Even if matsuhana wasn’t real, no one would fucking know because they “jokingly” talk about sucking each other’s dick all the time

Imagine using the shower head to pleasure yourself. With the water blasting, you think its safe to moan. Little did you know, roomate!makki can hear everything from the living room. He feels guilty for fantasizing about what it would be like to be in that bathtub with you. Your showers are usually long, so he uses it to advantage to get rid of his aching boner. He cant tell if hes dreaming or if its real life when he starts to hear his name. Its faint, but he hears it and your repeating faster and faster. The faster you say his name, the faster his hand moves. When you come out of the bathroom, you both have that glazed, embarrassed look. maybe one day you will tell him how thin the walls are and you could hear him from the bathroom.

Makki is someone that would be a jack-of-all-trades when it comes to jobs. I know the canonically hes in between jobs but i can imagine that hes so indecisive and honestly just wants to make money to fund for his hobbies/vacations/spending habits that he has literally tried everything. Hes the person that jumps between jobs every few months because they didnt like it or got bored. Hes probably been a barista, accountant, personal assistant, office worker, security guard, bartender, grounds keeper, receptionist, the list goes on and on. You can name the oddest thing hes either done it or will consider doing it.

He doesnt have a favorite job, but there are some that he would consider returning to because its easy, makes good money, or benefits him in some other way.

Hanamaki birthday post !!

Satomakki art for his birthday 😼

Happy birthday Makki!!!

birthday boooooyyyyyyy

HAPPY BIRTHDAY HANAMAKI TAKAHIROOOO!! OUR FAVORITE STRAWBERRY HEAD BOII!!!

27.1.2026

(also iwaizumi is the one who took the picture)

HAPPY BIRTHDAY MY STRAWBERRY BOO-BOO

HEY THERE!

Looking for a Haikyuu RP server? Craving something a little different? Then look no further! DILFQ—Q!! is a 24+ RP server aimed at writing canon characters a little further into their lives! With characters in their late 20’s and early 30’s, embark on a journey to explore characters as they navigate possible retirement, new goals, and new relationships!

Our server offers:

- a variety of opportunities for different forms of RP [ie. socials, group chats, lit, etc]

- private character servers

- collaborative events (birthdays, club outings, etc)

Our server is CANON ONLY! So no OC’s, sorry. 🙏

As of now, a LOT of characters are open! As of now, we are looking for: IWAIZUMI, HANAMAKI, KUNIMI, KINDAICHI, KYOUTANI, and more!

Interested? Here’s the link! Hope to see you there!!

MATSUHANA ANIMATION MEME WOAH

hanamaki takahiro x f!reader — 18+

It feels a little wrong—in a way—scrolling through your roommate’s Twitter account.

It’s not because his dick is out in almost every post (it’s nothing you haven’t accidentally seen around the apartment). 

And it’s not even that it’s supposed to be a secret of some sort—Hanamaki Takahiro isn’t exactly shy about the fact that he’s an adult content creator, after all. 

But it’s how you’re lying on your stomach in bed, the light from your phone screen a bright glow in the darkness of your bedroom. It’s how you jump every time you think you hear a creak from the hallway outside of your door, like Hiro’s about to come into your room. 

It’s the lick of curious warmth between your legs. 

It’s the way that you keep spreading your thighs further apart as you scroll, unconsciously rocking your hips into the pillow between them.

It’s the fact that this isn’t even the first time that you’ve done this.

Your thumb slows when you finally get to the post you’ve been looking for, a video that you’ve watched far more times than you care to admit at this point. Adjusting the single earbud tucked into your ear, you turn your screen sideways and turn the volume up.

For an amateur content creator, Takahiro’s a bit of a snob about cinematography. 

Or well, it’s Film School Graduate Matsukawa’s fault, really. Because early on, when he showed him one of the videos he’d made, the first thing Matsukawa did was start critiquing the lighting, the angles. How he could hardly make out the difference between Takahiro’s dick and balls with all three crunchy pixels that the video had.

And the critique certainly paid off. 

The video is shot from off to the side, a foot or so above Takahiro’s bed, his phone clipped to a stand that tends to get left in various places around the apartment when inspiration strikes. (You’ve yet to walk in on Hiro jerking off in the kitchen, but it makes you feel hot all over—the thought that that’s what he’s doing while you’re at work.)

It’s early in the morning, and bright sunlight pools across his white sheets. Hiro looks ethereal, you think, pale, smooth skin practically glowing in the golden blanket of sunshine that covers his naked body. 

His eyes are closed, and his hair is mussed, soft pink strands tousled against the pillowcase. Like he just woke up, cock hard and leaking all over the sheets. 

“Fuck—”

Even his voice raspy, sleep rough.

The edge of the pillowcase catches on your clit, and you inhale sharply, pleasure trickling down your spine.

Hiro palms himself, drags his thumb through the precum dripping from the head of his shaft.

You bite your bottom lip.

Fingers wrapped around his cock, he slowly begins to fuck his hips upward into his fist, groaning as a pink flush gathers on his neck.

You roll your hips downward, humping your pillow in time with his thrusts, biting your hand to muffle the moan that crawls up your throat.

And then—

Suddenly, Hiro’s phone falls from the stand, bouncing onto the bed.

Then—

He laughs at himself, shaking his head and he sighs and props the phone up against a pillow, turning onto his side to face the camera.

This is your favorite part.

Matsukawa would have a fucking field day with the positioning of the video now, because you can’t even see Hiro’s dick anymore. The video frame cuts off around the middle of his chest, so the only way you can even tell that he’s still jerking off is the way his arm continues to stroke and the tired groans that tip out past his parted lips.

But it doesn’t matter.

Because now, in this bright, lovely morning sunlight, you have a perfect, close-up view of something else entirely: the constellation of freckles dappled across his bare chest. 

He’s so fucking beautiful. 

Hiro’s fingers trail over the freckles before he starts playing with his nipples.

You quicken your thrusts down into the pillow, arousal-soaked panties sticky against the puffy folds of your cunt. 

You want to touch his freckles. Kiss them. Taste them. 

Taste him.

He moans.

Pleasure coils tightly in your gut.

The phone slips again, and Takahiro huffs in frustration as the camera’s left pointing up at the ceiling while he teeters at the edge of his climax.

Your pussy throbs.

(Because you know what’s coming—)

Hiro comes back into the frame, climbing over top of the phone and looking down at the screen. And you’re left with that perspective of his perfectly freckled chest as his entire body tenses up while he comes with a loud, breathy moan.

You come, too, cunt pulsing with a searing hot gush of pleasure as you moan with Hiro, desperately grinding into your pillow until you’re shaking from overstimulation.

It’s only after you’ve collapsed onto your side, panting, that you realize you accidentally—for the first and only time—liked the video.

And your phone lights up with a notification a minute later.

takahiro: lol

takahiro: u up?

I fell in a rabbit hole of matsuhana x reader and I need more 👀👀👀👀👀👀👀

i have matsukawa dreams and hanamaki prayers

The sillies!!

The comic’s taking longer than expected!! Sorry!!!! I have a career deciding exam in 20 days BUT I SHALL FINISH THIS SHI IN LIKE 2 3 more days yeah js part 3 nd 4 will take a while!!! HAPPY NEW YEAR YEAHHH!!!

thinking about sakusa, atsumu, mattsun, and makki bonding over hair care

tsumu and makki discussing bleach and oner formulas, makki convincing tsum he should try out a pastel sometime

mattsun and omi comparing their curl routines, what conditioner they use, if they air dry or blow dry, how they tame the frizz

day 12:

sex work, kneeling (kind of) -> Hanamaki Takahiro

cw/tags: oral (m recieving), first time, virginity, praise, anxiety, self doubt

a/n: hi it’s me again posting kinktober in (almost) january…but i started this actually in october and got carried away so here’s 7.5k of being soft and way too mushy for a kink based event with makki lmao–i am working on outlining a series based on this though because i’m really really happy with how it turned out!! anyways, thank u for reading! let me know what you think! <3

He cannot believe Mattsun actually talked him into this, he even paid for everything, including this fancy ass fucking hotel room. Hiro sighs, rethinking his entire life up until this point.

