shidouryusm

[shidouryusm]

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.

[shidouryusm]

#Ihatemybf if Michael Kaiser’s gf posted.

(IT’S A JOKE YALL😭🤚🏽I don’t be condoning ts. Maybe a lil👁️👁️)

[shidouryusm]

SAM??? it’s been forever

NOVA how have you been love??! it’s actually been SOOO LONG :(((((

[shidouryusm]

A frat boy!eren and nerd!armin might just bring me back chat

ALSO HOW HAVE YALL BEEEEN

[shidouryusm]

My Journey to Escape the War in Gaza

My name is Abdelmajed. I never imagined I’d be sharing my story like this, but life in Gaza has become unbearable. I am a survivor of the war here, and in the blink of an eye, everything I once knew—my home, my safety, my community—was ripped away from me.

The war has transformed Gaza into a graveyard of broken dreams. The buildings that once stood as symbols of life and resilience are now piles of rubble. Every corner is filled with the echoes of explosions. Every moment is shrouded in uncertainty. There is no security. There is no stability. There is no light at the end of the tunnel.

Basic needs have become luxuries. Food is scarce. Clean water is even scarcer. Hospitals are overwhelmed and under-resourced, and there is almost no medical care to be found. Every night, families go to bed hungry, praying they’ll wake up to see another day. The cost of basic necessities has skyrocketed, and it’s become a daily battle just to survive.

I’ve seen things I never thought possible—standing in long lines for a piece of bread, rationing every drop of water, and watching my people suffer in silence. I have lost everything—my home, my safety, my dignity.

Escape from Gaza is my only hope, but it’s almost impossible without financial help. The cost of evacuation is far beyond my means, and without support, I’m trapped in a warzone with no way out.

I’m reaching out to you now, in the hopes that someone, anyone, can help. I am not asking for luxury. I am asking for a chance—just a chance—to live. A chance to escape this never-ending cycle of fear, destruction, and loss. A chance to rebuild my life somewhere safe, where I can begin again, where I can find hope once more.

Any amount you can give will help me get closer to safety. Even the smallest donation will make a difference—it could be the lifeline I need to survive. If you are unable to donate, please share my story. The more people who hear it, the better the chance that I can find the support I desperately need.

Your kindness and support mean the world to me. You’re not just helping me escape a war; you’re giving me a chance to live, to rebuild, to breathe again.

Thank you for listening. Thank you for caring.

Vetted by @gazavetters

[shidouryusm]

That one manwha cover trend but make it Higuruma 🌻

[shidouryusm]

New Haikyū!! Official Art…. I can’t even…..DAMN 🔥🥵

[shidouryusm]

🌟 A Plea from Gaza: Rola’s Story 🌟

Hello, my name is Rola, and I am a mother of two children living in the Gaza Strip. Our lives were once filled with love, laughter, and dreams for the future. But everything changed on October 7th, when the war shattered not only our home but our entire world.

That morning, my family and I were enjoying coffee together on the balcony. Out of nowhere, an explosion erupted, shaking our home violently. My husband and son ran for cover, falling over each other in panic, while I stood frozen, still holding my cup, unable to process the chaos around me. When I looked out the window, I saw that our neighbor’s house, once filled with life, had been reduced to rubble. Ambulances rushed to the scene as people scrambled to rescue the injured and pull bodies from the debris.

The bombings didn’t stop. At night, the rain poured heavily, and the cold seeped into our bones. I stayed awake, covering my children to keep them warm and praying for their safety. But safety is an illusion here. Another explosion shattered the night, and our neighbors’ home was destroyed. Their children, who had been sleeping peacefully under a blanket, were found lifeless, their cover soaked in blood.

I looked at my children with tears in my eyes and thought, How can I protect you? We had to flee our home with nothing but the clothes on our backs. We left behind my children’s toys, their clothes, and their beautiful bedroom. Everything we had worked so hard to build is gone.

Our Current Reality Now, we are displaced and living in a nightmare. Food is scarce, and prices are unimaginably high—$10 for a kilo of sugar! The fear of death hangs over us constantly. My children deserve a life of joy and hope, not one defined by fear and loss. Why can’t we live like everyone else—go to work, visit family, and watch our children play in safety? Why do our children have to grow up surrounded by death and destruction?

How You Can Help I am pleading for your kindness to help us rebuild our lives. We need your support to: 💔 Rebuild our home, so my children can feel safe again. 🌍 Evacuate from Gaza, seeking a future where my family can live with dignity. 🩺 Provide urgent medical care for my children, who need protection from this nightmare.

Even the smallest donation can make a difference. If you can’t donate, please share my story. Every share brings us closer to hope.

What Your Support Means Your kindness is not just about helping us survive; it’s about giving us a chance to dream again. To rebuild what we’ve lost and to ensure my children have a future filled with possibilities, not fear.

Thank you for taking the time to read my story. Your support means the world to us. Let’s work together to rebuild hope, one step at a time.

🌸 Please share our story and consider donating today. 🌸

Together, we can create a better tomorrow. 🌍❤️

[shidouryusm]

If anyone else is also heavy on HQ Tiktok, please tell me you've also noticed the oikawa-esc villainification of Kuroo recently. Like, listen, there are always going to be hated characters even if it's not valid, I get it... BUT KUROO??? The character whose main motivation is to have fun with his friends?? Did we watch the same show??

Kuroo who became such close friends with Kenma, who's a complete opposite of himself and got him into volleyball because he wanted to see him have fun and find passion in something that helped him take care of himself?

Kuroo who spent most of his time at the Tokyo training camp helping Tsukishima and the others with techniques and practice that they never got the chance to learn or have?

Kuroo who spent his time teaching them everything he did that ultimately lead to them beating him and his own team at nationals because winning or losing didn't mean anything to him if the people around him weren't finding joy, fun, and companionship in the game that he loved so dearly?

Kuroo who still comes around after he graduates because he wants to see the friends he made still having fun with it even though he didn't go further with it?

