come here often?

you’re tucked against lyca’s chest, his arm slung loosely around you, while your head rests just below his collarbone where you can hear his heartbeat — a little too erratic to be considered normal. it catches you off guard — the idea that he might be nervous too — and just like that, your own pulse picks up to match. neither of you is used to this yet — the closeness, the quiet ease of just being held. you're both still shy about it, still learning where you're allowed to lean in. so his arm finding you twenty minutes ago, sudden and wordless, had caught you both by surprise. you'd settled into it anyway, surprising yourself with how easy it felt.

he's had no such luck settling.

every nerve in his body feels like it's been turned up too loud — the press of you against his side, the heat soaking through his shirt where you're touching him, the quiet rhythm of your breathing he's tracking more than he means to. he's not even sure why he did it, pulling you in like that. one second you'd been close, and the next his arm had just moved, faster than the rest of him agreed to, and now you're here, settled against him so easily it almost hurts, and he can't get his pulse to behave about any of it.

you tip your head back to look up at him, hair messy from being pressed into his chest. "you're so stiff. you good?"

he is, decidedly, not good.

from this angle, he can see all of you up close — hair tousled a little too perfectly to be fair, the way your eyelashes flutter when you blink up at him. his eyes catch on to your glossy lips before he can stop them and stay there a beat too long.

god, she's pretty, he thinks, and hates how simple the thought is. right behind it, just as unwelcome — i really want to kiss her.

"lyca?"

his name pulls him back. he realizes he's been staring. "i'm fine," he says, too fast, voice catching somewhere it shouldn't.

"you don't sound fine."

"i am." he isn't. he can feel his own face heating up, the warmth crawling up his neck, and he knows — knows — that if you look any closer you're going to see exactly what's wrong with him, which is that he is currently fighting a losing battle against the urge to kiss you stupid right here on his bed and has no idea how to stop thinking about it.

you shift slightly to look at him properly, and that's when you notice them — his ears poking through his hair, alert and twitching.

you reach up without thinking, fingers grazing one gently. "your ears are out."

he jolts like you've shocked him, one hand flying up to cover them, too late. "they're not — don't touch them."

"i barely touched it."

"doesn't matter." his voice has gone strange, tight with emotion. he won't look at you, eyes fixed somewhere over your head like he can’t bear to meet your lingering gaze.

you wait him out. it takes a while — long enough that you can feel his heartbeat climbing under your ear, his breathing a little too measured, like he's counting it on purpose. you can practically feel the war going on in him, the hesitation between say it or swallow it down like you always do. you don't rush him, choosing to let him ruminate for as long as he needs.

"i—" he starts, and stops immediately, like the word got too big in his mouth. he tries again. "it's just—,"

"take your time."

that doesn't seem to help. if anything it makes it worse, his jaw working like he's chewing on the words before he can let any of them out. he tries again, "i wanna—," another stop, more frustrated this time, like he's furious at his own mouth for not cooperating. "i want—, ugh." he drags a hand down his face. "this is so stupid."

"it's not stupid."

"you don't even know what i'm tryin' to say."

"then tell me."

he goes quiet again, and for a second you think he's going to give up entirely, fold the whole thing back down and pretend it never started. but then, in a rush, like ripping off a bandage before he can think better of it —

"i wanna kiss you," he says, all in one breath, too fast, like saying it slow would've made him lose his nerve halfway through. the second it's out his whole face goes redder, like he can't believe he actually said it, can't take it back now that it's hanging there in the air between you. his eyes finally find yours — just for a second, just long enough for you to see exactly how much that cost him — before immediately dropping again. "i don't know what to do," he adds, smaller, almost apologetic, like he needs you to understand that part too.

something in your chest goes warm and a little reckless, spreading slow and insistent, the kind of warmth that makes you very aware of your own heartbeat, of how close you already are, of how little distance there'd actually be to close. you'd be lying if you said you hadn't thought about this — hadn't caught yourself watching his mouth more than once, wondering what it'd feel like, what sound he'd make, whether he'd be as careful with you as he is with everything else he's scared of breaking.

"lyca."

"forget it. forget i said anything—,"

"then let me teach you."

that stops his downward spiral. his ears flick, betraying him again — caught somewhere between the fear of ruining this and hoping, just maybe, you want this too. "teach me?" he repeats, like he doesn't trust the words to be real, like they might dissolve if he holds them wrong.

