdjo x reader

summary: your tutor has a crush on you. maybe a bit more than a crush.

nerd gojo, college campus, nerdjo, student reader, social media, tutoring, mutual crushing, suggestiveness, crush, erection, fem reader, shoko ieiri mention, suguru geto mention, virgin satoru

part 2 is up!! —> nerdjo x reader part two

You were struggling. Each lecture just made you feel disoriented and confused after. You had no set schedule or order when it came to studying, and your grades were starting to show that— which just stressed you out even more. If you kept going at this pace, you’d surely fail the semester.

Which is why Satoru Gojo is— quite literally— the best thing that ever happened to you. You meet him in a library, searching for some textbook your professor mentioned earlier in lecture that day— you didn’t have a clue of what exactly you were even looking for, honestly. Then his tall frame stood over you, immediately startling you.

“Holy shit!” You exclaim, flinching harsly. Those words came out louder than you expected them to. A few students shoot glares at you from various directions and you feel your face get warm in embarrassment.

His eyes widen, realizing he startled you. “Oh gosh, apologies.” his kind voice spoke.

You turn your head, actually getting a good look at him and you’re pleasantly surprised. He doesn’t look scary at all… just… regular. He was standing there, a light smile on his lips. He’s wearing a basic white shirt, light wash jeans fitting loosely around him. A pair of black converse neatly laced. He is noticeably handsome. Taller than you. Muscular. Soft, pink lips. Bright white hair. Big, blue, beautiful eyes innocently wide behind the clear lenses of his glasses. They are pretty. Just like the ocean under sunlight.

“I-I didn’t mean to scare you, sorry. I was just gonna ask if you need help finding anything.” He says, gesturing to the shelf of books you ruined while shuffling through them for at least 5 minutes now. He was watching you across the room the entire time, debating if he should go up to you or not. You furrow your eyebrows, staring at him. He wasn’t a worker here. Why was he trying to help you?

You shake your head, feeling stupid as you look back at the mess you made on the bookshelf. “No, no! I’m fine. Just.. looking around.” You shrug.

You were definitely feeling nervous. His voice was so clear. So sharp. So deep. Everything about him was appealing.

He purses his lips in uncertainty before beginning to speak again. “Really?” he questions.

“Really.” You nod reassuringly.

“Okay.” he responds, calmly. A smile still on his face.

What a strange interaction.

He wasn’t trying to get your number or anything, like most guys would. He seemed like he genuinely wanted to help. Rare. It almost upset you that he didn’t ask for your number. He was so handsome, who wouldn’t want some of that? You scoff and block out your desperate thoughts.

He stands there, waiting for you to speak again. You don’t.

You simply shoot him a quick smile before walking away with your bag slung over your shoulder and your phone in hand. As you walk away you hear a faint “See you around.” spill from his lips. You feel a pang in your chest. Not a negative feeling. Just a feeling.

You then went straight to your dorm, grabbing some of your hygiene products and making your way to the communal showers. You were always grossed out at the idea of sharing showers with other students. Strangers. But you try to make the best out of it. You shower, do your skincare routine, and brush your teeth. You go back to your dorm room, wrapped in a large towel. You then rub some lotion on your legs and arms, slip into an oversized shirt and some shorts, and slump comfortably in bed.

You grab your phone, texting a few friends back and scrolling for a while on social media before finally putting it down and closing your eyes to sleep. As soon as you did so, a buzz disturbed you.

You crack open your eyes, staring at your phone on the nightstand. It was lit. You grab it and notice an Instagram notification.

‘Satoru.Gojo followed you’

Everytime someone requests to follow you, you get a little anxious and check your page to see if you have anything dumb posted. Anything that’d be bad for first impressions. You check your highlights and all of your posts. Nothing silly up right now. Anyway, you barely even post besides random shit on your close friends (which only a few people have access to) and pictures of yourself, food, or aesthetically pleasing scenery.

You check his page before accepting his request. He has 923 followers, 78 following. He seemed to follow other students and a few celebrities here and there. You guys had some common mutuals. You follow him back. His account is public. There are just a few posts. He used to play on his high school basketball team, you notice from his older posts. His recent ones are just pictures from vacations or pictures with his friends. He has no bio. His profile picture is him smiling and posing with some guy wearing a manbun. It didn’t take you long to realize he’s the guy you met earlier in the library. Such distinct and unique features. White hair. Bright blue eyes. How did he manage to find you on here? In his profile picture, he has on a different pair of glasses. They were tinted sunglasses instead of clear ones you saw him wearing earlier. He’s wearing a navy blue sweater with a teddy bear on it. His friend looks annoyed in this picture. He seems to be the one annoying him. You’re pretty sure that friend is Suguru Geto from one of your classes.

You were starting to get a bit nervous. What time is it? You immediately pull down the tab to check the time. 11:24 pm. A bit late to be following people on Instagram.

He immediately sends you a text, only about two minutes after you followed him. You click on it to see what it says.

“Hey, my friend told me you’re struggling with your classes. I was wondering if you would like some help. I’d be happy to help. I’ve tutored other students before.”

You read the message with some butterflies in your stomach before typing up a response. A friend told him about you?

“what friend?” You reply, immediately regretting it. It seems like a cold response to such a kind message.

“Shoko Ieiri. You guys are close, no?” he replies.

You read his text message. Shoko. You met her two years ago. You guys hang out pretty often and you even stayed at her house for christmas break last year. You do remember telling her about how this semester is kicking your ass. She’s close friends with Satoru and that other guy, Suguru.

“oh, right. we are pretty close.”

He reads your message but doesn’t send a response, which leads you to send another message.

“you would tutor me?” You ask.

“Yes.” He replies.

You bite your lip, starting to think. Moneys tight right now. This kid seemed.. pretty rich (based off the various vacations he had up on his instagram) and not ready to waste his time tutoring for a low price.

“that sounds great but i don’t really have the money to pay for it right now. thanks for offering tho.”

You close your phone, feeling disappointed and annoyed. It buzzes again. You raise your eyebrow. He texted.

“Moneys not an issue.”

He’d tutor you for free. What’s he gaining out of that?

“oh, okay. well are you free on wednesday and thursday night? those are the days leading up to my chem exam. friday.”

“Got it. I will call you then.” He says, then sends his phone number, with a little smiling emoji right after.

“okay. thank you! goodnight.” you respond.

“Of course. Sleep well.”

You feel more butterflies in your stomach. Why would he wanna tutor you for free? Could he be interested in you? You shake your head. He probably just wants to do something in his free time— to be helpful.

- - - - - -

Wednesday rolled around quick. You weren’t doing a totally awful job at keeping up with your studies but you definitely needed some help. You sit in your dorm room, staring at the various papers, books and the laptop gleaming infront of you, lighting up the dark atmosphere. You were a bit anxious the whole day— to see him again. Control yourself, you think. It’s only tutoring. Nothing more.

It’s 6:39 pm when he rings your phone. You saved his contact as soon as he gave you his number. You’ve heard his name multiple times around campus from students and even some professors but you never met him personally. He’s pretty popular. Known to be smart, social, and kind. What’s there not to love? Shoko mentions him every now and then. They’re definitely close, but she doesn’t talk about him much.

You pick up his call, speaking first. “Hello?”

He clears his throat. “Hello, I’m at the parking lot.”

You raise an eyebrow. At the parking lot? Why would he be there? You expected to meet him at his dorm or in the library, or even outside in the grass field where some students study occasionally.

You ignore it. He certainly has a reason to be meeting you there. “Okay. I’ll be there.” You tell him. He made an ‘Mhm’ noise of acknowledgement and then hung up.

- - - - - -

After a five minute walk or so, you’re standing in the parking lot, looking around for his car. After a few seconds, you notice him standing outside of his car and calling your name casually— as if you guys are already friends. He’s very welcoming, you have to admit. You walk over to him and he opens the passenger door for you.

The two of you greet eachother, both taking a seat in the car before an awkward silence fills the vehicle. You broke that silence.

“So why are we in your car?” You ask with pure curiosity in your tone, looking up at him.

He grips his steering wheel and looks back at you. At first he’s genuinely confused by your question until he realizes the nature of it. “Oh right. I don’t live on campus. We’re going to my house.” He explains. You nod, a quiet ‘Oh’ coming out of you.

He then gets a good look at you. You look all done up. Light makeup complimenting your features. Your hair is nicely styled. You have simple jewelry on your neck and wrist. You’re wearing a pink skirt and a matching pink tank top. His eyes wandered down to the lace of your white bra sticking out, your pleavage plump. He looks away and swallows, his adams apple bobbing. You don’t notice at all.