Anyway, I know this was just silly but his character is so special to me, drop your favorite self indulgent hcs below bc I cannot get enough content of him </3

[shidouryusm]

Opened TikTok and everyone is talking about bringing back 2020, reading ff and glittery anime pfps meanwhile I never left this ff world ever since I got in LMFAO

[shidouryusm]

sami!! happiest holidays!! wishing this season is full of love for you 💗

Happy Holidays my love!!I hope today went amazing for you and your loved ones. Do tell me how was your holiday ❤️❤️❤️

[shidouryusm]

𓆩♡𓆪✿༝༚༝༚ -> You're so cool. It makes me hate you so much

Kuroo x reader (gn)

word count- 2.5k words (excuse me wtaf?!)

content: hinted rivals to lovers, mutual pining, lots of bickering between reader and kuroo, mention of cunt (not in smut way).

A.n -> once again this is my worded desire of having a rivals to lover trope in my life. Also it's my first time attempting so let me know how it is. not proofread bruh it's almost 2:30am here.

The night arrives with all its glory of darkness. People marching out in costumes – fake  crimson blood dripping off the sides of their lips while face smothered in white paint, or dark cloaks shrouded their body while a skull mask decorated their face.

Loud music blares into life through the screen of your phone as you watch a small snippet of a party that was getting wilder and wilder via your bestfriend/roomate’s instagram story. She just took a swig of her drink and you were concerned how is she going to hold herself up.

Hollers of enjoyment and rhythmless singing along to songs were mixed with the deafening bass of music.  Everyone was out and about…everyone except you. 

Well, with a stuck up snob as a professor who assigned a report immediately the morning after and with final exams edging near, you had no option but be the bummer and cancel on all invites, leaving your costume hanging sadly on your closet and get down with laptops and notes. 

Frustrations bubbles inside you and FOMO nearly kills your motivation to even study. You put aside your phone, not indulging in moping over other people’s stories anymore. A sigh leaves your lips as you continue finishing the report you wished you didn’t procrastinate. 

Your mind still ponders over the party that you could have went to.

“well at the end, the little A’s splayed all over the grade sheet would be worth all of it.”

You attempt to console yourself. You shall compensate by scoring the top on the finals and rub it on the face of a certain ravenette. Smiling devilishly at the thought.

You hate to admit but a majority part of you keens to perform the best in this elective course that has remotely no relation with your major is to beat that one particular student in your class.

Kuroo Tetsuro. 

The overachieving dumbass nearly topping every exam that he takes. Waltz around the campus with a smirk that urges all the nerves in your body to break through and act on their accord to strangulate him. It’s been only the second time that you matched a course with him but no one in university was more competent than him when it came to pop a vessel in your forehead. 

You don’t even recall how the dynamic between you two ended up like the way it is but you would rather throw yourself from a cliff, down into a lake of acid before thinking about being civil, let alone be friends with him. 

Maybe you are exaggerating, you consciously think, before the memory of him completely destroying your arguments in a debate just a few days back resurfaced in your brain. 

The smug smirk and quirked eyebrows that he flashed your way after the professor referred his points as “seemingly unbeatable” and “you could learn a thing or two from him!!” made your insides fill with bitter grudge against him once again.

But are you the one always getting the short end of the stick? Absolutely not. You are positive that your feelings are reciprocated by him whenever you raise your hands to critic his works. The narrowed hazel eyes and scorned face mirrors all your emotions whenever you bite back his words with equal wit and banter, effectively shutting him up. And that fills you with brimming satisfaction. 

However, amidst this back and forth competition of getting the better grade and constantly critiquing each other, your eyes don’t miss out the way he looks. The unmissed tension that lies between the space whenever you both get in close proximity always leaves you a little breathless, like you’re holding your breath whenever he’s this close. The way his lips looks so glossy whenever your eyes land on them. Your mind subconsciously wondering how they might ta-

Tsk

You snap the book shut and click your tongue in annoyance. Why are you even thinking about him? Pretending that your brain did not just conjure the thought seconds ago, you open your book and return back on doing your work, your mind occupied with newfound competitiveness against him. 

--

The clock hit 10 pm when you rose from the chair, your back stiffened from being in this position, like any wrong movement could crack it. You decide on a quick shower to relieve yourself from the piling stress and stiffness. 

Just as you were finishing up with your skincare, humming while a towel robe drapes your body and hair saturated with water, a series of doorbell broke through your comfortable bubble. Constantly pressing the button like some stubborn kid wanting a trick or treat. 

“If you keep on ringing like that, you best believe I'm tricking your whole lifetime” you mutter as you hurriedly prod towards the door. Opening it with a bit more force, you are met with your stumbling roommate, head hung low and the smell alcohol reek off her. Her feet barely doing any work to balance her and no sooner than that, she topples over, wrapping herself around you.

“Yui?! Oh my goodness. YUI! Are you okay?” you barely register the second person accompanying her as you try to retrieve your passed out bestfriend.

“I don’t think she’s gonna wake up anytime soon”, the deep voice rang through your ears. Your brain processing it two times to reconfirm you actually heard that before your eyes finally landed on the second company. 

His hair was spiked up as usual in his bed hair. Eyes the same batch of hazel and honey. A white dress shirt adorned his upper half, sleeves rolled till the forearms and finally your eyes zooms on his nearly cat-like face. 

“What on earth are you doing here?” your tone carrying equal measures of accusation and surprise. He scoffingly laughs, “well I certainly did not drop by for a chat and some tea time with you. If you haven’t really noticed, your bestfriend is shitfaced to the point of no return. So me, being the gentleman I am, dropped her off.”, you roll your eyes till it reaches your forehead, a snide chuckle escaping your mouth.

“Humour me. You and gentleman don’t exactly fit in one sentence.” you taunt, drawing a sigh out of him. 

“Just like you and compassion, kindness, gratitude, appreciation do not?” he sneers. Before you can retort, you feel Yui’s weight slip off of you and you hastily try to balance her before she falls face down.

But an unconscious person carries weights like a sack of boulders, making it difficult for you to handle. You look over Yui’s shoulder to see Kuroo still standing, a look of pure amusement plastered on his face as he enjoyed the mess in front of him.