When he answers the door (after nearly jumping out of his skin at the sound of a soft knock) the sight that greets him is not at all what he’d expected. In front of him stands a man, a good ten centimeters taller than him and maybe twice as broad. He’s exceptionally intimidating, wearing pressed slacks and a clean black button up, his hair, so blonde it’s basically white, is cropped short, light hazel eyes seeming to stare through him. Hiro’s palms immediately start to sweat. What if he fucked up? What if this is all some sort of set up and his life is over-

“Hanamaki-san?” the man’s voice is low and quiet, startling Makki out of his internal panic. He clears his throat roughly, “Yeah?” With a short nod the man takes half a step to the side, revealing a much shorter figure standing behind him. You bow your head in his direction, introducing yourself quietly with a soft smile on your face, your voice clear and warm. He still has no idea what’s going on because there’s absolutely no way you’re the person Matsukawa hired to take his virginity.

He’d expected someone at least a little older, possibly decked out in all black leather or something similarly intimidating, but you? You look so soft. You’re maybe a few years older than him at most, loosely curled hair frames your face, all flushed, dewy skin, and you’re wearing an alarmingly normal outfit—just a dark wash pair of jeans and a t-shirt with a cozy looking cardigan thrown over it. Something glints softly in the light and he realizes you’re wearing the cutest pair of cat earrings he’s ever seen.

Yeah, he can’t do this.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts, face flushed so deeply he feels like he might pass out. “Oh,” you chirp, glancing up at the man next to you, “do you need to sit down” You take a step toward him, hand outstretched like you’re planning on catching him if he falls. “Can I?” you point behind him, into the hotel room.

Maybe he’s already fainted and this is just some sort of fever dream.

In the blink of an eye he finds himself sitting on the crisp white hotel sheets next to you while the man he now assumes is some sort of body guard snoops around the room. You’ve sat your small duffel bag at your feet, reclining comfortably at his side like you’re oblivious to this being the most uncomfortable situation of his life.

The towering man finishes his assessment of the room, turning to you with an approving thumbs up before looking over at him. “Here’s how this works,” his voice is still quiet and low, but it’s now a little frightening in combination with the seriousness expressed on his face, “her word is law—you do something she doesn’t like and you’re done.” He takes a step forward to stand in front of you, towering over the both of you sat on the edge of the bed. You lift your wrist with a smile when he holds out his hand, to which he fastens a sleek black band.

He clips it securely onto your wrist. “There’s a panic button here, if she pushes it I get notified and I come in, no exceptions. If she yells or I hear anything that sounds even remotely out of place I come in, no exceptions. If it’s taken off I get notified and I’m coming in, no exceptions.”

Makki nods dumbly, chest rising and falling with more urgency as the seriousness of the situations settles in and he realizes he’s about to be alone in the room with you. The man takes his eyes off of him when you softly call his name, “Aone, I’m good, thank you.” He nods curtly with a soft humming sound, “I’ll be right outside,” he adds before crossing the room and pulling the door shut behind him.

“Don’t mind him,” you say once the door clicks shut, “even though we thoroughly vet all of my clients beforehand, you can’t always be sure what you’re getting into.” Your cheeks flush softly and his eyes widen. “There have been issues in the past, he feels guilty for not catching things then, so sometimes he feels like he’s gotta make it up now, you know? I trust Mattsun though, so I doubt we’ll have any problems.” You’re talking to him like this is a normal conversation, like you’re discussing how it’s supposed to rain tomorrow or something just as inconsequential—not the fact that you’re a sex worker hired by your friend that also happens to be his friend to take his virginity.

“No, no I understand, it’s his job, don’t apologize to me.” Makki reassures you, hands coming up to wave almost frantically in front of him, “How do you know Mattsun?” You giggle softly at his flustered reaction, leaning just a little closer. You hum, the sound light and casual, “We met when I was still going to university, had a couple classes together—he’s sweet.” Makki stares at you dumbly, he’s been friends with Mattsun his whole life, so he’s more than a little offended he’s never heard a word about you. You clear your throat softly, causing his eyes to meet yours. “So,” you start, “he told me a little bit about you and your,” you hesitate for a second, “situation when he booked me, but what do you want out of this?”

His breath catches in his throat, lungs squeezing as he frantically tries to think of an answer that doesn’t make him sound like a pathetic loser. When he’s silent for too long you fold your legs up beneath you, your knee brushes his thigh and he nearly jumps out of his skin at the contact. This time your voice is softer, “You’re in control here,” you assure him, “I won’t do anything you don’t ask me to. We can just sit here and talk, or I can leave if you’re not interested—no hard feelings.” The gentle smile that graces your lips threatens to melt him.

Hiro’s brain is a confusing whirlwind of thoughts and emotions. He does want this, he’s just so afraid of embarrassing himself further that it’s paralyzing. “I feel stupid,” the words fly out of his mouth before he can stop them. Your brows shoot up in surprise before your expression turns softer. “Hanamaki,” you shift so you’re sitting on your knees facing him, “can I be honest with you?” He just nods wordlessly. “If you tell Issei I told you this I will have to kill you, but,” you reach out slowly, taking his hand in yours and placing it comfortingly in your lap, “he’s really worried about you, and even though this is arguably a stupid solution, he really does think that sleeping with me will make you feel better about things.”

“And,” you hold up a hand just as he opens his mouth to speak, “I’ve known Issei for years, I’m not just some stranger he found on the internet.” Makki snorts a laugh, the tension in his shoulders easing a little. “I am actually a sex worker though,” you add, “this is my job and he did pay me.” His smile widens a bit, your soft giggle makes his chest feel warm.

“So,” your thumb moves against his knuckles, “tell me what you want.” Hiro swallows once, taking a deep breath as he looks down at your hand on his, so small in comparison. He wants this, he realizes, wants to be free from the pressure—free of the expectation that seems to be put on him by everyone who finds out that he’s well into his twenties and still hasn’t ever had sex.

“Sorry for freaking out,” he starts, then coughs, looking away from you, “I think I do want this-I mean, I do, for sure.” When he looks up he finds you smiling at him like he’d said something much more heartwarming. “Kay,” you bounce almost excitedly on the mattress, “lay it out for me, do you have an idea of how you’d like it to go?”

Something about the eagerness in your voice and your body language has him feeling bold. “Well obviously I’ve never done this before, but I’m not a prude, I’ve like…done like, oral and stuff.” You nod, encouraging and warm. “So maybe we start there and then…” he trails off, unsure of what to say next. “You’re doing great,” your expression is reassuringly serious, “I can take the lead if that feels more comfortable? Any specific preferences? Positions? Clothes on or off? Pet names?” His chest gets a little tight as he he listens to your list, the decisions and reality of the situation feeling overwhelming.

Somehow you read every thought on his face. “Try not to stress over the details, I just want to make sure you’re comfortable,” you pause as if thinking through something, “you want me to decide for you?” The idea soothes his worry a little. “That would be nice, yeah,” he flushes and looks down at the sheets, “can…can we do lights off though?” Your response is quick but gentle, “Absolutely. Anything else you can think of that would help you feel more comfortable?” He slowly shakes his head, looking back up at you as you stand from your place on the bed to flip off the lights, settling next to him in the soft glow of the lamp in the corner, barely bright enough to illuminate the shape of you. “You’re doing perfectly, Hanamaki,” you tell him, taking his hand back into yours. Your reassurance makes his heart flutter in his chest, eyes widening at the genuineness of your compliment.

“Call me Hiro,” he chokes out before he can think better of it, “please.” Your responding smile is toothy and warm, almost overwhelmingly so. “Okay Hiro,” the way you say his name is already threatening to undo him, “are you okay with kissing?” He’s afraid his hands are getting so sweaty with nerves that you’ll let go of your hold on him, so he squeezes lightly, voice dropping to a whisper at the intimacy that’s suddenly bloomed in the air, “Yeah…yeah, that would be nice.”

You shift just a little bit closer; close enough that he can see the little variations in the color of your eyes even in the dimly lit room. You’re breathtakingly beautiful.

“Anything else before we start?” you breathe the question softly into the air, he watches your lips part with each word. Holding his breath in anticipation without even realizing it, he shakes his head, and you hum softly. “Stop me anytime you need to,” you tell him, voice soft like a sprinkling of rain on the pavement.

And then you’re kissing him.