His eyes then go down to stare at your plush thighs sitting pretty on the leather car seat. He immediately looks away from you. Feeling like some stupid pervert.

“Um- I live pretty close.” He adds, as he starts his car, pulls out of the parking lot and into the road. It’s a calm drive. The tree leaves swing in the wind. The road empty and silent. The sun is setting, leaving the sky a beautiful orangey pink color, barely any clouds visible.

“So, we’re only going over chemistry, right?” He asks you. You turn to him. His eyes were on the road, but they darted towards you, waiting for your response.

“Yeah, yeah. I need to focus on it for my exam. Today and tomorrow.” You answer. He nods. You sit there thinking before speaking again. “We can do other subjects after this. I definitely need the help.” You joke. He lets out a light chuckle and nods once more.

“Right, of course.” He responds. You smile softly. “I’m not sure how long you’re gonna be tutoring me, though? I.. I don’t wanna waste your time or anything. I’m very grateful for this, obviously. I hope I can get more academically advanced soon so I can get out of your hair.” You blurt out. You watch as his eyebrows furrow, but his eyes don’t leave the road. He shakes his head.

“I don’t mind tutoring you for any amount of time. Really. We can keep going until the end of the semester if you need it.” He replies. “I genuinely don’t mind.” He emphasizes.

You felt your stomach flutter a bit. He was being so kind. A soft ‘Okay’ leaves your lips before you pull out your phone, finding something to do on there so you don’t look so bored.

You feel him glancing at you every now and then. You two don’t say anything to each other the rest of the drive but the atmosphere is calm and comforting.

After a few minutes of driving, he pulls into his driveway. You put your phone in your bag and stare out the car window, at his house. It’s really nice. Big. He steps out of his car and opens the passenger seat— letting you out before you can even do it yourself.

You follow him to his doorstep cluelessy as he turns the keys in the lock. He takes off his slides at the door and makes his way upstairs. You don’t take off your shoes at the door. Your sandals make a clicking noise with each step as you trail behind him.

His house is huge. Stunning kitchen. A spacious living room with a large flat screen TV above the brick fireplace. You follow him into his room. Nobody seems to be home.

His room is neat. Dark bed sheets and multiple pillows decorating his bed. A fluffy blanket neatly folded in the corner. He has a large bathroom in his room and a balcony. Jeez. He has polaroids above his desk, books adoring the shelves and a laptop sitting there unopened. He has a few stuffed animals and unopened figurines in the corner of his room on an isolated shelf. He also has a few lego sets over there too. A huge carpet covered almost all of the wooden tile in his room. His closet doors are shut closed, with an empty laundry basket infront of it.

“You have a nice room.” you complimented, the sunlight from the balcony window shining on you as you speak, causing you to squint a little. You could hear a genuine smile in his voice as he muttered a soft ‘Thank you’. You can’t see him speak. You only saw his back as you were right behind him. You wanted to see him smile. You got butterflies in your stomach every time he did.

He sits down on his king sized bed and pats a spot next to him for you to sit. You kick off your sparky sandals and sit next to him, criss cross apple sauce. He took off his sweater, leaving him in just a tight black shirt and black sweatpants. You stared at his large biceps for a spilt second before looking away immediately. Biting your lip. Control yourself.

As he pulled out all the supplies from his bag, explaining whatever subject he was going over, you couldn’t help but zone out. You never expected to be in such a situation. In Satoru Gojos house. In his room. On his bed. Studying with him.

“Are you listening?” He says, while looking at you— which snaps you out of your thoughts. You immediately dart your eyes up at him.

“Of course. Yeah, yeah I am.” You swallowed. That’s a lie. You had no idea what he was saying just now.

He stares back— raising an eyebrow slightly. He then looks up and down at you. He’s honestly heavily distracted as well. Your skin is just so smooth. Your nails and toes are nicely painted and your cleavage is nice and plump. And your skirt is just so short. He couldn’t get over it if he tried. The criss cross position you were sitting in didn’t make it any better for him. He swears he can see your panties under that skirt. It’s in his head more than he’d like it to be. Suddenly the room feels hot and each word that leaves your lips sounds like music to his ears. He was anticipating you talking a little more. He’s craving it. He avoids eye contact with you as he continues to go over the topic, this time with stuttering and nervousness in his tone.

You listen to him attentively now, not wanting to be caught in a daze again. The nervous tone of his voice doesn’t go unnoticed by you. He stutters literally every time you guys make eye contact. You listen to him speak for a minute before eventually interrupting him.

“Hey, are you.. like okay?” You ask, genuinely concerned.

“Huh?” He whines, unexpectedly.

Your eyes widen.

His eyes widen.

Why did he just whine?

Oh.

He’s hard. He makes it painfully obvious. His eyes mistakenly dart to his own crotch area as soon as you speak to him. Like an idiot.

You notice the slight bulge through the thick fabric of his pants. He notices you notice. You notice he notices you noticed. He notices you notice he noticed you noticed.

He starts to freak out, hands getting sweaty and clammy. Forehead tense.

“Um, h-hold on.. excuse me.” He mumbles before getting up to go to his bathroom and immediately shutting the door. You sit on his bed, absolutely dumbfounded. He was hard? From.. explaining chemistry? Why? Did he have a crush on you this whole time? Did he ask to tutor you to get you in his room and…

Your thoughts trail.

- - - - - -

Meanwhile, Satoru is having a mini meltdown in that bathroom. Why does he have to be so bad at controlling himself— he thought. Pull it together. He doesn’t know why he agreed to do this, knowing he has a raging crush on you. He has for a while now. He notices you on campus. At the cafe, at the gym, in the hallways, in the food court, literally everywhere. He stalks your instagram like it’s his religion. He blushes every time Shoko mentions you in conversation. This was his chance to get at you and be some sort of help towards you and now he’s totally ruining it with his pathetic fucking erection.

“Fuck.” He whispers under his breath, trying to tuck his dick into his waistband in a way that it doesn’t show. He knew there was no chance of it going down. At all. Not while you were wearing that tiny ass skirt. He takes a few deep breaths before walking back out. Casually. Well, as casual as one can be in that situation. Satoru is not one to get super nervous like this. He’s not a loser, is he??? He’s not some weird pathetic nerd either.. right???

Eventually, he walks out of his bathroom. He sits back down a little further away from you than he was before. “Apologies. Where was I?” He asks, clearing his throat. He’s uncomfortably shifting, like, every second now as he begins to ramble on again about chemistry. He’s really trying his hardest to help you— No— help himself. Help himself not look like a desperate, touch starved dumbass infront of the girl he likes.

That’s exactly what he feels like. A desperate, touch starved dumbass.

You could hear the shakiness in his tone. Anyone could. At this point, a deaf person could.

You put your hand on his and he goes completely silent, his eyes widening bigger than planets.

“Um.. Satoru, do you like me?”

He swallows, his adams apple bobbing in his throat. “W-what?”

- - - - - -

let me know if i should do a part 2 and any tips or thoughts u have! reblogs, comments, and likes are very very very appreciated. thank you for reading! we love nerdjo around here lol

update, part 2 is up :) GO READ nerdjo x reader part 2

[elicalace]

hajime iwaizumi getting blinded by your lethal facecard <3 fem!reader

hajime is used to seeing pretty girls all the time. the only issue? they're usally not here for him — it sounds crazy because he's not ugly, but it's the truth, the girls he finds attractive talk to him only to get closer to oikawa.

so yes, maybe he's a bit jealous of his best friend for stealing all the pretty girls, but who wouldn't be? it's not like something he thinks about every single day — only when he sees his exact type march over only to go straight to the star of the game.

he got used to it soon — he doesn't need thousands of pretty fans to swarm him.

imagine his surprise when he sees the girl of his dreams standing infront of him, a picture of him in her hand, waiting for him to sign it afterr a game.