“Mind helping?” you bite back at him, barely able to hold the now tumbling Yui. Kuroo swiftly steps in, draping one of Yui’s hand over his neck and balancing her. 

“There’s a nice word called “please”, but of course you wouldn’t know.” you hear him mutter breathily. 

“People lend a hand voluntarily without asking in such situations but ofcourse, kuroo the entitled tetsuro needs a laminated invite card” you dryly say, watching his eyes narrow and mock hurt creeping up on his face. 

“For someone looking pretty as you, you surely got a foul mouth” kuroo hums and you act like your heart didn’t do an unsolicited somersault at that, you clear your throat, muttering a low "anyways" and focus on guiding your bestfriend from the threshold of the door to her bedroom. 

Grin crawls on kuroo’s face knowing he did hit it where it was supposed to be. 

Once settled into the bedroom, you carefully take off her shoes, and remove little of the makeup that she got smeared all over. Her hair was matted with tangles and a little remnant of her puke dried on the side of her lips, that you quickly wipe with a wet towel. 

“What made you all drunk like you lost your lover, Yui?” you wonder out loud. Yui was in no condition to answer so the only response you received from her were snores.

Kuroo chuckles behind you, the sounds of his laughter making you turn. He was leaning against the study table. His stance radiating confidence and ease even in the silent room.

“Haven’t you got a party to attend?” you ask him. He clicks his tongue, “nah not feeling it anymore. I already got out of there with your piece of a work best friend so don’t really see a point going back.”

“Did she talk your ear off with her breakup lore?” you genuinely laugh. The sound of it reaching Kuroo’s ear, further travelling down to his heart, tugging at a string. 

“I wouldn’t say she was a sad drunk, she was hollering, singing tunelessly throughout the car, surely embarrassed the shit out of me”

“Well, if there’s anything that is left of you to get embarrassed, that is. Pretty sure she cockblocked you rightly” you say slyly.

“Says you. Weren’t you destroyed in pieces in that debate? Should have learned a thing or two from me” kuroo snorts out his sardonic laughter as he parrots your professor’s words back at you. Purposely riling you up. 

You step in closer, jabbing your pointer at his chest, “listen you. You made points stupid enough to leave anyone clueless right at that time” you hiss. Stupid counter-attack but he really grinds your gear with comments like that. 

“Points stupid enough to be “unbeatable”. Let’s accept it, sweetheart, I was better. Wouldn't kill you to do this” he grabs your pointer finger, bringing it close to his lips. For a sec, you think he's gonna kiss but he soon lets it go.

Acting like a million thoughts didn't run through your head, you quip against him.

“Uh huh? who’s leading the assignments and questionnaires then?” you proudly retort to which Kuroo shakes his head. His face inches closer, closer till remnants of his cologne hits your nose. 

“Is this why you stayed at home? Busy being a nerd? Didn't digest your defeat well?” you can feel the jeering lilt in his voice, and closely enough you could even see little evil horns sprouting at the top of his head. 

“looking for me in the crowd? Also being ahead in your work doesn’t count as being nerdy. It’s productive. I’m pretty sure I’m way ahead of you while you slack away in parties” 

“Oh yeah? What if I was?” Kuroo steps towards you, scooting a bit to the right. Now towering over your figure. You unknowingly took a step back and press against the edge of the table. You could make out how sculpted his body was underneath the white shirt, illuminated with the golden light radiating from the study table. His hands reach against your sides, knuckles brushing against the towel robe. You momentarily forget you were in nothing but a robe like that and soon heat creeps up over your cheeks and neck. He dips down till he’s face level and now you could make out the pools of honey that his eyes possess. The shirt was unbuttoned till the first two buttons and that exposed a healthy part of his collarbones and the expanse of his neck. The space between you thick with the tension and shared breath and your eyes once again land on his lips, to which you lick your own. 

Kuroo cages you between him, the scent of your shampoo now directly reaching his nose. It’s so significantly you that he audibly inhales, the sweet fragnance of creamy vanilla and coconut engulfing his senses. 

" you were what?" you glare.

"What if I was looking for you in the crowd? Had a few things to say anyways" his stare was intense, voice holding a little rasp and breathlessness that skipped a few of your breaths as well.

Kuroo wouldn't lie, he actually felt grateful for the drunken Yui back there for landing him into this situation.

The moment you had opened the door and he discovered you like that, he was itching to be closer to you. His knuckles brush against the soft fabric of your towel as he grips the table on either sides of you. His eyes landing on the way you lick your lips and he tries his best to not get ahead and close the gap between them. His mouth curves into a smirk at your faltered expression, drinking in the way you look so cute. 

How can a girl with whom he engages in a tooth and nail fight when it comes to academics can invade his thoughts like that? Randomly popping in his thoughts throughout the day and making his insides feel giddy. The front he has to put up to prevent his real emotions reaching his face makes him feel like a teenager with a stupid crush. So he acts his usual self, suppressing all the little hints of affections and thoughts he harbours for you.

But to his relief, he is sure that he is not the only one who feels the exact same way. Annoyance, competition mixed with the little hint of affection. Constantly wanting to push each other to perfection and having thoughts that blends perfectly with one another. Without the constant bickers, you both would be a team that is formidable. 

You don’t know how much time has passed while you are still like this. Your hands rest against the table right beside his and you look at him. Not wanting to break the little staring competition god knows who started. Kuroo reaches over your ear, his breath tickles you slightly as he whispers your name. Your heart thrums like it is daring to leap out. His voice holding a musky timbre and the way it sounded like dulcet almost made you forget all the times he made you want to strangle him. 

“Tetsuro…” you reply with a breathy air, not daring to break the silence that has befallen. The light snores were drifting away into the background and the only place mattered to you was this little section where you and kuroo were attached. 

“Tetsuro huh? Not sure I’d ever let you call me kuroo again, darling” his lips curve into a smile and you shamelessly ogle them. Apart from the times he manages to be the menace, he really is handsome. it is not your first time registering it but the way you are looking at him like it’s the first time is really debatable. 