"mhm." you shift to face him properly, drawing one knee onto the mattress so you're angled toward him instead of tucked against his side, and you feel him go rigid at the small distance you've just put between your bodies — not from relief, you realize, but from missing the contact already. "unless you'd rather keep panicking about it."

"i wasn't panicking—,"

"your ears say otherwise."

he makes a sound that's almost a laugh, almost a growl, somewhere in between, and something about the rawness of it — unguarded, helpless — makes your pulse pick up too. you're not as unaffected as you're pretending to be, and some traitorous, observant part of him probably already knows that.

"...okay." his voice has dropped, rougher at the edges. "yeah. teach me."

the air between you feels different now — thicker, charged, like the moment right before a held breath finally has to break. you can hear how careful his breathing's gotten, like he's trying to keep it slow on purpose and failing.

"first," you murmur, "you have to actually look at me. not the floor."

his eyes snap up. properly this time — all his attention landing on your face like it weighs something, like he's finally letting himself want this out loud instead of just feeling it in private. the panic underneath it is still humming, but it's pinned now, overtaken by something hungrier, something neither of you can name just yet.

"better." you lift your hand slow enough that he can track every inch of it, giving him every chance to flinch away, and rest it against his jaw. he doesn't flinch. he goes very still instead, like moving might break whatever fragile thing is happening here, his pulse visible at his throat, fast and unsteady. "you can touch me too, you know."

his hand finds your waist on its own, tentative, like he's not sure he's allowed but wants to anyway. you take it gently and press it flatter against you, showing him it's fine, and feel the way his breath stutters at the confirmation.

the space between you has all but disappeared. you can feel the heat radiating off him, can hear how shallow his breathing's gone, can see the way his gaze keeps dropping to your mouth and snapping back up, over and over, like he can't help it and hates that he can't.

"this is the easy part," you say, voice quieter now, barely above a murmur. "lean in slow. i'll meet you halfway."

"and if i mess it up?"

"you won't. there's no wrong way to do this."

he searches your face like he's looking for the catch, the moment this turns out to be a joke at his expense. he doesn't find one — just you, waiting, just as unsteady as he is even if you're better at hiding it. something in him settles, finally, the fight draining out of his shoulders, and his ears — still standing straight up, still giving away every single thing he's feeling — twitch once more before he closes the last of the distance.

the kiss is clumsy and tentative, his lips barely settling against yours like he's afraid you'll vanish if he presses too hard, like this whole moment might be something he imagined and pressing harder would prove it. you meet him the rest of the way, soft, unhurried, your hand still cradling his jaw to keep him steady, and you feel the full-body shudder that runs through him at the contact — like he's been holding himself together by sheer will and this is the first crack in it. he exhales hard against your mouth, surprised, undone, like he genuinely hadn't let himself believe this would feel as good as it does.

when you pull back, just barely, his eyes stay closed a second too long before they open, dazed and a little wrecked already.

"...oh." he says simply, as if he’s just realised what’s just transpired.

"yeah." you're smiling — can't help it, can feel your own heart going much too fast for someone who's supposed to be the one in control here. "not so bad after all."

"again." he's smiling too, lopsided, ears flushed pink at the tips, the rawness of wanting still sitting plain across his face like he's forgotten how to hide it. "i wanna make sure i've got it."

"such a good student."

that gets him — properly gets him, his whole face going red all over again, ears flicking like they don't know where to put themselves. "shut — don't say it like that," he mutters, flustered all over, refusing to meet your eyes even as he's already leaning back in to kiss you again, like complimenting him and teasing him are somehow the same unbearable thing.

he kisses you like he's testing the shape of it, then like he's sure of it, his hand sliding from your waist to the small of your back to pull you in closer, like the space between you earlier never made sense to him at all, like he can't fathom why he ever let there be distance between you in the first place. you feel the low sound he makes against your mouth, something rough and pleased, half a growl he didn't mean to let slip, and it does something to you, hearing him lose that much composure over something this simple.

with a little more confidence now, emboldened by how badly you want this too, you let your tongue trace gently along his bottom lip — just a question, not a demand. he freezes for half a second, startled, before his mouth falls open on a shaky breath, letting you in, like he'd give you anything you asked for in this exact moment. he tastes faintly like the fruity concoction rui begged him to try earlier, and underneath that, something warmer, something that's just him, and you find yourself chasing it without quite meaning to.