"uhm do you think you could maybe sign this? please." the moment he hears your voice he's already convinced this must be a dream — his eyes move fast to take in all off you, only to come to the conclusion perfection is standing in front of him.

seemingly coming out of his trance realizing he's just staring at you with parted lips and wide eyes, he blushes and tries to speak. "uh— yes sorry sure." he wants to slap himself mentally for sounding so stupid, but he doesn't have anytime because you're already smiling and holding out the pen for him to take.

and if he was red before it doesn't compare to now — his hand touching yours so lightly he wonders if he imagined it. taking a deep breath to try to get his act together he signs the picture — with the pink pen and he almost smiles to himself. you're getting better with every minute that passes.

when he gives you the picture back, he's almost relucant — like he doesn't want the moment to vanish, to lose you forever without even getting your name. "thank you so much, hajime." your voice comes out soft, now he's not sure how he could ever forget this conversation.

he wants to tell you to keep talking, to keep saying his name like that — it never sounded better. but you're already turning away like you're scared of annoying him. so, he does something oikawa would probably clap on his shoulder for and tell him he's proud of him — he catches your wrist right before you're out ouf reach.

it makes you halt right away — and when you're looking at him with wide eyes and glossy lips he almost forgot to talk. "oh u—uhm i'm sorry, you're really pretty do you think i could get your number?" it comes out more confident than before, his heart beating so hard he's scared it might jump out off his chest.

the moment you smile he lets out a breath he didn't realise he was holding. "of course. do you have your phone?" hajime feels his confidence come back, his usual lazy barely-there smile on his face. when you take his phone and start tapping your number down with manicured nails he looks at you a last time like he's trying to burn the image in his brain.

you move to give him back his phone once you're done and when he holds out his hand to take it, you move right past it — until you're next to him, pressing the phone to his chest. he's confused until you get on your toes to whisper something in his ear right before vanishing in the crowd.

"i like fancy restaurants and red roses."

he can't respond — not because you're already disappearing in the crowd, but because he thinks you just officially broke him. he stands there staring at the new contact, 'cute girl from the game ' written with a pink heart next to it.

he's already looking up the fanciest restaurant near.

[iheartduckie]

WHY IS OUR MANAGER IN THE CLOSET WITH OUR TRAINER?

iwaizumi hajime x reader; where you ask your coworker “what are we?” mid-makeout session

excitement rushes through your body as you hear the familiar click! of the lock behind you, while strong arms feel you up and pull you close.

“i missed you, you know that, right?” iwaizumi tells you, as he starts trailing down your neck. “why have you been avoiding me all day?”

“avoiding you?” you ask with a smile, leaning your head a bit to the side to give him more room to kiss the particular spot you like. “we’re at work, hajime.” your job requires notetaking, bringing water bottles, coordinating players’ schedules, etc… while his requires training, physical therapy appointments, and individualized meetings with players. other than both jobs relating to the team, there wasn’t that much intersect that justified meeting in the storage closet this often.

“so?” he hums, breath catching in your throat while he trails his fingers beneath your work blouse. “doesn’t stop this from happening.”

something about that comment snaps you out of the pleasure you’re feeling, facing consiousness of where you are and what was going on instead. iwaizumi pauses, feeling you suddenly tense beneath him. “did i do something wrong?” he asks.

“hajime… what are we? i mean what are we even doing? we’ve been acting like high schoolers that don’t want to get caught.” you ask, letting his hand cup your face as his eyes meet yours.

the trainer stares at you for a moment, before a quick inhale. “we can be whatever you want us to be, yn.” he gives you a gentle kiss on the head. “we can be just coworkers, friends, or even more than friends, if you’d like.” despite the little light in the storage closet, you could feel his blush radiating off of hiim.

“how about we talk about it over dinner?” you question, bringing your arms to wrap around his neck.

“are you free tonight?” iwaizumi asks with a hint of hope, thumb stroking your face as he anticipates your response.

“hmmm, i’ll think about it,” you tease. laughing as he nipped at your neck. “i think -“

“BOKUTO, GET THE KEYS! THE DOOR IS LOCKED.” atsumu yells from outside.

you both freeze, with iwaizumi whipping his hand around to check the time on his watch. 7:00pm. the team had officially ended their practice and had to put away their things. “oh my god,” you whisper, mortified at the thought of being caught like this.

“don’t worry, i got this,” he assures, before quickly catching your lips with his own.

————

“AND THEN, i saw yn sneak out of the closet while iwaizumi was distracting me with something. she didn’t even look me in the eyes.” atsumu tells the group. “THE DOOR WAS LOCKED BEFOREHAND?”

you cover your head with your hands in embarrassment, while iwaizumi puts an arm around you. turns out, you both forgot about the scheduled drinks bokuto and atsumu insisted on having at the end of each month. you could only yelp in surprise as iwaizumi playfully pinches your side, before whispering in your ear, “good thing we didn’t get too carried away this time.”

im sorry guys im rusty. please forgive me. and PLEASE overlook my grammatical errors in my past works. reposts appreciated ;P

© iheartduckie — do NOT copy, repost, or translate without my permission. do NOT use/feed my works to AI.

[llliissyyy]

Price inviting the team over to his house to meet his lovely wife and his sweetheart daughter.

His daughter only living there at the moment after a nasty break up and not being able to find a new apartment immediately.

Prices wife welcoming the guys at the door and letting them into the warm house.

The boys take off their shoes after misses Price tells them to. Then they look at the stairs seeing a sweet and beautiful woman descending them.

Soap’s mouth falls open, Gaz’s eyes widen while he is actively trying to keep his mouth closed and Ghost drops his jacket when he tried to just put it on the hook.

“Hey, I’m …” you beam at the men that collectively think:

We’re fucked and not the good kind.

_______________________________________________

Price is over 50 in this and his daughter is like 23.

[thevampiremarie]

Heartless

🔞 Simon "Ghost" Riley x reader 🔞

Fake marriage/marriage of convenience, smut in the next chapter (and the chapters after).

Reader is disabled/chronically ill (and so is the author)

You need health insurance. Ghost is sick of sharing living quarters with the rest of the 141. Soap, your childhood friend, thinks the two of you can fix each other’s problems.

Or, Ghost and you have to convince his command that you didn’t just meet each other and your marriage is totally, completely, 100% legit. Not for any, more practical reasons. And, of course, your married-couple accommodations only have one bed.

Chapter 1:

This will either be the stupidest decision you’ve ever made or the greatest stroke of brilliance you’ve ever had. And there is no in-between.

When Soap ducks his head into the coffee shop, you’re more than a little relieved to see him in one piece, plus or minus a few silvery scars scattered across his face and peeking out of his sleeves, the collar of his jacket.

And the dumbass aviators you bought him as a high school graduation present hang from the dip of his shirt. You know Soap thinks he looks badass, but the placement reminds you more of ‘Patagonia dad who likes hiking’ than it does ‘mysterious hardened special forces dude.’

He’s so built that he has to carefully pick his way between crowded tables, just so he doesn’t knock over someone’s drink or trip into a random stranger’s elbow.

You more or less tackle him into the biggest hug you can. “Soap! You’re not dead!” Ever since he joined his super-duper-top-secret whatever the fuck, you’ve gotten used to the communication dead zones in your years-long friendship. The silence never stops worrying you, though.

Johnny chuckles and practically lifts you off your feet. “Neither are you! Congratulations!” You know he’s relieved to see you as well by the way he ruffles your hair.

You fucking hate it when he does that, which is, of course, why it’s become a tradition every time you see him.

He pisses you off, you piss him off. “Twinning!”

The glare he tosses your way has all the menace of a kitten attacking a curtain. “Fuck does that mean? You know I can’t keep up with your American slang.” You’re a good friend who pre-ordered his ridiculous caramel latte with extra caramel, and Soap sits happily in front of it.

He learned that he enjoyed heart-stoppingly sweet drinks on accident - a case of mistaken identity where you unintentionally grabbed Soap’s macho Americano, and he drank half of your caramel latte in revenge. And here you are, years later, watching him slurp down a milk foam heart.

“Awww, too much for the brain cells you have left?” Teasing him as easy as breathing and a welcome distraction for the anxiety attack-inducing question you must ask.

The general coffee shop ambient noise swells in your ears. An espresso machine malfunctions, almost loud enough to make you jump, and you try to disguise it by sipping your iced tea. No caffeine; you’re nervous enough without it.

“I could have you arrested for that,” Soap quips. Please. As if you’d let him try. One call to his commanding officer about his pre-service shenanigans, and you’d have his ass court-martialed.

“Abuse of the power of the Armed Forces? Very ethical.” You raise an eyebrow and lace your voice with haughtiness, even flicking some hair over your shoulder.

Then you need to pass Johnny a few napkins to mop up the latte dripping from his nose out of laughter. “I’m glad to see you,” He tells you, and the sober, knowing look in his eyes makes your stomach drop out. He doesn’t miss a thing. He’d probably be dead or fired from his job if he did. “Though I know this isn’t a social call.”

Well. You’re in for it now. “Yeah, unfortunately, it isn’t.” The words taste like dust in your mouth, and the lemony-black tea barely washes it out. Just to give yourself something to do, you pop the plastic lid off and tip a couple of ice cubes into your mouth before chomping down.