“I’ll call you an insufferable cunt instead” 

“Ouch that hurts” he grumbles, still unmoving. His left hand slide over the table and it’s almost encircling you. His face scoots closer to you as if a millimeters distance will close the synapse between you. He reaches over your ear once again, finding amusement in the way it causes you to shiver ever so slightly. “You have to know this, Y/n.” kuroo huskily says. 

Anticipation bubbles inside you, as you itch to know what he’s gonna say next. 

“It’s just…I…” you wait with patience, intrigue written all over your face.

“I…already submitted up the report that you slacked on and had to finish it, leaving out on all the fun.” he brings out a file that you had freshly printed out before shower, “impressive work, darling. But as always there are some mistakes you ought to fix” 

“KUROO TETSURO GET THE HELL OUT OF MY HOUSE” you bombard him with a series of slaps across his chest while he half-heartedly dodges them, his unfiltered hyena laughter ricocheting off the room. Yui groans in the background to which you both pause before you silently launch your onslaught of attacks.

In a series of punches and slaps, you drag him towards the exit door when he grabs your hand, stopping you. Tugging your closer, this time his hands wrap against your back and once again he crouches down, whispering against your ear, an act that you discover freezes you against him.

Unfortunately enough for you, he seems to realise that too. 

“You should let Yui get shitfaced like this often so that I get the lucky opportunity to see you in a towel robe more. See you tomorrow, sweetheart.” His fingertips traces your jawline before his hands reach down your head and give a gentle pat.

uhh..what.

The tapping of foot indicates he has left, his presence still enveloping you, along with the hint of his cologne wafting through the living room. You contemplate on calling in sick tomorrow.

Damn you, Yui.

I'm not sure how to feel about this. may not be my absolute favourite but this is very self indlugent (not surprising). This is very rushed and it's me writing about kuroo after such a long time so lmk how I did!!

likes, comments and reblogs are appreciated.

tagging: @tetzoro , @kuroosexuall , @itadorey (cos I saw u not being able to see the posts on dash :(( ), @sookisaurus @quirrrky @sir-kuroo (I looked at the tags and went :0 I deadass thought I had tagged you, my most longest kuroo lover moot in this app how could I not include you im so sorry boo)

[shidouryusm]

✿༝༚༝༚ Wrapped in red ✿༝༚༝༚

・❥・Kuroo x reader

・❥・synopsis-> hey siri, what are the consequences of surprising your fiancé with a lingerie under a coat for his birthday?

・❥・ word count-> 5.6k words (nobody look at me)

・❥・content warning-> mdni, explicit smut, fem!reader, cun!lli!ngu$

・❥・a.n -> this is the last time I'll be reposting this if tumblr still doesn't like me I got nothing to do. Tagging a bunch of my mutuals so that atleast they can enjoy. may your cheese rot tumblr. Also happy kuroo day ignore I'm this late everyday is kuroo day stfu. dividers by @cafekitsune , @benkeibear and @quirrrky

Kuroo can feel the chills of the winter already settling in mid-November. The expanse of his living room is veiled with a thin layer of frigidness. The tiles were cold and a siren of silence rings through till the ends, until the little clock resting on the small table breaks through the curse with the beginning of a new day. 17th November. He stares at the clock. The slick hands points to 12, busy announcing his 29th birthday. It is a small, black, cat shaped clock that you found from god knows where and gifted him out of blue. Your justification being “it looks like you”. Kuroo snickers at the sudden wave of memory.

A whole lot of other things around his house are also extensions of you – the little section of potted plants on the shelves, the matching coffee cups, the red mittens hanging over the oven handle, kitchen magnets comprising pictures from both of your trip to Paris. They all are like pockets of your shadow scattered around, giving little hints of the day when you’ll ultimately mark your reign as the Mrs. of this house.

But as of tonight, each of them wildly indicates your lack of presence. Kuroo discerns that the silence was not any call of winter, rather it’s the sheer absence of your chortles and excited squeals around the house, especially tonight.

Kuroo was never that big on celebrating his birthdays, being on a competitive position in corporate asked for lot of compromises and Kuroo had wired himself to do that in his early years on job, not caring about forgetting his birthdays and stuff. Still, he manages to dig up time when it comes to yours or others. The man that he always is - relentless in his acts of services. 

However, you being around never quite made it possible for Kuroo to actually forget about his day. Always the more excited one, the best planner and as always, a little better than the previous years. Whether it be by throwing a grand party in a club for him or just by yourselves, with home cooked mackerel and rice, catching the golden sunset above and just savouring the day with a casket of good memories to look back on. Or it may be simply you by his side that makes each of his birthdays something to look forward to, even while being clutched by stress and non-stop work.  

He was indeed getting spoiled by such pampering because, as of this moment, there was nothing he wanted more than to be around you. To bask in the incessant warmth of your hugs and engulf himself in the pool of your kisses. Fuck. he really wishes you weren’t drowned in your work right now just so your singsong voice of Happy Birthday could reach his ears the first. He peers at his phone, several texts from his co-workers and friends wishing him were flooded in his notification bar, along with your last text, sent over an hour ago. 

Love♡♡ : work is so crazy right now, they should pay me for even gracing them my time this late >:(( anyways, good night. love you tets &lt;;33

Nothing after that. He stares at the text. You weren’t online which meant you are either too busy in work or have already fallen asleep…without wishing him? 

A small twinge of hurt pinched his heart at the thought of it. Although he tries to reason it with your pressure at work. But it’s been like this for a few days, you completely submerged in work, barely getting the chance to even facetime, not being overly zealous atleast 3 business days before his birthday.

The little red demon above his head tries to play tricks yet his heart works with rationale – leading two projects at the same time meant things will slip up. Distance may be bound to form. Who knows? even paths of life may deviate from one another and eventually-

His train of thought cuts short by the sharp ring of the doorbell. It’s 12:30 already. Kuroo internally pleads that it’s not some surprise by his former teammates because without you, he doesn’t think he will indulge even a slightest bit. 

The door swings open and so does kuroo’s jaw. You, in your full glory, a ginormous beige jacket wrapped all over you, hair dishevelled from the wind, yet framing the most beautiful face in the world, stand at the threshold, panting and holding a large box of what seems like a cake. 