It’s so so gentle. The easy, slow press of your lips to his like a familiar embrace. One of your hands moves from holding his in your lap to cup his cheek gently, thumb moving against his skin, brushing comfortingly over his freckles. A ragged breath enters his lungs when you pull back just a fraction, but your lips don’t leave his for very long as you take the opportunity to slot them together again, taking advantage of the way they’ve parted, sliding your tongue along his bottom lip in a way that immediately draws an embarrassingly pitchy sound from him. “It’s okay,” your reassurance is immediate, spoken before he even has a chance to pull away in shame.

The waves of anxiety that have been threatening to overtake him are soothed little by little with each pass of your tongue against his. He even grows a bit bolder, taking his hand from your lap, still shaky with nerves, to find a home on your waist, thumbing at the hem of your top until he finds your bare skin beneath it. You make a pleased sound, leaning into his touch.

You let him kiss you, or maybe it’s the other way around, for a long time. Long enough that the energy between you has begun to shift; the soft, almost innocent way it had started is steadily melting into something hotter—your lips parting eagerly when he takes a chance and shyly swipes his tongue against them, cautiously taking the lead. You hum in contentment, moving from your place beside him to settle in his lap instead.

He inhales roughly at the press of your body against his, the weight of you on top of him, the way he knows you can now feel how hard he is already, just from kissing you. Your hands bury themselves in his hair, surprising a soft sound out of him when you tug lightly. A searing trail left behind by your lips on the column of his throat, interrupted by a soft question as you shrug off your cardigan and reach for the bottom hem of your shirt, pulling it over your head and tossing it aside before asking, “Can I take yours off?” Makki sits there staring at you, mouth agape, trying desperately to process the question you’ve just asked him.

It’s not like he’s never seen anyone naked before, he’s not that inexperienced, but the way the dips and curves of your hips and tummy look in the soft lamplight has made every thought he could ever dream of having leave his brain. After ridding yourself of your shirt you’re left in dark lace, the cups of your bra unlined so he can see the flush of your chest and the rosy color of your nipples through it.

Suddenly, it hits him that this is all real, not a wet dream his own has mind conjured up.

The way you seem to notice the second he retreats into himself would impact him more if he weren’t so caught up in his disbelief. “Hiro,” you call softly, fingers pressing gently against his jaw to guide him to look up at you, “can I get on my knees for you?” You say it like you want to, not like it’s your job, and that does something funny to his brain.

He nods before he can think too much about it, and then you’re sliding off his lap. Immediately he misses the warmth of you pressed against him, the weight of you above him, but you don’t leave him for long, bending slightly at the waist as soon as you’re on your feet to press your lips to his again, the kiss slow and lingering before you pull back. He feels your fingertips carefully skirting the hem of his t-shirt, your eyes meet his as they dip past the fabric to brush against his skin, already flushed from how you’d been pressed against him just a minute ago.

Your forearm briefly comes into contact with his clothed cock as your touch moves across his stomach, and he draws in a sharp breath through clenched teeth, squeezing his eyes shut at the nearly overwhelming sensation before blinking them open again to find you looking at him with a teasing smirk. He feels hot all over, like his skin is buzzing with electricity, zaps of arousal licking up his spine with every touch. “You’re doing so well,” you assure him, voice dipping lower, your tone more sultry than he’s heard it thus far as you lift your hands, encouraging him to shrug off his shirt.

He doesn’t even have the fabric pulled all the way over his head before your hands are on him again, traveling across his chest and leaving goosebumps in their wake. You trace over his shoulders, nails grazing across his skin. His hands still shake when he brings them back to your waist, but he’s a little more confident now, squeezing at the fat of your hips until you step close enough for him to press his lips to the skin just below the band of your bra. You giggle softly before stepping back and dropping to your knees, pulling at his belt loops until he’s standing in front of you. Your hands never stop moving, nails scratching lightly against his stomach before following the path of his happy trail as it disappears under the waist of his jeans.

You glance up at him, a question in your eyes when your fingers reach the button, pausing just long enough for him to give you a shy nod before you pop it open, your touch trailing across the hard outline of him as you pull the zipper down next. He’s breathing hard, and he has to look away from you when your fingers dip into the hem of his boxers pulling them all the way down without hesitation before tossing them in the same direction as your top when he’s stepped out of them.

An overwhelming, almost suffocating feeling of self consciousness curls around his throat as he tries to imagine what you must be thinking right now—he still can’t bring himself to look at you, eyes squeezed shut tight, face tucked against his own shoulder.

“Pretty,” he barely hears your hushed whisper, as if you’re saying the words to yourself and not him. “You don’t have to do that,” his voice is nearly as quiet as yours when he speaks, and your hands pause where they’d been gently moving higher along the front of his thighs.

With his eyes still shut tight he doesn’t see the way you cock your head questioningly at him. “You don’t have to try and make me feel…desirable or whatever,” his voice sounds pathetic, even in his own ears.

He nearly jumps out of his skin when he feels your fingers wrap around him, surprised at how hard he still is amidst the confusing litany of thoughts coursing through his brain. “Can I tell you something?” you ask him, pumping slowly, your touch almost exploratory, like you’re trying to commit the feeling of him in your hand to memory. He draws his bottom lip between his teeth sucking in a harsh breath, the sound of agreement that falls from his lips resembling a breathy moan.

“Unless a client asks me to,” you pause when you reach the tip on your next stroke, thumb passing slick over his skin as you gather beads of precum, “I won’t lie during my sessions.” He doesn’t have the capacity to decipher your words, thankful when you continue without him having to admit as much. “I mean everything I’m saying—so I really do think you’re pretty, Hiro.”

Something warm washes across his chest, a feeling like being wrapped in a blanket fresh out of the dryer, held in a tender embrace. It makes the corners of his eyes sting.

“Kay,” he rasps out a second later, willing his eyes open to be met with the sight of you kneeling in front of him. You search his face, though he’s not sure what for, a smile pulling at your lips when your findings are apparently satisfactory. His own responding smile is small but genuine, though it’s fleeting because before he’s even realized it you’ve taken him into your mouth. It’s hot and wet and probably the best head he’s ever gotten and you’ve barely done anything.

You go slow, whether for his sake or yours, your tongue curling around the head of his cock every time you pull back, drawing moans from his chest that he’d be mortified by if it didn’t feel so fucking good. You reach up, brushing your fingers against his where his hand is hanging uselessly at his side, guiding him until it’s buried in your hair. The vibrations from the pleased way you hum around him sends shivers wracking up his spine, his head falling back as he moans into the still air.

He can’t take his eyes off you now, watching the way your glossed lips wrap perfectly around him, thick lashes brushing your cheek every time you blink up at him. You hum low once more, taking him deeper so he can feel the way your throat gets tighter when you swallow around him. “Oh fuck,” he whines when your nose brushes the coarse hair at the base of his cock. His muscles flex without his permission, and he bottoms out, making to pull back with an apology already on his lips before your nails are digging into the backs of his thighs, locking him in place while you look up at him, eyes glassy with unshed tears.

Holy shit—if he doesn’t pull away from the overwhelming heat of your mouth in the next three seconds he’s absolutely done for. After all of this, there’s no way he’s going to fuck it all up now by finishing before you even get all of your clothes off. Your name slips from his lips—he might be begging, he’s not sure. “I c-can’t,” it takes everything in him to use the hand buried in your hair to gently tug you back instead of pulling you closer, “fuck, you gotta stop, I can’t.”

By the almost mischievous way your eyes sparkle he’s sure you know exactly what he’s saying; proven further by the way your hold on the backs of his thighs loosens and you let him guide you off of him. There’s a string of spit still connecting your mouth to his cock when you finally part that only breaks when your tongue darts out to brush across your bottom lip. He’s momentarily distracted by the flush sitting high on your cheeks and the lewd way his cock shines with your spit in the low light.

“Feel good?” you ask coyly.

He can’t help the disbelieving sound he makes in response, halfway between a scoff and a laugh. “Yeah, yeah really good,” his chest is still rising with each heavy inhale, “thank you.”

He really means it—because along with how good you’re making him feel physically, you’ve also made him feel…cherished. It’s like being held in soft hands, the very essence of him cradled with a care so tender he thinks you may be changing him fundamentally, loosening the roots of shame and discontent that he hadn’t realized had grown so deep within him.

The thought has him urging you to your feet with nearly frantic hands that eventually settle on your cheeks, pulling you in for a kiss that’s eager and sincere. He can feel you smile against his lips, and he hopes it’s because you’re enjoying yourself as much as he is. As the kiss gets increasingly desperate, he lets you move him so he’s sitting against the headboard, pillows tucked messily behind him. You’re now kneeling on the sheets next to him while you watch his shaking hands fumble at the button of your jeans.