"is this—," he starts, breaking just enough to get the words out, voice thick with desire, rougher than you've ever heard it, "is this still teachin', or—,"

"does it matter?"

"...no." he pulls you back in before you've even finished answering, hungrier this time, like the question answered itself the second he asked it, like he's done pretending this was ever just a lesson.

you're not sure when you ended up closer, knees bracketing his lap, but you're there now, and he doesn't seem to mind at all — his hands settle at your hips, gripping like he needs something to hold onto to stay upright, like you're the only solid thing left in a room that's stopped making sense. his ears are still up, twitching every time you shift against him, utterly unable to hide a single thing he's feeling. every gasp, every hitch of breath, broadcast straight through them, more honest than anything he'd ever say out loud.

the kiss turns slower, deeper, less like teaching now and more like neither of you has any intention of stopping. you feel his hands flex at your waist, hesitant, like he wants to pull you closer still but isn't sure if that's allowed yet either, like some part of him still can't quite believe he's allowed to want this much.

"it’s okay," you breathe against his mouth, answering the question he hasn't asked, giving him the permission he's too nervous to ask for outright.

he doesn't need telling twice. he pulls you flush against him, the new closeness pulling a quiet, helpless noise out of him that he immediately seems embarrassed by — you can feel the heat of his blush even with your eyes closed, can feel how badly he's trying and failing to stay composed. he kisses you like he's trying to make up for years of not knowing how, clumsy in places, devastatingly sincere in all of them, his nose bumping yours once before he adjusts, getting better at this by the second, learning the give and pull of it like it's the only thing worth knowing right now.

when you finally break apart to breathe, you're both a dishevelled mess — lips swollen, his hair mussed where your fingers found it, his ears still standing straight up, refusing to settle.

you reach up and touch one gently, the same way you had earlier, feeling it twitch under your fingers. "cute," you muse out loud.

he goes instantly, helplessly red, ducking his head like he can hide in the space between your shoulder and his own embarrassment. "don't say that."

"why not? it's true."

"'cause—," he groans, muffled, forehead dropping against your shoulder now. "they're not gonna go down if you keep doin' that."

a teasing smile pulls at your kiss-swollen lips, "maybe i don't want them to."

he lifts his head just enough to look at you, cheeks flushed while his ears still stand tall and unable to hide a single thing he's feeling. he doesn't pull away from your hand. if anything he tips his head slightly into it, like some part of him has already given up on fighting how much he likes this.

"you're doin' this on purpose," he mutters, but it's quiet, almost fond, no fight left in it at all.

"maybe."

"...'s not fair." but he doesn't move your hand away, just lets you keep petting at the soft fur, lets himself have it, before he leans in and kisses you again anyway — and for someone who didn't know what to do twenty minutes ago, he's turning out to be a remarkably fast learner.

pervy!bestfriend!subaru who is your most trusted friend. you’re completely oblivious to his not-so-subtle feelings for you or the way his slacks tighten uncomfortably whenever you’re around (which is always!)

pervy!bestfriend!subaru who practically has hearts for eyes when you direct your pretty little smile at him.

pervy!bestfriend!subaru who fantasises about you every second of every day. the moment he’s alone, he’ll palm his cock to the thought of you. his mind settles on the memory of you looking at him so sweetly, eyes wide with wonder, a flush staining your cheeks as you listen to him ramble. but it quickly devolves into one of his fantasies — your face twisted in pleasure, begging for him.

pervy!bestfriend!subaru who feels so guilty afterwards he can barely look in your general direction but that doesn’t stop his body from reacting the way it wants (read as: popping a boner at the mere thought of you.)

pervy!bestfriend!subaru who is so obsessed with you that the lingering scent of your shampoo whenever you hang out only serves to drive him more insane. he buys himself a bottle to use so he can feel closer to you.

pervy!bestfriend!subaru who has no idea you want him as much as he wants you.

pervy!bestfriend!subaru who doesn’t know what to do when your hand lingers on his thigh one night, each brush of your fingers bringing him closer and closer to bursting.

pervy!bestfriend!subaru who practically melts under your touch, unable to bite back the shaky sigh he breathes out.

pervy!bestfriend!subaru who nervously stumbles over his words, “w-what’re you doing?” and you can’t help but to giggle at him, “jus’ touching you, wanna touch me?”

pervy!bestfriend!subaru who can’t believe his lucky stars that you’re allowing him to touch you. his hands are shaky as they roam your body, unable to settle on what he should play with first.

