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Tooru hadn’t expected kissing Hajime to be this good.
It’s never been bad, with others. It’s been perfectly nice, even. It just hasn’t been this good, and Tooru is unprepared for it all: for Hajime’s weight holding him down, his hands running up Tooru’s body, tangling into Tooru’s hair; his soft breath against Tooru’s, his low hum when Tooru does something he likes.
Maybe Tooru is just unprepared for the fact that it’s Hajime.
He doesn’t know how long it’s been, but it’s long enough that his mouth buzzes pleasantly. He’s warm, body heavy with lazy arousal. When Hajime hints at pulling back, Tooru grabs his head to keep him in place, a small noise of discontent falling out. He slides his hand down Hajime’s neck, cupping his jaw, thumbs pressing into his cheeks. Their mouths move together, and when Hajime flicks his tongue across Tooru lips, a gasp escapes. Tooru can’t tell whose it is.
Hajime uses it as an opportunity—licks into Tooru’s mouth, pressing closer, closer, closer, pressing him further into the couch.
Tooru whines in the back of his throat, eyes fluttering open. Arousal zings through him, making him restless; he grasps Hajime’s face harder, drawing him in. This time, when Hajime pulls back, Tooru lets him, if only so he can breathe. Open-mouthed, he pants, mouth wet; the fact that it isn’t just his own spit should be grossing him out.
Tooru’s never been more turned on in his life.
“You’re red,” Tooru murmurs, thumb swiping across the warmth on Hajime’s cheeks. “Are you embarrassed, Iwa-chan?” With a featherlight touch, he traces the shape of Hajime’s lips. When Hajime’s tongue flickers out to catch the tip of his finger, his breath hitches, gut clenching.
Fuck. He’s hard. He throws a panicked look into Hajime’s eyes on instinct, wondering if he’s noticed, but Hajime’s just staring at him, pupils blown, hair a mess.
His voice is scratchy when he speaks. “Shut up. You’re the one who looks like a fucking tomato right now.”
“A hot tomato.” It’ll go away soon, Tooru’s sure. He just has to wait it out and make sure Hajime doesn’t notice.
“An annoying tomato.”
Neither of them raise their voices. Tooru wonders if Hajime’s following his lead, or if he’s feeling it, too—the way everything feels suspended. As if raising his voice would shatter it, somehow; would bring time rushing back in.
“So you like kissing tomatoes? That’s embarrassing, Iwa-chan.”
Hajime’s quiet, scanning Tooru’s face. He shifts, thighs settling further across Tooru’s lap. With a steady hand, he brushes some of Tooru’s hair back, huffing when the strands fall right back into place.
“I like kissing you,” he mutters, ears so, so red; he won’t look at Tooru as he says it.
Tooru feels as if he’s been struck, and he lets out an embarrassing squeak he’ll never admit to making, ever. Before he can say anything else, Hajime’s leaning in, capturing his mouth. Whatever retort Tooru was trying to muster—the first being Don’t, because Hajime can’t just say stuff like that; it’s unfair—is swallowed up, and Tooru can’t bring himself to pull away to try and speak.
Hajime shifts forward, settling further into Tooru’s lap, and that’s when it happens: he brushes up against the bulge in Tooru’s pants.
It’s like a jolt, making him jerk in Hajime’s hold, hands tightening in his hair. His head falls back as he gasps, squeezing his eyes shut.
“Oh.”
Tooru keeps his eyes closed because he doesn’t want to see what face Hajime’s making. Warmth floods his cheeks. “It’s—it’ll go away.” If this makes Hajime get up, he’s going to kill something. Probably his dick.
They’d agreed to take it slow, dammit. Why didn’t his cock get the memo?
“Hey. Look at me.”
Tooru pries open an eye and then closes it when he sees the smug, amused look on Hajime’s face. “Shut up,” he whines.
It’s why he doesn’t expect Hajime to roll his hips, bearing down.
Electricity zips up his spine as his eyes fly open, a warbling, “Oh,” torn from him. When Hajime does it again, Tooru grabs onto his hips, mouth parted around a shocked, “Iwa-chan.” He can’t bring himself to force Hajime’s hips still, though.
Hajime’s eyes are half-lidded, scrutinizing, his head tilted. Slow, deliberate, he rolls his hips again, harder.
Tooru resists the urge to hide, biting his lip. Stops resisting when Hajime keeps moving and brings up his arms, crossing them over his eyes. He can’t seem to stop the weak little noises from escaping even as he bites down harder.