“What’s going on?”

How do you summarize the horrifically, brutally stressful whirlwind of the last few weeks without inspiring the annoying, patronizing pity you’ve gotten from literally everyone else you’ve vented to? You’re not a victim to be coddled or a child to be given advice you’ve already thought of, tried, and failed at.

“I’m losing my health insurance at the end of the month” is what you decide on in the end.

He knows exactly what that means for you. For your future. Soap shakes his head ruefully. “God, I’m so sorry.”

You’ve been sick for a while, diagnosed the year after the two of you graduated high school. The kind of sick that is simply a freak accident of nature, causing your body to attack itself over and over until the day you’ll drop dead from complications. It wouldn’t take much; maybe a regular infection burning you alive with a fever your crippled immune system can’t stop, or a benign cut from a kitchen knife that will bleed and bleed until you’re halfway to the coroner’s office.

And then there’s your shitty, damaged, degenerated spine that keeps you in bed for weeks at a time with crippling, numbing pain.

Without health insurance, things won’t look good for your quality of life. And you like your quality of life to be decent. You’d settle for passable.

Really, it sounds worse than it is, and you try to console him. “It’s okay. It was eventually going to happen. I had hoped to have a little more time, though.” You remember the call from the insurance company like it just happened yesterday. You were loading dishes into the dishwasher and listening to Fleetwood Mac on the radio. And some poor customer service representative told you they were increasing your monthly payments beyond what they knew you could afford, so they’d have to drop you.

You watch him open his mouth as if to tell you that you should’ve said something sooner. But he’s been deployed for the past four months. He pauses and resets to something a little more helpful. “How can I help?” That’s something you have liked about Johnny a lot since you were kids. He cares more about what he can do.

Your anxiety permits your lungs to take one big, fortifying inhale. “Well…” Dragging it out will only make this worse, you know, but you really, really, really hate that it’s come to this. “This is fucking embarrassing.” You tried to find a way to pay the premiums; you really did. But you work forty hours a week already and trying to get more shifts, maybe find a new job, do this, do that, appeal, all of that has been futile and draining. “Will you marry me?”

He drops his half-empty cup on the table, forceful enough that some of the coffee spills out. “What?”

Soap’s partially-scandalized shock is not what you hoped for as a reaction. But you suppose you shouldn’t have expected anything better.

The worst part of this conversation is over. It can’t get more nerve-wracking. “Marry me. Like. Get legally married. I could get on military benefits, and my meds would be covered.” He doesn’t swing your way, but surely signing some paper and standing before a judge is, like, not the most terrifying thing Soap has ever done. “And- and I know there’s stuff in it for you, too, like a better apartment or whatever. I can cook. Better than you, that’s for sure.” One of your friends had to teach him how not to burn water.

He just sits there in silence. “Please,” You add on softly. Desperately. This is your last-ditch attempt, your Hail Mary.

At last, Soap’s shoulders slump, and you know, from that alone, that he’s gonna say no. Miracles are rarely performed for ordinary people. “I would if I could, but… I’m sort of already married,” He sighs, then winces, waiting for your inevitable unhappy outburst.

…

You blink a few times, brain furiously recalibrating everything you know. John got married, and he didn’t even invite you? Or tell you? You’re supposed to be his friend. That’s so rude, ouch. You would have even gotten him some expensive shit off his gift registry.

A fucking Keurig, for God’s sake. “What? Who?” You demand, more outraged that he would leave you out of his life than you are over him declining your proposal

Underneath that deep, sunburnt tan, you see Soap blush. “Jeremy from final year.”

You’d throw your empty cup at him, but he’d just duck. “I knew you were fucking him! I knew it! You tried to gaslight me and say you weren’t, but I saw the hickies on his neck!” There were only so many times Johnny ducked out of a math classroom covered in sweat, followed shortly by your classmate, before you put the pieces together.

Oh, but the rest of your friends called you a conspiracy theorist and told you to mind your business. Now, who’s laughing?

Soap holds his hands up in the universal ‘don’t shoot’ sign. “He needed health insurance. We’re married on paper. Haven’t seen him in a few years, but I know he’s doing alright.” Naturally, he’s already selflessly committed marriage fraud. You honestly should’ve seen that coming; that’s why you wanted to propose in the first place and figured you’d have a slim chance of success.

“Shit.” Now you’re back to square one. And it’s a shitty square, with walls that close in around you with every passing second.

The regret in his eyes overflows when he sees your slumped shoulders, how you’re picking at your cuticles hard enough to bleed. “‘M sorry. If I wasn’t locked down, you know that I’d do it for you in a heartbeat.” The worst part is that you know he’s being sincere, not just parroting empty platitudes.

Right. Well. That’s it, then.

You rub at your closed eyes, then at the stress wrinkle between your eyebrows. “Fuck. It’s fine, I know. I will… I’ll figure it out,” You sigh. Less than convincing, but it doesn’t need to be.

There are probably options you just haven’t thought of yet. Or maybe you can work something out with your doctor, where you only get your meds every other month. “I got it covered. Don’t worry about me.” You instantly see Soap rush to shake his head, to tell you that he’s always worried about you. You want to chastise him, tell him that he has plenty of things to be worried about in his own life. “Shush. It’s fine.” But you don’t have the heart to rake him over the coals for it now, so you settle for that.

You should go. You have things to do, things that include crying in your bed with the curtains drawn and urgently refreshing your email to see if anyone's gotten back to you. New jobs, aid organizations for low-income people, any further bad news.

Soap catches your wrist before you can say the appropriate goodbyes and rush out of the cafe. “Look- hold on- let me… let me ask my… friends.” He wrinkles his nose as he says it with an odd, stilted tone. Like ‘friends’ is a replacement for something he can’t say out loud in a civilian setting.

You can put the pieces together. “Is that what you’re calling your coworkers?”

“That’s classified, shut up.” His Scottish accent pops out there stronger than good malt whiskey. Hope is an easily-caught flame and far more difficult to extinguish. When you smile at him, you find it’s not entirely false. “Let me ask around, okay? They’re good guys. You might need to do the heavy lifting with your sparkling personality, but I can try.”

‘Sparkling personality’ is sort of ominous. ‘Don’t give them shit,’ is what he means to say. That’s fine, you’ve worked in customer service before. You can be on your best behavior.

You’re not exactly sure what kind of dude would be willing to marry a stranger, even if that is the kind of dude you want to marry.

But desperate times, desperate measures. “Thank you. Really. It would mean the world and…  would probably save my life.” You didn’t mean to get as choked up at the end as you do. No one else has been willing to help you, though, and Soap’s answering hug feels like desperately needed hope reviving itself in your chest.

“I’ve got you. And I hope I can help in the end, even if it’s not what you originally had in mind.”

-

Soap runs through his team members in his mind as he waits for the gate guard to scan his ID, trying to recall who’s tied down and who isn’t.

Captain’s got a wife, he thinks, and he’s a wee bit too old for you anyway.

It takes a second for the starry-eyed guard to hand him back the card and lift the gate.

You picked a good time to call him up; not only is he in town, menacing the local army base, but so is the rest of the 141—a rarity.

Vargas would certainly charm you, but Soap trusts Alejandro with you about as far as he could throw him.

Out of all the idiots he went to school with, you’re the only idiot who stuck around through the early years of his service, and you pursued your friendship like a hound after a fox even when he couldn’t properly reciprocate.

So John feels some responsibility for looking out for you, as you’ve always looked out for him.

Garrick wouldn’t be a half-bad choice. Dependable, responsible. Friendly, so your sham marriage would at least be enjoyable.

His mind drifts to his own errant mostly-platonic husband as he parks the borrowed car in his numbered space. Jeremy. The last time they spoke was over three years ago? Maybe four. Jeremy had found himself a new boyfriend and called to let him know, asking if Soap wanted a legal divorce. He was moving to some godforsaken corner of America. Florida? Maybe. That place has got too many fuckin’ states for him to remember them all.

They worked it out - they’d stay married, and Jeremy would keep out of his way. No love lost.

Roach could do it for you in a pinch as well. A little quiet, but maybe you’d work out something like him and Jeremy. Staying out of each other’s way.

Soap dismisses Lieutenant Riley without a second thought. On his best day, Ghost is about as inviting and amenable as a particularly hungry great white shark. And even if God himself came down from Heaven and changed Ghost’s heart to be interested, Soap would worry about you.