“Let me help you,” you offer, lips brushing with every word, forehead pressed to his, cheeks rosy. His silent nod is all you need to take over, gently moving his hand out of the way so you can sit up to wiggle out of your pants. Before you settle into his lap he watches you drag your fingers down your chest, dipping them into the lacy waistband of your panties, brow raised in a question. “Off,” he chokes out before adding a quiet, “please.”

The need to touch you burns his skin, fingertips buzzing with the urge to feel the plush fat of your hips beneath them. There’s an awkward, fumbling moment as he shifts his weight, intent on laying you on your back against the sheets, but you don’t let him. His hands feel clammy again, embarrassment flaring in his chest so quickly it nearly chokes him. Again, you seem to be able to sense the exact moment he gets overwhelmed, your hands immediately finding his face to cradle it gently, your brows dipped in concern. “What do you need?” you ask him gently, still sitting on your knees in front of him.

“It- I didn’t,” he trips over his words, cheeks burning, “you sucked me off but I didn’t-” When you interrupt him it’s with a soft, strangely comforting hum. “You don’t need to do anything for me, Hiro,” your thumb rubs soothingly against his cheek, “I just want to make you feel good.” He searches your eyes for any sign of dissatisfaction or disappointment—relief washes over him when he finds none.

He must have taken too long to say something because you add, “Next time, okay?” The shock that races through his body when he actually processes your words makes him feel like he’s been thrust into an open flame; he feels his skin heat so quickly it’s a wonder he doesn’t pass out. “If you still want to,” you almost sound shy, “we can talk about it then.”

“Unless a client asks me to, I won’t lie during my sessions.”

Any further thoughts are cut off when your lips are pressing against his again, hot with need. You don’t waste any time climbing into his lap now, and before you’re even fully on him, his trembling hands find the clasp at the back of your bra, impressing even himself with the ease with which his fingers undo the hooks and slide it off your shoulders.

He feels you relax into his lap, the slick, wet slide of your cunt against him has his hips flexing up into your weight. “Mmh, oh my god,” he breathes, brows dipped low as he tries to focus on not coming right then and there, panting desperately against your lips. His efforts are nearly wasted when you moan for the first time, arms wrapped around his shoulders, hands buried in his hair as you roll your hips against him, the slick sound audible in the quiet room.

“Feels good,” you inform him, eyes hazy and your bottom lip pulled between your teeth as you cant your hips so that the head of his cock is pressing right against your clit. Your movements against him already feel so overwhelming he can’t even begin to fathom how he’s going to survive being inside you. His hands cup your chest, rolling one of your nipples between his fingers until he can feel you arch your back into the pressure. You close the tiny distance between you, tongue pressing to the seam of his lips to lick into his mouth. The kiss is messy, and every press of teeth has small sounds of pleasure spilling from his lips.

On the next rock of your hips against him, the tip of his cock catches on your entrance and he freezes in place as his grip on your hips tightens so unexpectedly that you try to pull back from the kiss. He can taste the apology on your tongue, but he beats you to it. “Sorry,” he pants against you, “feels too fucking good.”

You’re still hovering above him, unmoving as he watches a sly smile creep across your face. He feels his heart rate speed up in response. “Hiro,” you call gently, tilting his chin up with your pointer finger, your other hand still buried in the shaggy hair at the nape of his neck, “are you ready for me?” He can’t help the needy moan that’s punched out of him, whiny and a little broken. Biting down on his bottom lip and trying to control the way he feels like he’s about to vibrate out of his skin, he simply nods in response. He’s not sure if he’d actually say he’s ready—but he’s absolutely sure he wants you so badly it hurts.

His eyes nearly roll back in his head when your shake your head at him, finger still warm against his chin. “Need you to say it, baby.” He makes another pathetic sound, before he’s able to stutter out, “P-please, I’m-m'ready.” Your smile looks satisfied, though he feels embarrassed at how feeble his own voice sounds.

Something almost predatory flashes in the softness of your eyes, “Good boy, thank you.”

Your words have the intended effect, successfully knocking every thought out of his head with just a simple phrase uttered in a low, sultry tone.

On the next roll of your hips, you make sure the head of his cock catches on your entrance again before reaching between the two of you to hold him steady as you begin to sink down onto his length. Already the initial feeling of you is overwhelming, and when he feels his tip press fully into the hot, wet tightness of your cunt he can’t help the way he buries his head against the junction of your neck and shoulder, every exhale leaving his lungs accompanied by a low, drawn out moan.

“You’re doing so well,” you praise him easily, resuming the slow, steady way your heat is engulfing his cock. He’s full on panting against your skin by the time you settle fully into his lap. His muscles are flexed tight, and he’s glad you’re on top because otherwise he’d be unable to resist the urge to mindlessly fuck into you. “M'gonna start moving,” you inform him gently, and he distantly realizes that your voice sounds a little less smooth and a little more breathy now too.

He can’t do more than nod against your shoulder, but at his agreement you just stay settled against his lap, your hands smoothing over the lithe plains of his back before traveling up his biceps and coming to rest on both of his cheeks, pulling him from where he’d been buried against your skin. When he finally opens his eyes he’s greeted with the sight of an angel smiling softly down at him; your cheeks are flushed, lips a little swollen and slick, hair messy from the way his hands had been buried in it when you were on your knees before him, all combined with the warmth in your eyes—it nearly melts him. He honest to god feels tears prick at the corners of his eyes, and in an attempt to banish them, chooses to lean forward and press his lips to yours.

It’s funny, the way he hadn’t even realized that you’d still been waiting to move, letting him kiss you for a good while before he feels the first little roll of your hips against him. When you raise up on your knees, causing about half his length to leave the burning heat of your cunt, he sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth, but you don’t let him get far, wrapping your arms across his shoulders to pull him close again, taking the sounds that fall from his lips into your own mouth, tongue sliding slow and methodical against his.

He’d be a lot more embarrassed if he wasn’t so preoccupied with the way your lips move against his, your breath coming out in soft pants every time you part from swallowing down the low whines of pleasure falling from his own lips. “You feel so good, Hiro,” you murmur against his lips at one point, airy and so soft he’s surprised it doesn’t make him come on the spot.

He manages to let you set a controlled, steady pace for just a little while longer before his fingers find your waist again, digging into the soft flesh of your hips as he pulls away just far enough to speak. “Can I?” he asks quietly, biceps already flexing with the way he’s gently lifting you.

“Sure,” your response is breathy and accompanied by a nod and a pleased looking smile. He shyly smiles back at you before rolling to the side so your back is now pressed to the mattress, going so far as to cradle the back of your head to lay it down gently on the hotel pillows. A little surprised at himself at actually having pulled that off without any mishaps, he carefully settles against you, pushing a loose strand of hair out of your face with trembling fingers.

The soft giggle that falls from your lips shakes him to his core.

Somehow, he still manages to roll hips hips into you anyway, sheathing his cock fully before pulling back to do it again, watching the way your lips part around a soft moan when he manages to press into you just right. “You’re very sweet, y'know,” one of your hands is curled gently against the nape of his neck, and your voice sounds so quiet and genuine in his ears, “anyone ever tell you that?”

He opens his mouth, then closes it again, unsure of how to respond to your compliment. “Sorry,” you tell him easily when you see him struggling to respond, “I just want you to know that I’m having a good time.”

Something about your words, or maybe it’s the way you look laying underneath him like this, unravels the little self control he’d been managing to hold onto. “Oh my god,” the phrase flies out of his mouth as his hips stutter, cock jumping with the beginning of his orgasm in the suffocating heat of you.

There’s a striking moment of clarity in his brain, the thought that he should definitely pull out bright like a blinking neon sign in his head—but the second he starts to, a sound of protest spills from your lips as your legs lock around the backs of his thighs, the little bit of resistance immediately snaps his final thread of restraint. Without much thought outside of how good everything feels, he fucks himself through the waves of pleasure that swell inside him, only very distantly cognizant of the way you’ve pulled his head down to rest against your shoulder, swirling your hips beneath him until he rides it out, soft words of praise falling from your lips all the while.