“Oh my gosh tetsu, I was almost about to punch the baker. Dumbass messed up my whole timing”

Kuroo was still busy steadying himself but he shifts from his place, allowing you to scoot past him and settle yourself in the dining seat, placing the cake there. 

Weren’t you asleep? Weren’t you way too busy to come? What is going on? 

He looks at you, making yourself comfortable at his space, like you are just meant to fit inside these 4 walls. The frosty silence suddenly vanishing by the cauldron of warmth you bring with you everywhere. He can’t wait for the day when it will be regular sight. 

“Baby, are you gonna stand there the whole night?” you giggle, striding towards his still figure beside the doorway. You hook your arms around his waist, your head tipping back as you stand on your toes, planting a soft kiss over his lips.

Kuroo’s eyes flutters shut as he draws himself into every fleeting moment of this kiss. His hands find your cheeks and large palms cradles them as gently as a rose petal, head dipping down to take in more of the feeling of your lips against him. The taste of your cherry balm engulfing him. 

You part from him, merely inches away as your lower lips bruses against each other. You whisper into the small gap, “Happy Birthday, my love. I’m not too late, am I?” 

“Doesn’t matter when your wish is what makes it worth. I almost thought you forgot” he hums, hands curling up against your neck, urging you to look at him. You crane your head up, meeting those honeyed eyes pooling with a multitude of emotions. 

“Awe you miss me that much? I have been real quiet this year on purpose. Trying something a little different”, you cheekily say, poking your tongue out. Kuroo quirks an eyebrow, “always a step ahead, aren’t you?”  he pecks your forehead while a small whisper of “I love you. Thank you for making this day something to look forward to” grazes over your skin. Your feel the kaleidoscope of butterflies zooming inside your ribcage, for the way his words echoed through the drums of your heart. As if the resonance between his and your heart just created more love to harbour.

"Tetsu", you grab his face, dipping his tall frame downwards to place another kiss. This time between his eyes. Hoping this kiss was equivalent to the million words he said with those gaze a few seconds ago. 

You take his hand, pulling him towards the cake, “now now,  it’s not the time to be all mopey. I fought for this cake and now you get to commemorate this day of high significance”. Kuroo chuckles, you were full of beans indeed. 

To think just a few moments back his thoughts were spiralling, he registers that that how much you being by his side grounds his inner monologue of hidden insecurity. Kuroo is always the epitome of  confident man but the inner cloud of anxiety yet rumbles time to time. Until, your presence acts like the yellowy sunshine after rain, banishing any grey thoughts that dare to delude him. 

“Why such high significance, may I ask?” you roll your eyes, amusement twinkling in your eyes and you answer like this is the most simple question ever, “Because you got to be born and be my boyfriend and then my groom-to-be, duh”, wiggling the left ring finger, you laugh. Shaking his head, he tunes into the peals of laughter with you. He cuts the cake, feeding you a piece before noticing you were still in your coat. 

“Baby, are you that cold? You know you could wait a bit more for your winter cloth haul” he gestures at the neck high coat. You squirm a little. He finally noticed.

“y-yeah, I know. there’s a…reason”, you send a sheepish smile on his way, effectively avoiding his gaze. 

Kuroo reaches towards you, curious at your shift in demeanor. He leans down, meeting your gaze with his ever sharp ones and you found yourself faltering a bit, heartbeat pacing higher than normal. 

“Princess, are you okay? you got a fever?” he runs his hand over your forehead to which you shake your head. Taking his fingers in yours, your fingertips glides over his knuckles. Unable to stall in any longer, you slung your arms around his neck. 

“Actually, I have your gift”, bringing your mouth closer to his ear as you whisper, “right under”, you murmur. His hand is now brought on your lower back, the feel of your skin right underneath the coat, clearly evident. 

Kuroo sucks in a breath, catching on to your innuendo immediately. Palms migrates towards your shoulder blades where he can feel the thin strap and bare skin over the coat. Curiosity killed the cat and now he just got fucking murdered.

“Hmmm? Should’ve said it earlier, princess.” kuroo hums, a mellowy timbre coating his voice. You gulp audibly, anticipating his moves. 

His hands trail over your shoulders, reaching up and stop around the collar of your coat, playing with the top button as he flashes his Cheshire like smile. Demeanor changing from concerned to smug in a flash of light. You keep your eyes on him, heavy breaths escapes your nose and mouth. Kuroo leans forward, his voice now merely a whisper tickling your ears.

“Should I guess what my present is?” he asks coyly. You can feel the teasing glint the words carry.  

“You can open it already, y’know?” your voice had an air of neediness, wanting nothing more than to indulge in his touches and losing yourself in him for the night. 

Kuroo tuts, shaking his head in faux disappointment, “tsk tsk tsk. it’s my present, princess. Let me enjoy it. in my way”. With that, he flicks the button open, his eyes catching a hint of red around your neck. A dark chuckle escapes his throat.

“Red, huh? You surely did some homework before”, another button pops open, this time, the base of your throat open up and a little red ribbon wrapped around the middle like a bow greets him. 

Kuroo felt his heart thrumming loudly, imagining what he could find after fully unbuttoning your coat. The suspense of the act spiking his blood and rushing downwards towards his crotch, he can already feel himself getting hard. God, you really knew how to outdo yourself every single year. 

Kuroo presses a kiss right beside that bow, feeling your erratic pulse against his lips. It curls into a smirk, right against your skin. You tip your head back, eyes closing and hands finding their way to the hem of his shirt. 

“Uh-uh, princess. Not so early.” Kuroo envelopes his hands over yours, before bringing them together behind your back, caging you between his hold. His right hand, once again,  flits back in its previous mission while his left hooks both of yours ; effectively locking them behind your back. “Not until I’m done unwrapping my present”. A kiss plants underneath your ear; the skin tingling with its effect. 

“You sure are taking a hell lot of time” you scorn. Kuroo chortles, popping another button open. This time a part of your sternum peeps out, he can make out the hint of cleavage from the skin exposed. More blood runs downwards and kuroo fights the urge to tear the coat off and bend you against the table to ravage you then and there. 