A lot. Even more than he already does, since the day you sobbed in his arms after school when you were first diagnosed. Since that day he had to help you out of bed because you could neither walk nor miss any more class.

Does he trust Ghost enough to fight alongside him? To have his back when there’s a gun against his head? Absolutely. Does he think Ghost would treat one of his oldest friends properly, befitting of the funny, kind, vibrant person you are? Abso-fuckin’-lutely not.

So that puts Gaz and Roach in his top choices for you and Vargas as a last-tier resort.

Armed forces worldwide, in Scotland and America, are all about efficiency. Eliminating redundancy.

And if that’s the excuse Johnny uses to justify blindsiding his whole team at once, so he doesn’t need to have this conversation three damn times and hear three separate rejections? That’s between him and God.

He herds them like sheep, plucking the Captain from his office, Garrick and Alejandro from conditioning in the gym, disturbing Roach’s book. Ghost appears out of nowhere as if summoned by the disturbance and falls in behind Soap. Not a single damn sound, of course. While that’s useful on deployment, he still has to tamp down on the instinct to jump every time he sees a skull mask hovering out of the corner of his eye in everyday life.

No matter. The lieutenant will likely wander out when the subject matter is revealed. It would raise more red flags if he told Ghost off.

He barely gets Lt. Riley through the pool room door before Captain jumps him. “Sergeant. What’s the trouble?”

That’s fuckin’ rude. “Why’d you assume I’m in trouble?” He indignantly replies. Except… yeah, there was that time he borrowed a humvee he had no permission to touch, and Captain covered for him to Laswell. Shit. “Well, I’m not.” At least, not this time.

Soap opens his mouth to argue this because it’s hardly fair for Cpt. Price to point fingers only to be cut off. “What is it?” At least Price has the decency to file the sharp edges off of his voice this time.

Right. He almost feels guilty getting sidetracked over something so stupid when he’s gathered everyone here for an infinitely more important reason.

Where does he start? How the fuck does he proposition them without sounding absolutely mental? “I… Hear me out.” Instantly, Garrick shakes his head ‘no,’ and Cpt.’s face remains as unmoved as a brick wall. Definitely not how he should have opened. “Wouldn’t be asking if the situation wasn’t desperate.” Soap opens his hands in the vain hope that the gesture will make them listen, at minimum.

You loathed hospitals and doctor’s offices when you first got sick. Now, you see the inside of them so often that it hardly fazes you. Still, Johnny always went along when you asked. So you wouldn’t have to be alone.

The countless memories of holding your hand as some faceless nurse sticks an IV in your elbow is the motivation that steps on the gas. “I have this friend,’ He tells them.

“You have friends?” If Vargas weren’t separated from him by the pool table, he’d reach over and stick an elbow in his side. What is it, official ‘piss off Sgt. MacTavish’ day?

They get in a laugh at his expense. “Shut up, you reprobate.” He puts enough bite in his tone to cut through the ruckus with the keenness of a knife. “I have this friend. Since I was a lad. She’s a good girl, good person. She needs our help.”

Everyone knows what he means by ‘good person,’ and the mere mention of a civilian girl in distress softens Gaz’s scowl and Alejandro’s scorn.

Their Captain nods, now significantly more amenable to this conversation than he was at the beginning. “Help?” Progress is progress, and for the first time, Soap allows himself to think he might be able to persuade someone.

“Yeah, well… you know these fuckin’ Americans. They don’t give a damn if people die like dogs in the streets. She lost her health insurance, and she’s… She’s ill. She’ll be ill for the rest of her life.” That’s something Johnny will never understand about this side of the pond. The NHS was never good, but at least it exists. All that freedom and shit, for what?

“Sorry to hear that. Fucking shame,” Price murmurs. 

“I was wondering if any of you might be interested in marrying her. For the fuckin’... benefits. I dunno know what exactly they are, but she mentioned new living quarters for her soldier.” He really ought to have looked this up beforehand and found some other things to sweeten the pot. “I’m already married. Had to turn the poor lass down, and I told her I’d at least ask you lot.”

Their captain gets up and off his ass like the stool’s on fire. “Alright. MacTavish, I’m leaving the room now. I’m going back to my office, and do not disturb me until you’re done,” He orders, mustache practically fuckin’ bristling with urgency. “I didn’t hear or see a thing.” With his parting words finished, Johnny watches the man book it out of the pool room in double time.

While he understands and appreciates the discretion, was that truly necessary? They’ve all done exponentially worse things than this.

His first choice makes a break for it, too. “Sorry, Soap,” Garrick declines. “I’m out. I’m sure she’s a delightful person, though being friends with you doesn’t speak highly of her life choices. But that’s a big ask, and I just don’t know her.” The sergeant taps him on the shoulder as he walks out in a silent show of support.

“‘Course.” With each man who leaves, his worry increases.

What voicemails will await him after he returns from the next mission? That things went horribly wrong, and you’ll be hospitalized for the rest of your life, or maybe even dead?

Whatever it is, there won’t be anything he can do by then. That’s the worst part.

“Yeah, can’t do it either, Sarge. I got a girl already.” Right. There goes Sanderson.

At least Alejandro has the decency to look genuinely sympathetic. “Let us know if there’s anything else we can do.”

Soap watches him leave and wonders if you’re still awake. It’s not late for him, but who knows? Maybe you keep normal hours now. “Yeah, I will.” You’d prefer to hear the bad news as soon as possible, but he would hate to wake you for it.

But he can’t ignore the ghoul haunting the corner any longer. “What are you still doing here, Lt.? I’ve gotta tell her I can’t help, and I don’t think you’d care to overhear that conversation.” His voice is a little sharper than is nice and proper, overflowing with prickly irritation like too much tea in a cracked cup. Of all the times for Ghost to not mind his fucking business…

“…what she look like?”

“What?”

And Riley’s got the audacity to repeat himself, slower, as if he’s stupid. “What does she look like? Got a picture?”

“Is this a joke?” Simon should stick to shitty quips about goldfish. At least those are tasteful.

The man doesn’t laugh, shake his head, or leave now that he’s successfully rattled Soap. He just stands there, as grave as always. Motherfucker. He means it. “Fuckin’… yeah, hold on,” Soap sighs as he fumbles for his phone.

He’s desperate because you’re desperate. He tells himself that, over and over, as he looks for a half-decent selfie. You’re a big girl, you knew what you were risking when you asked him for help.

Ghost takes his phone in his gloved hand. “Not bad,” He murmurs after a while. “I’ll do it. Marry her.”

A beat passes. Soap lets another one go.

Alright. The grace period is over and done with. “This is a really shitty, serious thing to mess around about. Genuinely. Don’t do that to her or me. This is about her health. Her life.” Johnny likes Lt. Riley. Really, he does. Even under all the freaky mask shit.

But this is mean-spirited. It would almost be out of character. It’s one thing to be careless if his sparring partner walks away with permanent nerve damage. This is fucking cruel if he doesn’t mean it.

Ghost can read minds now. “I mean it.” His chuckle makes Johnny fix his surprised expression into something more stern and imperceptible. “She’s desperate, isn’t she? I’ll do it.” When he walks closer, the changing light makes that skull on his face flash in and out of existence.

“Why?” If he can’t come up with a somewhat satisfactory answer… Soap’s fist can probably reach him fine from here.

And in a rather remarkable show of humanity, he watches Ghost pinch the bridge of his nose through his mask. “Think I like listening to you snore? Or fuckin’ Roach chattering on Discord at four in the morning?” Johnny never knew Ghost was such a little princess about that. Who would’ve thought?

The other man huffs a laugh. “Need my beauty sleep.”

“Yeah, you do, the mask’s not doin’ you any favors,” Soap retorts as if on autopilot. That’s only their longest-running tiff. You’ve got your work cut out for you to deal with that ugly mug, he thinks.

“You want me to help her or what?”

Right. Right. “Sorry.” He examines Ghost’s body language, searching for any hint of dishonesty. “If you so badly want out of the shared bunks, how come you haven’t found someone else yet? Or some other way?”

“You think girls are lining up outside my door proposing marriage? You can’t even find me off duty. Now I ain’t gotta find… some other way,” He says before leaning back against the wall, at ease now that his argument’s been made.

“Fair point.” Fair, but fucking dumb. “I’ll tell her. She’ll say yes, I know she will.” Jesus, does he wish he’d been able to persuade Garrick.

Soap considers exactly how much you should know about your intended before this shit goes down. On the one hand, it might be better for you not to know much, other than that he’s found someone relatively trustworthy and willing. On the other hand… interacting with Lt. Riley is something that should only be done after signing a covenant not to sue.