Once the ringing in his hears begins to subside, replaced by the sound of heavy breaths between you, he finds himself pressing soft kisses to the skin of your neck, reveling in the way your fingertips have begun to trail across his shoulders again. You don’t seem bothered by the way he’s all but collapsed against you, unruffled by the sticky sheen of sweat pressed between you.

The lingering softness left behind doesn’t last long before his brain is letting creeping tendrils of self consciousness invade his thoughts. Maybe you’d felt the way his muscles had begun to tense up, just a little, or maybe you really are a mind reader, because before he can even begin to think about spiraling, you’re lifting his head gently from your shoulder, brushing your nose tenderly against his before pulling him in for a kiss.

The buzzing thoughts in his brain are immediately quieted by the slick slide of your lips against his, the press of your tongue like a balm to his sensitive soul.

He’s the one who eventually pulls away, though it feels a little bit like it’s going to kill him to do so. After awkwardly pulling his rapidly softening cock out of your wet heat, his own cum trailing out after him, he’s quick to run into the bathroom to wet a rag for you. You’re still smiling at him in that soft, warm way when he returns to hand the damp object to you, turning away when you don’t hesitate to let your legs fall open.

He hears your quiet giggle at his sudden shyness, but he can’t help it. This whole thing really did make him feel better about all of the pressure of losing his virginity at least, but right now there’s still a lot running through his mind, clouded with uncertainty and a confusing mixture of at least a handful of other emotions he doesn’t have the energy to decode right now.

“Hiro,” he hears you call softly amidst the sound of rustling sheets as he finds his boxers, quickly pulling them on.

When he turns back around you’re sitting up with your knees tucked at your side, the snowy comforter pooled at your waist. His mouth goes dry, and he’s sure he’s never seen anything as breathtaking as you in this moment—the soft lamp light shines against the rosy apples of your cheeks, your chest still flushed just as deeply. You look like a painting, all plush curves interrupted only by softly draped white fabric.

He realizes that he’s staring when his eyes finally make their way to your face to find your lips stretched in a fond smile. You wait until you know you’ve got his attention before you say anything, kind enough not to mention the way he’d blushed from his chest to his ears at being caught. “Will you hand me my bag,” you ask him gently, pointing to the small duffel he’d forgotten about, sitting on the floor at the foot of the bed. Once he’s handed the bag off to you, he’s not quite sure what to do with himself, standing awkwardly at the edge of the bed as you unzip it. You pause before reaching into it to pat the bed next to you in invitation, looking up to him to add, “If you want to.” He’s quick to nod and carefully climb onto the bed beside you, leaning against the pillows still piled at the headboard a little ways behind you.

You move with such a quiet confidence that he can’t help but watch as you slip clothing out of the bag, pulling on an oversized t-shirt before lowering it to the ground again. When you turn to look over your shoulder at him, he can’t help the way he feels his cheeks dimple with a smile. “You wanna cuddle?” you ask, already moving up the bed to get closer, tilting your head at him when he doesn’t answer right away, too shocked by the question to process it fast enough. “We don’t have to,” you start to amend, but he’s quick to protest this time.

“No, it’s okay…that sounds nice actually.” Your smile returns full force and then you’re leaning against him, laying your cheek comfortably against his chest, your fingers already trailing idly against his skin. It’s easy to wrap his arms around you when the warmth of your body pressed against his feels this nice.

There’s a surprisingly comfortable stretch of quiet despite the way he’s sure you can hear how hard his heart is still beating in his chest.

You seem content to let him retreat into his own thoughts this time, and he thinks he’s grateful for it, it gives him a minute to sort through the events of the evening. By now, he’s come to the conclusion that he feels good, overwhelmingly so despite his hesitance. The weighty shame that had settled on his shoulders for, honestly, the better part of his twenties has lightened substantially. He’s not sure how he’s supposed to thank you for that, but maybe he doesn’t have to worry about it right now, maybe Mattsun will be more apt to bring you around now that all of this has happened.

The idea of seeing you again, in a more normal setting hopefully, has butterflies erupting into the space around his heart. It’s with a weighted feeling in his chest that he carefully reminds himself that this probably doesn’t mean anything to you—this is just another shift, another client. Even if you enjoyed it, it’s still your job, and he desperately wants to respect that.

“Is that usually how it goes?” he finds himself asking before he can think about it too much, finger idly fiddling with one of the little polymer clay cats that still dangles from your ear.

“Hm?” you hum in question. Repositioning yourself so you can see his face better. “Uh, I mean like, are your sessions usually like this, o-or is it different every time?”

He’s absolutely making a fool of himself, already forming the words “never mind” when you make a sound of understanding, nodding against his chest. “Yes and no—” you smile up at him, “they are all different, but this kind of,” your teeth press into your bottom lip as you think, “this kind of vibe I guess is what I typically gravitate towards.” He nods like he understands what you’re saying even if it is still a little unclear. “I’m not big into the more intensive stuff,” you add with a dismissive wave, “not on the clock at least.”

The way you laugh softly at the choking sound he makes in response makes the embarrassment a little more worth it. “I see,” he tries to sound casual, nonchalant, but he’s pretty sure he missed the mark. “I’m lucky that I get to be so picky about bookings,” you tell him, continuing when you see the confused dip of his brow, “I do this because I like it, not because I have to, and the agency I work with is one of the best in terms of how they treat all of us, rules and regulations—that kind of thing. We get to call most of the shots.”

He hums in understanding, a little more genuine this time, but before he can say anything more you’re sitting up and glancing at the clock on the side table, an apologetic look on your face. “I have another booking tonight,” you say. Able to school his surprise pretty quickly, he sits up as you hop off the bed, scooping up your bag as your feet hit the floor. “M'gonna shower before I leave if that’s okay?”

“Yeah, sure of course,” he’s already throwing off the blankets to stand up as well, but your hand on his shoulder stops him. “You don’t have to clear out, the room is yours until tomorrow morning,” you inform him, and he nods, letting your small hand gently push at his chest until he’s reclined against the pillows again.

He clicks the tv on while you shower, in search of a distraction, flipping through channels until he finds something semi-interesting to watch. Some fifteen minutes later you exit the bathroom in a cloud of steam, once again wearing the outfit you’d been in when you got here earlier, skin dewy and hair still just a bit damp. “Have you seen this?” you point at the tv as you gather your things neatly into your duffel bag. He shakes his head and you scoff when one of the contestants of whatever cooking competition show he’d landed on is shown on screen, “That guy sucks, but I won’t spoil it if you haven’t seen it.”

Hiro laughs lightly, standing as you zip your bag closed. He hovers a little as you take a quick glance around the room, checking that you haven’t left anything behind. Once you seem satisfied, you look up at him, just a few steps away from the door now. “Don’t tell Mattsun we went over the time he paid for because he’ll try to pay for the difference, kay?” you tell him, a little sarcastic.

He hadn’t even realized there was a time limit, let alone that you’d surpassed it.

“O-okay,” he chokes out around a stiff laugh. You smile up at him, lips parting to speak again, but he interrupts you without really meaning to. “Thank you,” he feels the apparently ever present blush on his face deepen and stumbles on, “I know it’s your job and everything but it really helped me and I really do appreciate it so-”

The gentle press of your lips to his freckled cheek cuts off his rambling, his eyes immediately meeting yours as you settle back on flat feet, a hand already pulling the door open. “Any time,” you respond easily, a little teasing spark in your gaze, “I’ll see you around, Hiro.”

He hears the quiet way you speak to the man who’d accompanied you here before the door clicks shut behind you. An immeasurable amount of time passes, and he just stands there, mouth slightly agape, wearing only the boxers he’d hastily pulled on however many minutes ago.

At some point he eventually settles back onto the mattress in a hazy sort of trance, clicking the volume up a couple notches to drown out the way his thoughts are threatening to consume him. It actually kind of works, and he spends the rest of the evening getting a little too invested in this cooking competition show—that guy you’d pointed out earlier really does suck.

Sleep comes surprisingly easy a couple hours later, his strawberry hair pillowed against soft sheets, the air conditioner turned down just enough for him to be able to comfortably burrow down beneath the plush comforter. All in all, he’s grateful that sleep finds him so quickly. He supposes he can’t help that his dreams are filled with soft images of your face and the feeling of your warm skin beneath his fingertips.

makki strikes me as someone that loves to tease you, but when someone else tries to tease you, he gets snippy. you both have an understanding that every joke or tease is lighthearted. you have inside jokes and understand the boundaries of not going too far to hurt each other’s feelings. so when someone else tries to join in on this “intimate” and affectionate teasing you guys do with each other, he hates it.

and he’ll hate it even more when they cross boundaries and are being hurtful for the sake of a laugh.

its giving my boyfriend is my best friend. i support the best friend lover agenda!