“Good things take time, princess. Moreover, you seem to enjoy it.” Kuroo muses, his hips roll against yours and you could feel the hardness of his crotch brushing up against your lower belly. “Take this as a punishment for being late to my birthday” he opens another button and the lace cupped cleavage makes their way.

“But it wasn’t my fault.” you pout. You’re so adorable, kuroo thinks. He laughs under his breath before pressing a soft kiss against your cheek. His hands trail over your sternum, dipping down towards the fat of tits spilling out before he ghosts over them ever so slightly, drawing a whine out of you from the untouched touch. 

“Oh but you were…” he drawls, “to think you went outside like this. Being a naughty little girl, are we now, princess?”. You open your mouth to say something  but his lips silences yours. His tongue almost immediately finding its way in your mouth and playing with yours. 

The kiss was sloppy with the way kuroo laps at your top lip, engulfing it in his mouth, saliva smears over your upperlips and drips down your lowers. The steamy makeout session in addition to the his hips grinding against your coat covered crotch leaves you staggering. 

One by one, he unbuttons the whole coat till the end, each time kissing a part of you he passes in the process, to all the way down, where he is kneeling. He looks above to see your figure hugged by this beautiful dark red fabric, only covering the bare necessities. 

He is eye level with your bare thigh, the plush skin adorned by a thin lacy garter, linked to the equally thin panties with a small band of cloth. You feel his hand runs across the back of your thigh, the cool band of your engagement ring gliding smoothly over your skin. The pads of his fingers dip down a little deep when he reaches your almost bare ass. 

“Fuck. what I’d do to you” you hear him murmur against your lace clad thigh. He scrapes his teeth against the fabric, peeling it off and exposing the beautiful skin out. The sharpness of his teeth mingles with the softness of his lips as he sucks and nips at the skin, leaving a purple well of mark around that area. Your breath hitches as you feel the dull throb of the hickey while he continues his ministration all over your inner thighs. 

“We better take this to the room before I end up taking you right here” his teeth still ghosts over your skin, now attaching around the band of your garter, tugging it gently before releasing it back, the elastic smacking your skin, causing a whine to tumble out your throat. His actions causing your pussy clench around the fabric.

He continues his journey up with his mouth before reaching your pussy. The material doing nothing to hide the outline of your cunt and looking closely enough he sees the dampness that is caused by your arousal. His fingers join in, smoothing upwards over the fabric gently. A moan leaves your lips, with the way he is being tantalisingly slow. If you could, you would have shoved his fingers inside. 

“Already wet and I barely did anything, baby. Wait for the real action atleast” his voice sardonic and praising simultaneously. He plants a kiss right over your crotch before trailing upwards. 

“Tetsu, you little-” you whine to which kuroo snickers. He loves you to death but he loves it more than anything when he is edging you and you are writhing and pleading.This is when he gets the chance fill you to brim with pleasure. The power surge he gets from this is immeasurable, when nothing leaves your mouth except his name. 

“What, my darling?” kuroo kisses below your navel, his lips smoothing over the surface with no friction. He peppers your stomach with nips and kisses before reaching under your breasts. A small kiss between the valley of your tits and then he finally rises up. He caresses the sides of your breats before holding you by your waist, squeezing you gently,pulling your figure flush against him. His hardened member now rocking against you with less obstruction. 

Kuroo tugs the coat off of your shoulder and it pools around your ankle, revealing your whole set to your fiance. Kuroo gawks at your figure, as if time stopped its track for him to drink your body with his eyes. 

“God you’re fucking beautiful” his voice low and husk filled. Kuroo peppers kisses on the curve of your shoulders, hiking his lips up into the crevice of your neck, leaving open mouthed kisses trailing towards your jaw.

You have always been the prettiest for him but this colour on you has popped out every feature of yours in the most alluring, elegant way. Kuroo huffs out short breaths as his eyes find it difficult to tear away from you, he eyes you from down to up before his eyes land on that ribbon. 

Oh fuck that ribbon. The way you made yourself like a present, kuroo is positive there isn’t any better gift in the whole planet than the one before his eyes. His lips find you again, passion and lust permeating through the kiss. His hands reach up to your breasts and he gives them a good squeeze. The nipples pert and poking through the cloth against his palm.

He guides your body along with his towards the bedroom without breaking the kiss, stumbling along the way but nonetheless reaching towards the edge of the bed. He pushes you, still connected with your lips, cradling your head before you fall into the heap of soft mattress. His body hovers over yours and one of his knees positions dangerously close to your cunt. 

“We gotta take this off before I tear it and that is the last thing I wanna do” kuroo husks, his hand deftly working their way to take off the top. 

Not that it did anything to cover what’s underneath, yet as he removes the bra and sees your tits spill out, he couldn’t help but take one in his mouth. Fondling the other one with his hand.

The feel of his mouth finally somewhere on you has you teetering on the edge, you let out out a moan. Your hands rake through his ink black locks while he tugs you nipple with his teeth. His knee presses against your almost bare pussy the sensation spikes your insides. 

Your hands reach for his shirt once again, urging him to take it off , to which he obliges but not before remarking something about it. 

“Can’t wait to see me naked, guess I can indulge in your desire a little bit”, you roll your eyes. Smug bastard. You feel him shift downwards, his knees touching the floor while leaving you sprawling on the bed, he adjusts your legs around his shoulders before scooting downwards.

His hands plays around your nipples, twisting and turning while his mouth travels south. He lets his teeth do the work, pulling at the underwear and tugging it off of you, finally letting the sight of your clenched cunt soothe his eyes. The way he keeps a unbreaking eye contact while doing the dirtiest of act makes your arousal seep down your cunt even more. He tugs the panties halfway through before teething at the garter again, slowly dragging it across you skin and pulling it off. 

“Practising for the big day, princess” he grunts, taking them off of you fully. You let out a light croon, even amidst the unholy acts of provocation, the gentle reminder of your promised near future sends you into a blissful train of thought. 