“Whatever you do, don’t hurt her. She’s been through enough already. And I meant it when I said she’s a good person. Too good for either of us.”

Nobody gets through secondary school untouched. Especially not at that prissy international school you met him at, filled with over-privileged rich kids and army brats scraping the bottom of the barrel. Like the two of you.

When you were fourteen, you picked him up by the scruff of his Scottish neck with a smile on your face, then hit the bastard who hit him first. Thick as thieves ever since.

“And if you can’t find it in you to be nice, just… promise you’ll leave her alone.” At least you’re more than capable of making Ghost’s life a living Hell if he fucks with you. He takes comfort in that and a healthy amount of glee at the possibility of watching that play out. He’s got a front-row seat, after all.

Riley shakes his head. “As long as she ain’t a burden, MacTavish, no need to fuss and cluck.”

For a moment, Soap almost pities him.

“Don’t hurt her. Promise me that, right now,” He stresses. Just in case. At least eliciting this agreement might remind Ghost in the future to stay his hand.

The other man sighs. “I won’t,” He says at last. And Soap can tell he means it.

“Get out. I’ll let her know.”

[silverlullabies]

Price who’s been married to you for twenty years and been cheating for twenty five of them, swaggering home from the pub like he’s Britain’s last surviving sex symbol. Bragging to the lads that he’s still got it every time he picks up another young college kid with big doe eyes and fat tits who could have any pick of guy and choose him. Refusing to divorce you when the others bring it up because where else is he going to find a loyal wife who cooks, cleans, and somehow never notices the lipstick on his collar?

Vs

You, who’s known the entire time. You, who’s done more than know. You, who’s been bribing, blackmailing, and occasionally outright paying women to sleep with him since the first girl. Not to boost his ego. God, no. You’re simply keeping the old bastard happy and unsuspecting until retirement.

Then the house, the pension, and the good silver are yours.

[unadulteratedvoidtragedy]

Part 4 to the Crush fic with Ghost, part 3

You actually get some time off after handing the report of the mission to Price, unfortunately no raise for saving his best lieutenant. The first day back to civilian life is pretty uneventful, just spending time at home and catching up with friends and family. The second day is when things take a different turn, at first you wonder if maybe you got the wrong apartment because there is a package on the welcome mat and you know for sure you didn't get to order anything yet.

The moment you open it you are met with a selection of your favourite snacks including some pretty expensive chocolates. What catches your eye though is the small note at the bottom of the box, you recognize the scribbled letters from all the reports you've red over the years. There's only a simple "Thank you" an no name, so typical of him, it feels a bit halfhearted. You send the box back the next day, deciding at the last moment to keep the note. The next few days more packets keep coming, but this time you just send them back without bothering to open them, if he has more to say, he can say it to your face.

When you get back to work things seem fine in the begining, although you can't help but have the inkling feeling of someone watching you. On one occasion you manage to catch the reflection of a big masked figure looming a few steps behind you, only to dash around the corner the moment you turned your head back. You would almost be amused if it weren't for the fact that the cowardly behaviour was starting to get on your nerves.

Ghost seems to finally get some of his courage and audacity back when he calls you to his office, presumably to discuss some details about your last undercover mission. It's a rare moment when his mask is off, some of the bruises not fully healed, when he attempts smiling you notice the empty space where his tooth used to be. This time he offers you a seat before he gets to the point:

"Why do you keep avoiding me?"

"I'm simply minding my place, sir. Something you were pretty adamant about the last time I was here."

"That's not what I wanted."

"No, you would have preffered to keep up the pull and push game whenever it would have been convenient for you."

"Look, I'm not good with words and all the getting on my knees and making romantic declarations. I don't know how to do or say the right things."

"Oh, you've said plenty enough already."

"What do you want me to do?"

"Have you thought about apologizing?"

You're not sure when he got up from behind the desk, his looming figure right in your space, having to lift up your head to be able to look him in the eyes. Taking your hand in his, nervously looking at you as his fingers start caressing your wrist, not sure if the gesture was meant to comfort you or himself.

"Sir, I don't think this is appropriate..."

"Simon, call me Simon, please."

"Lieutenant." You answer stubbornly and take your hand from his, getting up from the chair and taking a few steps away from him.

He exhales frustrated, but doesn't argue further, his fingers still clasping the empty air. The sight of him looking so defeated, so vulnerable tugs at your heartstrings, but you try to keep your expression neutral and a firm distance between the two of you.

"I apologize for the things I've said to you, none of that was true. If there's a chance for you to forgive me, I would get on my knees and beg for it."

"Then do it."

"What?"

"You keep talking about it, might as well actually do it."

He stands silently processing your words, when a few seconds pass you let out a chuckle. There's nothing funny actually, you already knew he wouldn't do it, too proud of a man to ever beg for anything. If he wants something, he either takes it or lets go of it, never one to grovel. Too bad, though, his bruised ego would have been a sight to behold.

"Figured that much. You keep saying you're not good with words, I don't think you're good with actions either, sir."

"I..."

"If there's nothing else to discuss, I would like to get back to my training."

You don't wait to be dismissed, getting out of his office before he could start saying anything that might weaken your resolve. What else were you even expecting? Still, you find yourself dissapointed, taking the note from your pocket, crumbling the paper and throwing it out in the trash can outside his office.

The door closes with a light thud, the echo of your steps is the last thing Simon hears before he plops on the chair, taking his head in his hands, temples throbbing, a wave of anger crashing on him for making things even worse. Almost unconsciously he takes the two pairs of dog tags from underneath his collar, rubbing the metal between his fingers and cursing himself.

Masterlist

Next part

[unadulteratedvoidtragedy]

Part 3 to the Crush fic with Ghost, part 2

The first moment you recognize those brown eyes you think that maybe it's a trick of the light, your mind choosing to torment you again. But it's him, the flicker of realization in the way he takes you in almost makes the features of his beaten up face turn into something resembling a smile. His struggle against the ropes comes to a stop, he looks like he wants to lean more towards you, but a hit with the back of the gun from one of the soldiers breaks the spell. You still your body not to react, digging the heel of your boots into the ground so you won't run towards him. Your right hand rests loosely where your gun is strapped, there are four soldiers in the room and many more outside.

Besides the beating they gave him upon arrival Ghost looks in good shape, maybe a broken rib or two by the way he winces everytime he inhales and how he seems to lean his weight on the right side. They stripped him of his weapons, but you didn't see them check his boots so chances are they might have missed a knife or two. From what you gathered from the soldiers that captured him, he was the only one that got caught and that was three hours ago and now was close to ten p.m. which meant that in a couple of hours Price and the others would try rescuing him. From your brief messages in the past they should know the layout of the base and the weak spots. You're sure Johnny's gonna have the time of his life blasting off this place.

Inching closer to him you take his chin in your hand assesing the damage. His mask is off, a black eye that has a hard time focusing on his surroundings. Something on the floor catches your eye, a tooth lays bloodied at the foot of the chair. Taking it in your hand you study it against the light, it has a slightly yellow color, probably from all the smoking, surprisingly no cavity.

"They roughed you up pretty badly, it's a shame I didn't get the chance to play a little."

Your hand moves along his jaw as you speak, probing his arms and shoulders, checking for fractured or dislocated bones. When you slightly hit his left leg the reflexes are good, no broken leg so he can run, Ghost's painful grunt is just a little treat.

"You'll get your turn soon if the big guy doesn't start talking." says one of the soldiers, but you ignore him.

By the way Ghost's split lip lifts up he knows you're gonna help him. You're half tempted to leave him on his own, but then Price is gonna flip out and after all this weeks on this base getting all the shitty jobs for being the newcomer and making sure to not blow up your cover, you're ready for some time off, a raise would be nice too.

The hours pass slowly until it's close to two a.m. when the sentinels change so the task force should be here soon enough. There are two other soldiers in the room, both on the verge of falling asleep. Moving slowly behind one of them, pulling his head up and cutting his throat in one swift motion. Before the other one can make a move or think about screaming, the knife cuts his artery, blood splurging on the wall and yourself. Ghost gives you a lopsided smile as you cut off the ropes. He looks like he wants to say something, but you interrupt him:

"Can you move on your own and keep up?"

He just nods, taking the mask thrown on the table and putting it back on, his movements a bit stiff, red marks visible on his wrists where the rope dug in. There are no other words exchanged between the two of you as he silently straps back his weapons. In the begining you try being as silent as possible, but by the time the first explosion happens and the building on the east side collapses, you know that's Johnny's doing so there's no point in moving slowly anymore. After that the minutes and the bodies blur together until you are outside, a hand on your shoulder brings you back to yourself, barely catching the end of a "Good job, sergeant." from Price.