SOMETHING MORE

cw/tags: makki x reader, roommates to lovers, best friends to lovers, confessions, getting together, fluff, a little suggestive, implied chubby/plus sized reader

a/n: this was written for my first ever fic exchange event and i ended up having so much fun with it! as always ty for reading 𖹭.ᐟ

a secret santa gift for @antique-remains

violet i was so excited when i got matched up with you, so i hope you love reading this as much as i loved writing it!! ♡

wc: 5.6k

part of the @sodaneko haikyuu x reader secret santa event -> ao3 collection + event masterlist

“You think this looks okay?” you ask without looking up, smoothing the mid-length skirt across the plush curve of your hips with the palm of your hand. The satin shimmers softly beneath your fingers.

Once the question has left your lips to be met with only silence in return, you look up towards your open bathroom door. “Makki,” you call, slightly louder than before. The way his head pops around the corner, brows raised in a question and his toothbrush hanging limply from his mouth makes you roll your eyes—he has his own bathroom just across the hall, so you’re not quite sure why he’d insisted on getting ready in yours as soon you’d finished pinning your hair up and dusting blush across your cheeks.

Instead of repeating your earlier question you just gesture broadly to yourself, and ask, “Good?” Once his eyes leave your face you almost think he isn’t going to answer you again as you watch his gaze travel from the sweater tastefully shrugged off your shoulder to your favorite heeled boots and back up again. Twice.

He holds up one finger before he disappears from view, followed by the sound of running water.

A smile grows on your face, exasperated and fond, while you wait for the return of his attention—you’re not privy to the way he nearly chokes on the mixture of toothpaste and spit in his mouth as soon as he’s hidden around the corner again, the way his cheeks flush just from the sight of you, or the way he stares at himself in the mirror in disbelief that you look like that and still actively choose to be friends with him.

Finally, he appears again, leaning against the door frame casually, the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up so they sit just below his elbows, arms crossed against his chest, pulling the fabric taut across his biceps.

“I’ve always liked you in black,” he says, his voice oddly soft.

You choose to ignore the way your cheeks go rosy. “It’s not too much though?” You turn to look at yourself again in the full-length mirror against the wall, “I don’t want them to think I’m trying too hard.”

He’s shaking his head at you before you even finish your sentence, stuffing his hands in his pockets and crossing the short distance to stand between you and the mirror you’d been staring into. You watch the mischief spark in his eyes before he hums as if in deep thought, pulling one of his hands from his pocket to press a finger to his lips in contemplation. You try to tamp down your smile as he circles you like you’re a sculpted marble statue on display in a museum, humming thoughtfully every once in a while for emphasis.

To him, you may as well be a work of art. He moves slowly, partially for the sake of hearing your soft laughter at his theatrics, but also maybe because he just wants an excuse to look a little longer. Stepping carefully around you, he makes note of every soft curve, perfectly placed as if each hill and valley he can see beneath the fabric of your clothes was mulled over by a master painter, every brushstroke made with an implicit purpose.

Eventually he makes it back to his original place in front of you, straightening the pensive bend of his waist. You tilt your head to look up at him, letting the smile you’d been fighting finally overtake your lips when he speaks. “In my professional opinion,” he starts in the same theatrically haughty tone until halfway through his words nearly catch in his throat, “you look perfect.”

The silence that follows in the next few moments seems to crackle with energy, something heated and maybe a little expectant, that quickly diminishes into something more familiar when he presses a finger into the soft swell of your cheek. “How fashionably late would you like to be,” his hands find your shoulders and he turns you towards your bedroom door, gently pushing you forward before you even answer him, “because unless you’d like to arrive very late, we’d better get going.”

The train is as crowded as you’d expect for a Friday evening, forcing you to stand instead of sitting comfortably in any of the seats. It’s busy, but not busy enough that it’s strictly necessary for Makki to be standing so close to you, chest pressed to your back and his arm resting casually over your shoulder. At one point he leans further over you, resting his temple against yours to get a better look at whatever you’re showing him on your phone.

He knows you well enough to trust that you’d say something if his proximity bothered you, it’s not as if being this close is an uncommon occurrence for the two of you.

“Oh,” your exclamation pulls him from his focus on the way your hands look wrapped around your phone, so much smaller and softer than his own, “and look how cute these guys are!” On your screen is a picture of two cats that you’ve seen hanging around one of the small restaurants you now frequent on your lunch break. “They’re always together,” you tell him, “the orange one is bigger than the calico but she’s definitely in charge.” You breathe out a soft laugh, “I think they’re best friends,” he feels the warmth of your exhale against the skin of his forearm, “reminds me of you and me.”

He doesn’t linger on the way your words make his chest go tight. “You saying I follow you around?” he asks instead. You turn your head, just enough to meet his gaze and he hopes you don’t hear the way your proximity turns his inhale shaky over the din of the crowded train car. Your smile is fond. “Yeah, like a lost puppy,” you raise an eyebrow at him as if daring him to discredit what you both know to be true—if he hadn’t been so persistent about getting to know you past just being randomly assigned project partners all those years ago, he can guarantee you wouldn’t be standing here together now. “It’s cute,” you add, and he thinks he could watch the way your eyes sparkle when you look at him forever.

For the rest of the journey you’re both content to look out the windows as the city lights draw closer, the short ride from your shared apartment deeper into the city passing in comfortable silence between you. He notices when you start to get nervous, the way your hands get fidgety and you begin to shift your weight side to side idly in front of him.

“You like your coworkers, right?” his question breaks the quiet, and he immediately feels the way your shoulders have already begun to relax—it makes his chest feel warm. “Mmhm,” you nod, still looking out the window as the train begins to slow. “Then you’ll be fine,” he pulls his arm from it’s place over your shoulder, moving down until his hand settles at the small of your waist, already guiding you towards the doors as your stop is announced and they begin to slide open.

It’s a short walk, but you’re glad you’d worn a sweater to shield you from the chilly evening air. Makki’s hand hasn’t left your waist since before you’d stepped off the train—the warm comfort of his palm against you, even through the thick fabric of your top, seems to seep into your bones.

You know you’re in the right place without even having to check the address your coworker had sent you again, the warm light spilling from the windows and the balloons tied to the front gate immediately giving away the location of the housewarming party. She pulls the front door open before you can even raise your hand to knock, the sound of excited chatter flowing out around her as she reaches to pull you in. “I’m so glad you came!” she exclaims once you’re both standing in the entryway, the door pushed shut behind you to fend off the cool breeze.

“Of course,” you assure her before motioning to Makki who’s still standing at your side, “this is my roommate, Makki.” She’s quick to introduce herself, complimenting your outfit while you watch her eyes dart to where his hand still sits at your waist—Maru doesn’t point it out, but the curiosity in her eyes tells you she’ll have something to say about it come Monday. Despite that, your nerves melt away a little more—you really do like most of your new coworkers, and you’re glad the sentiment seems to be shared.

She leads you further into the house, dodging the surprising number of people spread throughout the space. A few of them wave or smile at you in greeting, further relaxing the tension you’d been carrying in your shoulders—Makki’s hand stays steady on your waist.

The house is pretty, you understand why she’d been so excited to throw this housewarming party. She eventually leads you into an open kitchen where it’s a little less crowded, pointing out different bottles of wine and the array of snacks she’s laid out before she’s whisked away into another room by the call of her name.

When she disappears around the corner you turn to look at Makki, who’s already looking down at you with a grin on his face. “She seems sweet,” he says, dropping his hand from your waist so he can look at the wine bottles displayed across the counter, picking one up and lifting it in your direction. “She’s nice, was the first one to talk to me when I first started in her department,” you nod and answer, watching him pour two glasses, sliding one across the counter towards you.

Before you can pick yours up, he gets a little pinch at the corner of his lips like he’s trying not to smile and then clears his throat dramatically, “Ahem.” He swirls the burgundy liquid in the glass, tipping it towards his nose to take a comically loud inhale before bringing it to his lips, angling the glass so the wine inside barely touches his tongue before lowering it again.