Kuroo’s sharp nip at your inner thigh brings you back. He stares at you with drooping eyes, silently challenging you to not break the contact as he lowers himself over your slit. He licks a stripe of your pussy, the feel of his tongue like millions of fireworks inside your nerves. You silently breath out a gasp while kuroo begins his onslaught of kitten licks over your cunt. Gradually reaching to your clit. He presses a kiss over the nub before capturing it with his mouth, gently sucking on it.

His tongue flicks your now swollen clit as you rock your body, bringing him closer, as if it’s anyways possible. Your mingled sounds of squeals and moans and whines mixes with the soft squelch of his fingers entering you. He prods them gently over your walls, knowing where to stretch and poke to evoke the most raw reaction from you.

“Tetsu…fuck...aah..” your voice are nothing more than little tufts of breaths as he shifts his pace every so often, while never leaving your puffed clit unattended. The alternate of his tongue and fingers works wonders to roll you over the edge. 

“Cum for me, baby” you hear his raspy voice vibrating across your skin, he sloppily makes out with your slit before driving his tongue inside, his face tilts as he tries to reach as deep inside you as he can. The grip of his hands on your thighs tightening. His cock feels heavy and the burning desire to replace it with his tongue flames his inside – but not before he makes you cum like this atleast twice. 

Two of his fingers drum over your clit while his tongue prods inside you. His jaw hurts but nothing matters when he gets to see the expression he draws out of you. Mouth falls open, while your head tips back. Not giving a damn about keeping eye contact because fuck if you could have exploded out of your body, you would. 

Kuroo groans at the irresistible feel of your essence around his tongue, “tastes so good for me”, he hums around your pussy. You could feel the wave of arousal waiting to burst and as you hear the words escape his mouth, your body reacts on accord. Back arches beautifully as you release yourself against kuroo’s lips.

Your mind levitates in the cloud of bliss while you feel Kuroo laps at your essence, the drag of his lips against you too euphoric. to joyful to get down from. But even while being on the daze, you feel Kuroo going at your pussy once again. 

“T-Tetsu…hnnggh”, you can feel the added force that his tongue applies as it drives inside you once again. 

“You thought I’d leave you to come around my tongue only once.” he rasps, his nose brushes against the overstimulated clit. He nuzzled himself against your cunt, his hands reaching over your ass and kneading the soft flesh. You let a wanton moan, too loud for the neighbours to not hear. Kuroo smiles, tongue thrusting inside your cushiony walls even more. 

You could feel your body quivering, preparing itself for another wave of orgasm not long after the previous one. You tug at his hair, your nails scraping against his scalp. Your other hand grabs at your breast to hold onto something. A sight Kuroo savours from behind his bangs that cover his face.

“I’m gonna…” you whine, thighs jolting around his arms while he keeps them locked. “Make a mess around my face, darling. Let go.” Kuroo was getting delirious at your taste. His cock nearly bursting his load in his pants. He rubs against the board of the bed, releasing some friction. He can sense your orgasm looming and naturally, he increases the pace, tumbling you over the edge for the second time. His teeth grazes the clit, giving it some attention before a harsh suckle has you going for the 2nd time that night. 

Your back arches, juices spraying out of your pussy. Kuroo is enthralled seeing you this dirty, this sexy, this sinful. You didn’t hold back  your sounds either, sweet melodies of his name with pleasured moans ringing throughout the room and satisfying Kuroo’s ears as he succeeds in making you spent. 

Not that he intends to stop yet.

Your body is still quivering, the afterwave of the pleasure still gushing inside your body. Kuroo caresses your thighs and hips, coaxing your body to relax. 

“You did so well, my sweet baby. looking gorgeous cumming around my face like that”, kuroo engulfs your mouth, his tongue shoves yours around and you decide to suck the tip of his tongue, relishing in the tangy essence of yours. A moan erupts from the man above as your wrap your hands around his sculpted back, losing yourself in the kiss. 

Kuroo helps you get down from the high before flipping you over. You notice the way he positioned you both, you are right in front of the dressing mirror. 

When did he even do that? 

Kuroo kneads your ass from behind, while another hand grabs your chin to make you look at the mirror. 

“Eyes up there, baby. Watch how I fuck this little pussy into oblivion”, you can feel his clothed cock grinding against your ass. Whimpering, you wiggle back, feeling more of him, causing Kuroo to suck in a breath.

“Behave, darling.” Kuroo lightly smacks your ass, watching the flesh ripple and groaning at the sight. 

You look over your shoulders at him. He looks so broad, the toned sculpture of his long hours at gym and sports really gifted you with a goldy sight. His face flushed with crimson and copper eyes blown out with lust. The contour of his abs to sexy to not gawk 24/7. His sweatpants are already hung low, cock whipped out, hard and swollen. The tip angry with precum dripping down the globes of your ass. You try to shift back, intending to return the favour he generously gave you a while back. 

But Kuroo , not-so-gently puts you back on your position, grabbing your shoulders and pushing you against the sheets. Your ass hiked up more to flash the clenching pussy in the air. The cold draft blowing around your sticky folds making you shiver. 

“Tetsu!” you exclaim, as he starts dragging his length over your folds, adding more of his arousal with yours, the spot lubed and moist for Kuroo to slide right in. 

“What did I say about behaving, princess? Are you looking for to get punished?” his voice dark and menacing, only reserved for you, in the bed. You shake your head, eyes locked with his through the mirror. Your nipples brush against your sheets with the way you are bent, adding more to the sensation.

You try to tug off the red ribbon, not wanting any ounce of fabric on your skin when kuroo grabs your hand, harshly. Hooking it over your back, he hikes your body up a little higher, his cock straight against your fold, the tip hitting snug the clit. His eyes are narrowed, eyes a little menacing, 

“Don’t you dare take that off. This stays on.” his voice low. You mewled an okay, too entranced with the way he looks behind your back to notice his manhandling. 

“That’s my girl”, kuroo hums before sliding inside you with ease. The remnants of previous shenanigans making it easy. Your mouth falls in a O as you feel the ridge of his cock gliding past your walls. With each of his inch bottoming inside you, you let out a moan, voice deliriously filthy. The sounds like a dulcet for him. 