For some reason Ghost chooses to sit next to you on the ride back, his big frame cornering you against the window. When his head falls on your shoulder you are about to rip him a new one, but the way he looks so tired and bruised makes you hesitate. You know he's sleeping when not even a few minutes later a light snoring breaks the silence in the car. You spend the rest of the ride looking out the window ignoring the weight on your shoulder, but still comforted by its presence.

By the time the five of you get back it's already lunch time and despite the growls of your stomach you ignore Gaz's suggestion to go grab a bite. You don't get to take more than a few steps until someone catches your hand and instinctively you shake it away. Turning around there's Ghost, his hand still in the air, not daring to meet your eyes. Despite his size you don't think you've ever seen him look so hunched and defeated:

"Sergeant..."

"It's unlike you to get caught so easily, lieutenant."

"I was wondering if..."

"Go to the infirmary, sir. I'll hand out my report to the captain first thing in the morning."

You don't wait for an answer and turn around, this time he doesn't try to stop you, standing in the hallway watching your retreating figure. You get back to your room in a daze, throwing your boots somewhere in a corner, curling up around yourself under the blanket and falling asleep as soon as your eyes close.

Masterlist

Part 4

[unadulteratedvoidtragedy]

A part 2 to this

By some struck of luck the next day Laswell came to base informing you that she needed you for a solo mission. You were gonna go undercover for a few months and gather intel about the organization, it was crucial that the location of their missiles to be discovered before they would try using them. She already talked to Price and they both agreed that you would be the perfect candidate, but it's important that you understand the risks. Communication would be limited as to not attract attention, they would might be suspicious about you from the begining and in case of any immediate danger they won't be able to send help your way in time. Laswell says she understand if you're reticent about accepting the mission, but she needs an answer as quickly as possible. She seems to try to give you a way out, but if she already talked to Price, it's already been decided. There is really no choice to be made on your part, despite her words you recognize an order when you hear one and that's exactly what this is. There's only one answer she expects and it's the one she's gonna get:

"When do I have to leave?"

"First thing tomorrow Nik will pick you up. At the moment only the captain is aware of this mission, I would appreciate it if you'll keep it like that until your departure. "

"I understand."

Laswell does well to hide it, but there's a grateful look in her eyes for not making things difficult. She lightly pats your shoulder before getting out of the room. Looks like you'll have some packing to do, knowing that most of your weapons would probably get confiscated as soon as you arrive, you pack the faultier ones along with the rest of your things. Your good weapons go in a separate bag, if all goes well Nik will drop them off somewhere close by a week or two later. The details of the mission keep your mind busy, pushing back the painful memory of the recent events, calculated planning taking over. The messy emotions will still be there when you'll get back to them, but now you need a clear mind.

You spend the rest of the day in your room, going over the files Laswell left you, the hours come and pass until it's night time. When you are on the verge of falling asleep, the sound of a pair of boots going down the hall catches your attention. They are deliberately trying to be quiet, knowing to avoid the creaky floorboards, but not being able to help their heavy steps. The sounds stop in front of your room and by the way the light from the hallway falls you see the shadow of two legs at your door. A hand goes underneath your pillow for the gun as the mysterious shadow makes no move to knock. After a few minutes when you are ready to get up and confront whoever is out there, the figure retreats. When you run to the door and open it the hallway is empty.

The morning finds you in Nik's heli just as the first rays of sun rise over the horizon. Despite the lack of sleep from last night, spending hours staring at the ceiling while waiting to see if the person was gonna come back, you feel restless, right knee bouncing as the base left behind gets smaller and smaller until it's no longer visible. Taking a few breaths, clenching and unclenching your palms until your mind is calm again. When a few minutes later Nik pulls a few jokes with some pretty colorful words about general Shepherd, you actually manage to laugh.

It's a few hours later that a very angry Ghost storms out of Price's office, ignoring his threats about insubordination. There are some of the same words he said to you not long ago and Simon doesn't miss the irony, ignoring the throbbing in his hand, blood seeping through his glove. Price wasn't even angry about the hole he punched in the wall, but silently dissapointed about the way he acted around you. Of course he knew, everyone on base could probably see it.

He stops in front of your door again, still hesitating even though this time he knows there's no one inside. Slowly opening the door and revealing the sight of the barely furnished room, a mirror to his own. He still opens each drawer, not sure what he's looking for. They're all empty, something he already guessed, but the reality of it still crushing him all the same. Ghost is about to give up his search until something in the corner catches the light of the dull bulb. A pair of your dog tags tossed carelessly at the bottom of a drawer. Looking around like a guilty child he takes them out and slips them around his neck, the cold metal against his skin both a comfort and a painful reminder of your absence.

Masterlist

Part 3

[unadulteratedvoidtragedy]

You might have a bit of a crush on your lieutenant so you try your luck getting closer to him and for a while things seem to work out in your favour. The problem is that Ghost keeps giving you mixed signals, the two of you would banter over comms during missions, actually managing to get a chuckle or two out of him and then when you're back on base he acts like he can't be bothered to talk to you. He doesn't seem to have the same problem with the others, sure, he can be a bit short with Soap from time to time, but not the way he is with you. On missions he insists to be paired with you, sharing his MRE-s or his sleeping bag on cold nights. Sometimes he even lets you have some of the good tea from his secret stash, but then he avoids even acknowledging your existence at the gym a few days later.

During a sleepless night while roaming around the base you find him on the roof of the building, not wanting to bother him you attempt going back inside, but his voice stops you:

"You don't have to leave, keep me company for a few minutes."

The two of you share a cigarette and end up staying there close to an hour, telling stories about previous missions, Ghost even drops a few words about his childhood, which is something he never talks about. The first time his fingers brush over yours you play it off as an accident, the second time you know it's deliberate. It's a rare ocassion that Ghost doesn't wear his gloves, feeling the calluses on his palm as his fingers lightly caress your hand. A smaller scar peaks from underneath the material of his shirt where the sleeve lifted up. He doesn't say anything and neither do you, but the gentle look in his eyes gives you hope, your heart beats fast and you have the inkling feeling that somehow he can sense it. Surely you don't imagine him leaning in, his lips only a few breaths away from yours.

The moment is broken by the sound of two drunken soldiers trying to sneak back to base without making too much noise and failing when they knock over on some forgotten equipment that wasn't put away. The noise of the fall and the soldiers' cursing seemed to have alerted others as a few lights came on. Ghost lets go of your hand, clearing his throat and telling you to get some sleep while he takes care of those muppets before they wake up the entire base.

The next day while in the mess hall you spot Ghost looking around with a tray of food in his hands and gesture to him to come sit at your table. He keeps hesitating, looking around for another spot, but your table is the only one not full. He makes his way towards the table, the smile on your face dropping as he sits on the very end on the opposite side, his big frame almost falling off. Gaz gives you a questioning look, but you look just as confused as he is so to save you some of the embarassment he moves next to you. Price watches the interaction curiously but doesn't comment on it, even making a point to change the subject when Soap is about to start teasing the lieutenant.

Ghost keeps avoiding you for the next few days, changing his routines or just straight up leaving a room as soon as you enter it. Getting sick of this game you decide to confront him, knocking on his office door and then entering before he could even finish asking who is it. He seems surprised to see you, although it would be hard to tell with the mask, you've picked up on his body language so you don't miss the way he fidgets with the pen in his hand. The surprise is shortly replaced by a defensive stance, he doesn't even offer you a seat before he starts reprimanding you:

"I believe you know better than entering my office without permision, sergeant."

"Why are you avoiding me?" You almost interrupt him.

"I'm not avoiding you, I'm simply minding my own business. I suggest you try doing the same."

"Don't try to turn this around on me, you're the one who started behaving weirdly since that night."

"Look, don't think that I didn't catch on your little crush. I will admit that I might have entertained it on a few ocassions, but this stops now."

"What changed between that night and now?"

You're not sure what answer you expect, the decision seems to have already been made on his part. Perhaps this is an attempt to salvage some of your dignity, making him justify himself, still, his answer manages to crush you in an unexpected way:

"We don't need to hold hands if you want a shag."

"What the fuck did you just said to me?" You say revolted, voice raised, clenching your teeth.

"Watch your tone, sergeant. Even if I played along a bit, I'm still your superior. You ought to remember that in the future."