He smacks his lips a couple times for effect then tilts his head, smiles at you, and says, “Yeah, it’ll do.” You can’t help the way you snort at his antics, a hand coming up to cover the laugh that follows. His expression softens and he steps closer to you again, “It’s actually pretty good, I think you’ll like it.” Something about the way he’s standing makes you realize how much he towers over you, and you feel your chest go a little fluttery.

Before you can do anything about the feeling though, another one of your coworkers wanders into the kitchen. Aiko sits a couple of desks over from you at the office, and unfortunately she’s not one of your favorite people, always a little too harsh for your liking. She calls your name, as if she’s surprised to see you here even though she was in the room when Maru extended the invite. You make small talk for a few minutes before she turns to look at Makki where he still stands next to you. “And who’s this?” she asks, not bothering to hide the way she’s clearly assessing him.

It takes him listening to all of two words before he clocks the way she seems to talk down to you, already taking a half step in front of you to extend his hand for her to shake. “Hanamaki,” he tells her easily, “best friend, roommate.” Aiko’s gaze doesn’t leave his face even when both of their hands drop back to their sides. She seems to think for a moment, picking at a cracker on her plate before deciding to speak again. “Cute,” is apparently the response she lands on, eyes flicking towards you before she continues, “and are we still living with a roommate as a full grown adult by choice or?”

Makki’s easy going smile hardens.

Now, he’s not a confrontational person, usually content to let people say whatever to him without much of a care, but it’s different when you’re involved. Aiko starts to speak again when neither him nor you answer her poorly veiled insult, but he cuts her off before she’s even really started. “Okay,” his hand finds a home on your waist again, firm and protective. Aiko tilts her head at his response. “I’m just curious,” she tries to reason, though the condescending tilt of her brow doesn’t smooth.

“As you’ve pointed out, we’re all full grown adults,” he pauses, motioning to the three of you, “so I’m not quite sure why you’re still acting like a high school mean girl at your age.” He doesn’t mind letting the silence that follows linger for a few moments, happy to take in the shock that passes over her expression before he adds, “On the off chance that you think of something nice to say, we’ll be in the living room.” And then, before you can really process what’s happening, he’s gently guiding you out of the kitchen without a second glance in Aiko’s direction.

To say you’re stunned by Hiro’s bluntness would be an understatement. For all the years you’ve known him, there have been very few scenarios in which you’ve seen him be anything other than unconcerned in the face of confrontation, so for him to immediately shut Aiko down without a second thought has your mouth dropping open as he gently pushes you down the long hallway, both of your wine glasses held easily in his other hand.

When you’ve cleared out of the kitchen, his actions seem to catch up to him a little. He stops a handful of steps down the hall, near a door that looks like it leads into the backyard.

“Oh fuck, sorry,” he looks at you with genuine worry in his eyes, “was that bad? She was being so rude and I didn’t even-” You cut him off with a short spout of laughter. His brows dip in a mixture of confusion and concern.

Moving to stand in front of him, your hands find his shoulders. “Hiro,” you quickly halt the beginning of his spiraling, “it’s fine.” There’s a smile on your face that just keeps growing, laughter still bubbling over into your words, “She’s mean to everyone, someone was bound to call her out on it eventually.” He lets out a long sigh, tilting his head back to look up at the ceiling in relief.

“You good though?” you ask him, hands still resting against his arms, thumbs rubbing soothing circles against the fabric of his shirt, “Usually you don’t let that kind of stuff get to you.” Makki takes another breath before he looks down at you again, setting your wine glasses on the hallway table behind him to take your wrists in his hands gently, anchoring you to him. “Yeah,” he assures you, “just didn’t like the way she talked to you—sorry if I overstepped.” You’re already shaking your head at him, “No it’s okay, I appreciate it.” He nods before releasing one of your wrists, his other hand lowering both of your arms and seeking out your palm to lace your fingers together before he really even thinks about it.

You don’t move for the next few breaths and neither does he, content to stand in the hallway of a house that’s not yours, listening to the buzz of voices in the next room over. Warmth fills his chest as his eyes flit across your face, so close to overflowing that he feels like he may burst with it. He watches a soft smile overtake your features. Without thinking his lips part, words already taking shape on his tongue. You tilt your head, encouraging, gaze unwavering as he feels himself melt further and further.

He jumps when voices approach from the other end of the hallway, slipping his hand from yours to instead shove them both it into his pockets before you have the chance to protest, followed by an almost awkward moment of hesitation.

He clears his throat and looks away from you as Maru comes around the corner to herd you into the living room. It’s filled with a mixture of voices all participating in different conversations, now much clearer than the indistinguishable jumble you’d heard it as in the hallway just moments ago, and someone is quietly playing the upright piano that sits on the far side of the room.

You don’t get a chance to be alone with him again as you’re pulled into conversations with your coworkers and Maru’s friends for the next hour—it’s nice to get to know the people you work with a little better, but the energy between you and Hiro has shifted into unfamiliar territory, occupying more and more space in your mind no matter how hard you try to tamp it down.

He still puts in an effort to answer your coworkers questions, involving himself in the mingling with a seemingly relaxed expression, but you know him well enough that you can tell by the tiny pinch in his brow that it’s on his mind just as much as it’s on yours.

You don’t get more than a glance from him every now and then, his gaze refusing to settle on you; and what’s even worse, the hands that had been touching you in some capacity all night remain tucked securely in his pockets instead of brushing comfortably against your waist or your shoulder like before. Your thoughts morph and expand, slowly overtaking your ability to think of anything else in a way that’s undeniably distracting.

Finally, you get a chance to break away from the group, excusing yourself to the bathroom to take a much needed breather. Once the door is shut, you slowly fall into a crouch, making a soft exasperated sound and cradling your warm cheeks in the palms of your hand. Take a breath, you tell yourself silently, letting your lungs fill before slowly emptying them again in a long puff of air.

In all of the years you’ve known each other, this kind of uncertain tension has never been present between you—you’ve bickered and waded your way through awkward encounters, but this feels worse, like something undeniably necessary is missing. You feel a tug in your chest and want nothing more than to go home, snuggle up on the couch, and just have the space to breathe, to sort through the swirling mixture of feelings that have settled in your gut, inevitable and only softened by a small, creeping tendril of hope.

The next breath you take actually feels like it brings enough oxygen into your lungs for the first time since whatever happened in the hallway. In your hasty attempt to sort through the mess of worry and something else you can’t quite name, everything suddenly gets a little more clear, a little more bright. Your heart rate kicks up a notch, and you’re almost overwhelmed with the urge to seek him out, like you’ve got a string tied to your heart and he’s just given it a gentle tug, snapping all of the jumbled pieces of you back into place.

In an almost dreamy haze you leave the bathroom as if on a mission, only distantly acknowledging the party still going on around you. You end up finding him in the kitchen, wine glass back in his hand though it’s still just as full as it was earlier. He’s standing at the sink, looking out the window into the backyard with a dip in his brow you immediately want to smooth out. You can see the way the autumn wind moves the sparse leaves that remain in the trees outside over his shoulder. Without a word you sidle up to him, purposely letting your arm brush his. After a few moments of stillness, he silently offers you his glass. You’re not sure where your own actually ended up.

He lets your fingers brush as he hands it to you, maybe an olive branch of sorts, eyes still on the shadowy trees on the other side of the window. You hum in thanks, letting the dark liquid hit your tongue, the taste rich and fruity. You let the quiet linger a little longer, finishing off his glass before setting it on the counter in front of you and finally turning to look up at him.

“Hiro,” your voice is hushed, and he can’t help but look down at you.

The almost strangling weight he’d been holding onto since he’d panicked in the hallway vanishes when he sees the way you’re looking at him, eyes warm, glossy lips pulled into a soft smile. He can’t help the way his hand finds the swell of your hip, thumb resting against the soft curve where the waistband of your skirt sits, fingers dipping under the hem of your sweater to fleetingly brush skin—your smile only grows.

“Can we go home?” it sounds like you’re saying something different, the warmth in your voice wrapping around him until he feels the flush on his cheeks creep down onto his chest.

“Yeah,” he responds easily, “let’s go home.”

After quickly telling Maru goodbye, the short journey back to your shared apartment seems to pass in slow motion. Though the station isn’t busy when you step onto the platform just as the train pulls up, you’re both already moving before it’s even fully stopped, in a hurry not to beat the rush of a crowd, but to get home so he can tell you about whatever is tugging at his heart so intensely that he can’t stop himself from looking at you. He finds his eyes jumping from the way your sweater has slouched just a little more off your left shoulder, to the satiny material of your skirt loosely hugging the fullness of your thighs, and then back up again.