“No,” Hajime breathes, tangling their fingers together and pulling Tooru’s arms away; positions them around Hajime’s neck, instead. “Don’t hide.”
Tooru’s eyes are wide, and he grips Hajime’s nape to ground himself. He can’t control the way his hips jerk up, the way his gut keeps winding tighter and tighter.
“Iwa-chan,” he gasps, and Hajime groans as he closes the distance between them, panting against Tooru’s mouth every time they part.
“Like that?” Hajime asks, kissing across Tooru’s jaw. “Feel good?”
Tooru lets out a tight-lipped Mmhmm, hands dragging down Hajime’s back to cling onto his hips; uses his strength to tug, and Hajime chokes on Tooru’s name as he falls forward, head nestling into the crook of Tooru’s neck.
“Yes,” Tooru babbles, “yes, yes, yes. Feels good, Iwa-chan.”
Hajime’s breath fans against his neck, and he feels Hajime’s moan against his skin. When Hajime’s teeth latch onto the spot right behind Tooru’s ear, Tooru bucks up. For a split second, he imagines Hajime’s mouth on him—imagines Hajime looking up at him through his lashes as he swallows him down. Imagines Hajime fucking into him, needy and desperate. Would he sound like this? Would he kiss Tooru like this?
Tooru wrenches Hajime’s head back just to kiss him, teeth clashing almost painfully before Tooru bites down on Hajime’s lip, soothing it with his tongue.
“You’d feel so good in me,” he whimpers, “feel so good with your mouth on me.” His breath leaves him in harsh pants, movements getting jerkier. “You’d make it good for me, wouldn’t you?”
“Oh, god,” Hajime says hoarsely, “yeah, yes, I would, I would.” He slips a hand under Tooru’s shirt, nails dragging up his torso, and flattens it against Tooru’s chest, where Tooru’s heart beats hummingbird fast.
Half of Tooru is convinced it’ll beat right out of his chest and right into Hajime’s palm—but isn’t that where it already resides? Tooru had given his heart away before he’d learned to guard it; Hajime has cared for it so well, Tooru’s never needed to. Never from him.
“Iwa-chan,” he pleads, voice thick. “Iwa-chan, need you—” He doesn’t know how to end the sentence, so he doesn’t; all he knows is that he needs.
Hajime understands, anyway—better than Tooru ever has. He nods, nosing against Tooru’s jaw, his cheek. Seeks out his lips, and Tooru moans into his mouth. “C’mon,” he whispers, tweaking Tooru’s nipple. “Tooru. C’mon.”
“Oh, fuck,” Tooru sobs, squeezing his eyes shut as he shudders apart, but he forces them open to catch the way Hajime’s looking at him—as if he’s all that exists, as if he’s all Hajime wants.
Tooru slips his hands into the waistband of Hajime’s pants, palming his ass, encouraging his movements even as overstimulation starts to set in. Relaxing against the couch, he drops a sweet kiss against the corner of Hajime’s mouth; sighs, even sweeter, “Hajime. Please?”
Hajime bites out, “Fuck,” and jerks against Tooru, rolling his hips a couple more times before he slumps forward, head resting on Tooru’s shoulder.
Tooru catches his breath, dropping soft kisses against whatever part of Hajime he can reach. After a while, he pokes at Hajime’s head when there’s no answering movement. “Are you dead? Did I kill you?”
“As if. Don’t flatter yourself,” Hajime grumbles, but he still hasn’t moved.
“Is Iwa-chan tired?” Tooru coos. “You did all that hard work—”
“Shut up. I’m not.” It’s muffled against Tooru’s shoulder. When Tooru laughs, Hajime bites down.
“Did—did you just bite me?” Tooru asks, blinking at Hajime.
Hajime sends him a glare softened by drowsiness. “You didn’t complain before.”
While Tooru’s busy spluttering out defenses, Hajime nestles his head further into Tooru’s neck. It drains the fight out of him, and instead he says, soft, “I’m giving you two minutes before we have to get up. This is gross. You’re gross.”
“You’re gross.”
“Yeah, because of you.” He gives Hajime the most platonic teammate back-slap he can muster. “Good job, team.”
Hajime’s quiet for a beat. “Okay, we’re done.” He pushes off Tooru.
Tooru whines and pulls him back in, laughing. “No, no. I’m sorry.” He waits until Hajime’s relaxed again before saying, “Horrible job, team. We need more practice—no, don’t go, Iwa-chan!” He crushes Hajime into his body and sing-songs, “I’m not letting go.”
As Hajime’s struggling dissolves into laughter, he thinks, Never letting go.