There is bile rising up your throat, but you try to push the feeling back. Nails digging into your palms as you take a few deep breaths in an effort to regain some composure, both pride and heart crushed:

"It seems that I overstepped and behaved unprofessionally. I apologize, sir."

The words roll off your tongue like sandpaper, not waiting to be dismissed you make your way out of his office. You pass Soap and Gaz on your way out, but ignore their attempt at conversation, the only thing you want to do right now is go back to your room and curl under the weighted blanket.

Masterlist

Next part

[unadulteratedvoidtragedy]

Blind date ghost

You make the mistake to confess to your friends how shitty you feel after the break up with your ex and how weird it feels to be alone in the apartment you shared with someone else for four years (he even took all the forks from the cabinet, you had to buy a whole cutlery set after trying to eat spaghetti with a spoon).

Your friends spend the rest of the night consoling and uplifting you while bashing your ex over his cringe gym bro selfies over way too many glasses of margarita.

You go on apps and match with a few guys but no one really stands out to you. One of your coworkers tell you that her boyfriend Johnny has a single friend who might be your type. Before you could even decide she already texts her boyfriend to bring out his friend next week when going out. She seems so excited that you don't have the heart to refuse her and who knows you might actually enjoy yourself.

You ask your coworker for a picture of the guy but all you get is a blurry selfie and you can't really see anything else other than his eyes, which seem to be a warm amber color. For some reason she also tells that he always wears a black surgical mask or a even a balaclava, your coworker thinks he might be a really shy person, you think there's a possibilty he's a serial killer but you keep that to yourself.

Fast forward a few days and you finally meet this behemoth of a man and immediately look for the exit and he seems to catch do that. Before you can start gazing at the door he takes a seat right in front of you pinning you down with his eyes almost daring you to try and slip away and an unspoken promise to catch you.

You don't get anything more from him other than a few grunts during the evening, following you with his eyes every time you go to the bathroom. When you come back at the table there's only Johnny left who tells you that your friend went to get more drink and Simon is out for a smoke. You look at him with what you assume to be a funny face given his reaction when he tells you that Simon seems to like you a lot. The guy didn't as much said another thing after telling you his name, you brushed it off as Johnny trying to soften the blow for when Simon will surely ghost you after this night. Well you're a big girl you can handle rejection, better rip out the bandaid in one go.

After a few more drink while you pretended not to see Simon's gaze looking a tad too much at your lipstick stain on the margine of the glass. You think you almost see him smile to himself when you make a slightly innapropriate morbid joke, your coworker rolls her eyes giggling to herself in Johnny's chest who gives Simon a meaningful look.

Simon who at the end of the night brings you home, helps you unlock your door and puts you on your couch. You think you hear him saying something but everything is a little fuzzy. Cue to next day when you wake up from your hangover to a glass of water and some medicine on the table. Right at that moment you get a notification from an unknown number, you open it and realise it's from Simon who asked when you were free this week to meet just the two of you. You smile to yourself and reply to him immediately.

Masterlist

[guppybibi]

Five Times Simon Riley Almost Said "I Love You" + bonus :3

1. After a nightmare

You slowly stir when you feel the mattress dip beside you. Simon thinks you're asleep, not surprising considering you're playing the part fairly well.

He had quietly checked every window after another nightmare and made sure to sleep on the side of the bed closest to the door. And when he crawls back into bed, you mumble. "Is everything okay?" he blinks, mainly because he didn't expect you to be awake, partially because your voice sounded so soft like that.

"...Yeah." he huffs out, getting comfortable before taking your hand in his. His thumb brushes over your knuckles, his gaze lingering for a moment. "You know I-"

"-should go back to sleep."

2. Getting groceries

You two have been in this aisle for approximately seven minutes. Arguing over cereal over all things. Apparently the cereal he chose was too bland, and apparently yours was too sweet.

"You're impossible." he rolls his eyes, but it lacks any real bite to it. In response, you stick your tongue out at him and blow a raspberry. The audacity. Except he stares for a second too long, and he doesn't know if the fluorescent lights above them were frying his brain but he almost cracks a smile.

"I-you.." he paused. "Forgot the milk."

3. Before Deployment

He was already dressed, mask on and gear ready. You fix the collar of his jacket, fingers staying a moment too long. His voice is quiet, not the usual—the heavier kind. "If anything happens.."

"No." You don't let him finish. "Listen–" you shake your head even more firmly. "No." He sighs, at your stubbornness and because he knows that you're both lying to each other.

He rests his forehead against yours. "I lo—" Except duty calls, and it always wins. "Lock the doors after I leave."

4. In the hospital

It wasn't anything life-threatening, thank goodness.

A concussion, broken ribs, probably a stab wound somewhere. What mattered the most to you was the fact that he was still there, even if he was still half-asleep from the medication.

"I love you." you whisper, thinking he wasn't awake. Then— "I know." Not because he doesn't feel it, god knows he does so much that it hurts. But because if he says it back, it can be another thing he can lose.

5. The ring

Not a proposal. Just browsing around on the rare occasions where you and Simon could actually go out together. He stopped walking when he sees you trying on rings as a joke.

"They suit you." The salesperson laughs. Simon can't stop staring, because all he can see is years. Gray hairs. Sunday mornings spent on the porch. A life he was never supposed to survive long enough to have.

He reaches for your hand silently, thumbs tracing the silver band of the ring. "Let's-" his throat tightens when he feels the coldness of the metal. "...go home."

Bonus!

It wasn't anything dramatic.

Just a small cardboard box, some paperwork. In it were dog tags, a stained folded mask, the watch you had bought him last Christmas.

Price clears his throat, snapping you back to reality. "He wanted you to have these." he says, not looking at you. How could he?

You see it. Inside the box, there was a receipt. Months ago, way before he even got deployed. From the jewelry store you went to. Just one item, paid in full, never collected.

a/n: ok i wrotr this like half asleep yolo u guys have this idk i hate this format

[unadulteratedvoidtragedy]

Ghost accidentally becoming your boyfriend

It happened only one time and now here you are. Having gotten tired of your sweet, yet very nosy and persistent neighbor that kept trying to pair you up with one of her sons, trying to stage "accidental" meetings and always inviting you for dinner, one day you just had enough. So when she stops you again outside, gushing about her lawyer son and how cute the two of you would look together, you politely tell her you have a boyfriend. At first she doesn't believe it and asks to see a picture of him so you pull out the photo you secretly took of a slightly drunk Ghost, head slumped over your shoulder and his mask halfway off.

The picture has the desired effect, the image of that behemoth of a man whose biceps don't even fit into frame and mean look on his face are enough to make anyone back off. The problem is that news travel fast in small towns and now somehow everybody and their mother knows about your military boyfriend and can't wait to see him around.

Because fate has a twisted kind of humour, your lieutenant ends up temporarily living in your home after his apartment gets flooded. You only made the offer because he saved your ass during the last mission, not expecting him to actually accept it. And it's just your luck that the same neighbor happens to see him was spying through the blinds and decides to say hello and how good is to finally meet him.

It's just your luck that Ghost's taciturn demeanour cuts the conversation short, but the look he gives you is not encouraging. You try explaining the situation to him, apologizing every three seconds until he finally stops you and tells you that he's willing to pretend to be your boyfriend until his apartment gets fixed. You're so happy and thankful that don't even notice when he steps out on the balcony to make a call and break the lease for his old apartment, already planning to move the rest of his meager possessions here.

Ghost that gets very comfortable into his role as your fake boyfriend and maybe leans a bit too much into it under the pretense of "having to sell the picture". Suddenly he calls you "luvie", getting a special kind of satisfaction from seeing your embarassed expression when he does it that around other people. He pulls you into his lap while on a picnic, a hand on the small of your back when walking down the stree, even stealing a kiss or two after asking for permission of course.

You're not safe even inside your own home, finding Ghost only in a pair of boxers with a beer in his hand while watching a game on TV. The little patting motion he does on the spot next to him having your body moving on its own. It's him getting out of the shower with only a towel wrapped around him, watching that one drop of water falling down his neck, over his Adam's apple and then down his chest. He watches you back with a smirk curling on his lips. He sits too close behind you while looking for something in the upper cupboard, his body pressing flatly against yours, staying there for a moment too long to be accidental. It's only when the contact is over that you finally remember how to breath properly.

Ghost that enjoys teasing you so much, had his eyes on you for a while now and couldn't believe his luck when the opportunity to insert himself into your life came from you. He wonders just how much he can get away with and how much longer will it be until you'll let him be your boyfriend for real.