He can’t seem to let his hand stray far from it’s place against your waist.

He’s so caught up in the torrent of his feelings for you that he thinks maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to let this moment stretch out a little. There’s something addicting about the simmering anticipation that buzzes across his skin. “It’s not that late,” he finds himself saying, “want to stop by the konbini on the way home?” You glance at the clock on the screen of your phone before you nod. With your silent answer, he feels the frantic energy from before you’d boarded the train ease into something much softer.

Not even the harsh fluorescent light can dull the way you seem to be glowing every time he looks over at you, head tilted and bottom lip pulled idly between your teeth as you contemplate your snack choice. When you finally meet him at the drink cooler, he playfully presses the chilly can in his hand against the fat of your cheek, listening to the giggle that it draws from your lips as you pull away.

While the sleepy looking teenager at the counter bags your things, you bump your hip into his. “Thanks for coming with me to the party,” you tell him when he looks over at you, “I liked having you there.” He tucks his wallet back into his pocket, grabbing the bag with your things from the counter before turning towards the door. You follow behind him, leaving the soft buzzing of florescent lights behind to step out into the chilly autumn evening.

“I’m glad you asked me,” he says once you’ve stepped onto the pavement, “to come with you I mean.” You hum and he knows it’s a sound that means you still have more to say but you need to think about it first. “Movie when we get home?”

Maybe you’re reveling in this feeling just as much as he is.

This time, he heads to his own bathroom after depositing your quarry on the kitchen counter, though he’s already showered and lounging on your bed, scrolling through something on his phone when you walk out of your own, clad in one of his t-shirts and an old pair of sweats with your hair still a little damp and falling loosely against your shoulders. “Was gonna drag a mattress out, but I wasn’t sure if you wanted yours or mine,” he informs you without looking up.

“Yours,” you respond, the same as every other time, poking his bent knee as you walk past him and into the hallway. His footsteps follow a few seconds later, long legs allowing him to easily catch up to you as you push the door to his bedroom open.

You’d think you would both be at least a little better at this by now, but the way you fight with the mattress in an attempt to push it down the narrow hallway and into the living room seems to be ever present. “If this is how I die don’t put it in my obituary,” his voice is strained with laughter and the way he’s squeezed between the mattress and the wall in an attempt to come back to your side to push it the rest of the way out of the cramped space.

You’re laughing so hard you can’t form a response, opting to instead grab his outstretched hand to pull him from his perilous position. The two of you have to take a second to breathe before you can actually put any strength into pushing the oversized object into the living room, wiping at tears born of laughter where they’ve pooled at the corners of your eyes.

It’s smooth sailing from there as you push it right up against the front of the couch. With the coffee table moved into the corner under the windows, the mattress almost takes up the entirety of your small living room, just half a foot of space between its edge and the tv stand. You make two more trips back to your room, returning each time with your arms loaded full of extra pillows to stack at the top of the mattress. A couple extra blankets are spread over the top of Makki’s comforter while he pours your drinks over ice and dumps your snacks into bowls in the dimly lit kitchen.

The little bowls are set carefully on the mattress in front of you while a cool glass is passed into your waiting hand. You pat the space next to you in invitation as you murmur your thanks, lifting the blankets you’re already cuddled under for him to crawl into. There’s a bit of a shuffle to find the perfect placement for all of your things while still allowing the two of you to sit with as little room between you as humanly possible. You finally manage to snuggle in comfortably, content to let him flip through your shared streaming services until he finds something he knows will fit your mood.

You’ve spent countless nights together just like this—the quiet familiarity of his mattress sprawled across the living room floor, the lights low, bites of food and sips of drinks shared between the two of you until the bowls are empty and you’re free to fully throw one of your legs over his and recline back so your head is pillowed on his chest, tucked comfortably beneath his chin. Usually though, his arm stays stretched across the couch cushions behind you, the other sometimes idly playing with strands of your hair or resting over the tops of the pillows in the opposite direction.

Tonight is, obviously and quite predictably, different. Not in the way that makes anything feel out of place, but like the changes are just a product of taking another step forward, hand in hand.

He’s surprising even himself with the ease that he moves to drape one of his arms over your shoulder, pulling you closer to his chest and brushing his fingers against the back of your hand resting in your lap. You absentmindedly play with his fingers as he watches the frames of your favorite movie flash across the screen.

Despite the way his heart hammers out a frantic beat in his chest, he finds that everything still feels easy—his pinky linking with yours when the film reaches the halfway point, the way his opposite arm drops from its perch on the pillows next to him to instead wrap around your waist not long after, pulling you to sit between his long legs, fingers brushing the hem of your (his) t-shirt where it’s bunched up between your bodies to show the tiniest hint of skin.

It was a smart move on his part, picking a movie you’d both already seen countless times, because he’s so focused on taking in every ounce of you that he can, that he’s oblivious to anything else. It’s all so familiar, but in this moment it feels nearly overwhelming; the smell of your shampoo, the way the fat of your hip feels under his fingers, how every once in a while, you say the dialogue with your favorite characters under your breath, a smile on your face each time.

It’s a shock to neither of you when the words, “I’m in love with you,” are suddenly spilling from his lips, prompted only by the way you look like home sitting in his arms on his mattress on the floor of your shared living room, cozy and familiar and carefree—and something he’s sure he couldn’t live without. He hadn’t even realized that the credits are already rolling, the ending song playing softly in the background, making his words that much more prominent despite their hushed reverence.

You hum gently in response, and he can hear the way you smile in the sound. You don’t move from where you’re pressed against him, letting him fidget with your fingers and rub his thumb across the back of your hand, moving up to circle the bone on the side of your wrist—like you already know he has more to say.

“It was silly to get scared,” he nuzzles against you where his temple brushes your cheek, every word blowing a warm puff of breath against your neck, raising goosebumps on your skin, “it’s just you.” He laughs gently, the sound genuine and maybe a little self deprecating.

You only move when he finishes speaking, tilting your head to look up at him, pulling his arms just a little tighter around you. “Just me, huh?” you tease, watching the flush crawl across freckled cheeks. He sighs as if put off, but the smile that dimples his cheeks tells you otherwise.

You surprise him when you pull gently at his wrists, loosening his hold enough for you to turn around, still pressed close but now facing him fully. Like this, he’s able to see the warmth dusting your cheeks in the low light, the sparkly glimmer of love that he’s just now realizing has lived in the familiar color of your eyes for years.

“I actually think you’re kinda brave,” you breathe into the air between you, “all those strangers in a house you’ve never been to and you still held my hand.” Your expression grows playful, “Even if it was only for a second.” He snorts a laugh, rolling his eyes before letting his other hand trail up the top of your thigh, on a mission to find a home against the full curve of your waist. “I’m serious,” you tell him, the way your breath catches when his finger skims across the skin beneath the hem of your shirt melting into soft laughter.

You think he may be able to hear the way your heart beats like the wings of a bird in your chest.

Hiro is your best friend, has been for a long time—but he’s also been something more for a long time now too—so it’s with an easy breath that you lean in, slow and just far enough for your lips to brush, reveling in watching his eyes drop to your lips and the sound of each of his quiet inhales.

And maybe you could sit here and breathe him in forever, but of course there’s a more pressing need coaxing you forward right now.

He knows you’ll make fun of him later for the soft, borderline pathetic sound that leaves him the moment you press your lips fully to his, but he can’t quite bring himself to care right now—not as you sigh into him, arms draping over his shoulders to pull him impossibly closer. Like the floodgates have been opened, the words i love you pour from his mouth into the fleeting space between one kiss and the next, and every single time he feels your lips pull into a smile against his own in response.

Your lips part and he can’t fight it any longer, finally allowing himself to take, just a little bit. His hold on your waist tightens a fraction, his other hand moving until his fingers are buried in your hair and he’s able to pull you that much closer. He breathes your name, like honey on his lips, dripping slowly down his throat until it makes its way into his chest.

He’s not sure how much time passes before you part, maybe minutes, but more likely hours with the way his chest heaves and the sticky sheen of sweat on your skin shimmers in the dim light. You’re laid out on his sheets like a dream come to life, a warm, familiar smile on your face that he now knows is just for him.