He rams the last of his inch at once, making your body lurch forward. Your face scrunched in a beautiful frown, teeth digging at your lips. Hair falls over your face as you dip your head down to adjust to his size.  Kuroo becomes too busy admiring your features through the mirror. You look like a goddess, a goddess he brought down on her knees before him. 

He was probably too enticed because it wasn’t until the roll of your hips around his pelvis that dragged him down to where he was. “T-tetsu. movee” , he hears your plead. 

“As you say, baby girl.” kuroo starts drilling his cockinside, sliding in and out of you, the head colliding with the gummy walls near your cervix. You were pushed forward with the intensity of his thrust yet the feeling of his prominent vein grinding inside your wall was too heavenly to complain.

It was him and you, intertwined with each other, knocking the door of lust but beneath it was promises of love.  

The grip of his fingers around your hip was deathly. It sure is gonna leave a dent. Kuroo grunts and groans as he watches the base of cock froth with both of your juices. The squelching sound everytime he enters you fills the room along with the slaps of the skin. 

You could feel his balls hitting you right above the clit, light strokes against them making you dizzy . His hands snakes around your stomach, reaching your clit. He takes the nub between his two fingers, rolling them around and pinches it. You squeal at his actions, back bending away from him, but the grip of his arm around keeps you flush. 

“Your pussy is made right for me. Almost made me bust a nut the moment I slid my cock inside, sh-shit. so fucking tight and clenching” , his words are so vile, yet so sweet to hear. He bends down, back flush with his chest as he presses a hoard of kisses around your nape and shoulders. Suckling the skin and leaving out purple marks in its wake. 

“Tetsu..more…you feel so good against me” you cry, eyes rolling with the way he is snapping his hips against yours. The constant assault over your g-spot inside and the clit outside once again announces the impending avalanche. 

“More you say? Greedy girl.” he rasps before hoisting you up, one hand still playing with your clit while the other finding your left breast. 

Cupping the whole fat of it, he squeezes the mound hard. His hips unrelenting with their strokes. The bed creaks from the sudden movement. The headboard banged against the wall once. Now the neighbours are definitely gonna know.

“So fucking beautiful. Truly the best gift ever, princess. I love you so much”,  you turn sideways to face him, his molten amber eyes mirroring the heart eyes you are sending him across. 

You capture his lips in a soft kiss, your hands reaching his face to cradle the sides and pulling the front tufts a little. Vibrations of hums and moans share between you two in the kiss, while both your bodies work on their own accord. The golden light of the  lamp falls over your skin, the golden iridescence  reflecting of your skin makes you nothing less than a fallen angel. The halo like glow of your body makes Kuroo's heart gallop loudly. Makes him wonder how he managed to find someone as perfect as you are.

“Look at the mirror. See how ethereal you look while taking me like that. God really took time while making you” , you chuckle at his cheesy words. No matter how dominant he acts in bed, at the end it was still your dorky, corny Tetsu. 

You zero in the way he fucks you, the outline of his cock visible as he drills into you. A dragged moan fills the air. kuroo kisses around your temple, his thrusts erratically hits you, losing rhythm. You realise he’s close, so you arch your back, feeling more of him inside. Fucking himself inside you. 

Kuroo hisses at the act, his fingers pinching your clit in return. Your walls clamp around his shaft, making him lose all the threads he had been holding onto ever since he buried his face in your cunt.  

“Shit, baby...take me…take all of it. Let's cum together”, his babbles choking in his throat as he thrusts in you one last time before warm ropes of his cum fills your pussy. You came around the same time, pooling his thighs with hot, sticky mess. 

He kisses you throughout the high, a level of euphoria never felt before. He realises he didn’t use any condom today neither did you retorted against it. Kuroo slides out of you, your cunt clenches from the lack of his heavy cock. He gently lays you down, bringing a wet towel and cleaning off the spilled cum from your thighs and his. Your face beams with the post-coital bliss as you spread your arms over your head, breathing heavily. 

“You good?”, kuroo asks, his voice regaining the gentle hold back. You nod, closing your eyes and relaxing yourself. 

“If I knew you’d go this crazy over a lingerie set, I’d have thought it through before buying.” you breathily say, seeing Kuroo’s face turn a little red. The debauchery dawning on him a little.

“You could wear an overalls over a trash bag and I’d still fuck you the same. It’s you who’s this hot”, Kuroo plants a sloppy kiss on your cheek, his hands smoothing your hair. He scoots you over, finding himself a space beside, pulling you against his side. His fingers work through your scalp while you find warmth in his body.

The comfortable setting almost lulling you to sleep before you lurch up, face palming yourself. Kuroo sits back, concerned at your sudden leap, while you look at him with guilty eyes.

“I forgot your actual gift at home, while being too excited for this one.”, you hide your face between your palm, whining and falling back on his chest. A hearty laughter rolls out of Kuroo at your state while he rubs your shoulders. His mind already bent on to tease you.  

“Wanna suck me off to balance that out?” kuroo sends a sly grin your way, his voice holding a glint of tease but really not expecting you to wallow in.

To his surprise, you part away from his chest, face filled with a challenging gleam. Without any words, you straddle him, holding his cock by the base. A dopey smile spreading all over your face. 

“Say less. I’ve been meaning to do that since forever.”

a.n-> aint nobody leaving the house without giving him a sloppy. if tags dont work and it flops then im giving him an even intense sloppy

comments, likes, reblogs are appreciated

tagging : @stsgluver , @kuroosexuall @shotorus + @satoruhour @hannzai @tetzoro @mrs-kurooo @quirrrky @pastelle-rabbit @planetnini @selarina @sookisaurus @itadorey @utahimeow @this-is-still-mia @kamorikiri @shoyostar @screampied-main

[shidouryusm]

Watching Dan Da Dan and I love it.

[shidouryusm]

[shidouryusm]

To anyone in my mutual, followers list who are in Florida rn. My thoughts and prayers go out for you. May Almighty keeps you safe.

If anyone is aware of any relief funds for the affected post flood. Do kindly let me know!

Stay safe!

[shidouryusm]