pervy!bestfriend!subaru who decides he needs to have a taste of your sweet little pussy — pulling your legs over his shoulders so he can dive right in. when you moan out “suba—!” he prematurely cums in his pants.

pervy!bestfriend!subaru who blushes when you say, “you’re so cute, suba.” it makes his heart flutter wildly, hope blossoming in his chest that maybe he can have you in all the ways he’s dreamed of.

pervy!bestfriend!subaru who almost cries when he sinks in your sloppy pussy for the first time from overstimulation. he’s panting into your neck, pressing wet kisses down the length of your throat like he can’t get enough.

pervy!bestfriend!subaru who can’t stop talking — “i’ve thought about this f’so long.” “you’re so tight f’me, feels so good.” “i love you—i love you so much.”

“bed. now.”

you don’t get the chance to obey the command before jin is tugging you towards his king-sized bed by your wrist — surprisingly gentle in spite of his sour mood.

“bend over and spread your legs.” his jaw is tight with frustration as he directs you, not wasting a single second as he loosens the tie around his neck and pops open the two highest buttons on his freshly pressed shirt.

a startled yelp escapes you when you feel his slender fingers creep under your skirt, tugging your panties down the soft flesh of your thighs until they sat at the bend of your knees. you gasp out his name, “what’s gotten into you?”

he huffs out a short, unamused laugh. “what’s gotten into me?” he repeats, sarcasm coating his voice. “i should be the one asking you that question.”

without so much as a warning, his palm comes down on your ass — not hard enough to hurt, but sharp enough to draw a gasp from your throat that gets swallowed by the duvet beneath you.

“you think i didn’t notice?” his voice is low as his hand drags up the back of your plush thigh before settling possessively on your hip. jin has to clench his teeth as the image resurfaces uninvited — tohma pulling you aside like it was second nature, an easy smile pulled at his lips as he spoke, your own lips curled into that cute grin that jin has absolutely no business knowing as well as he does — “the way you were smiling at everything he said. the way you looked at him.”

“jin, we were just talking—,”

“i know.” the admission comes out clipped, almost frustrated with itself, like he’d rather not be having this conversation at all. his grip on your hip tightens, “that’s what bothers me.”

his confession sits heavy in the air for a moment — and something about it makes your chest ache in a way it shouldn’t, not with him, not with whatever this arrangement between you is supposed to be. you’ve always been careful not to want more than what jin offers. you’ve always been so careful.

then his weight presses into you, his chest flush against your back, and thinking becomes considerably harder.

his lips brush the side of your neck first — barely there, almost tender — before his teeth follow, not gentle, deliberately so, marking territory he has no formal claim to. his hands roam over your disheveled uniform with an unhurried familiarity that makes heat pool low in your stomach, pushing your shirt open button by button before his palms slide up your sides and pull your bra aside to cup your breasts, weighing them like he has all the time in the world.

he thumbs at your nipples until they pebble under his touch and a soft sound escapes you into the sheets.

he does it again, more deliberately, and your whine of his name seems to satisfy something in him.

his mouth drags down the side of your neck as his hands continue their exploration — one rolling your nipple between two fingers until your back arches involuntarily, the other smoothing back down your stomach, tracing the curve of your waist like he’s mapping something he wants to memorize. he takes his time with it, more time than usual, and you realize distantly that this is intentional. that he’s being thorough in a way that has nothing to do with efficiency and everything to do with whatever is sitting unresolved in his chest.

it’s different from other nights, you think. something in the way he’s touching you — less like habit and more like want. you don’t know what to do with that. so you let it wash over you and say nothing.

his free hand slips beneath your skirt, sliding between your thighs to stroke your slippery folds until you’re twitching beneath him. “already?” he murmurs, and the quiet satisfaction in his voice makes your face burn.

he works you open with focused patience — two fingers pressing inside while his thumb circles your puffy clit, drawing out sounds you’d be embarrassed by if you had the presence of mind to care. your hips roll back against his hand without permission and he lets you, says nothing, just maintains that devastating rhythm as you come apart in increments against his hand, your fingers twisting in the sheets, his name falling out of you in pieces. he curls his fingers and you cry out, and he does it again, and again, until you’re trembling and slick and barely holding yourself upright.

only then does he pull his hand away. you hear the quiet drag of his belt and the brief rustle of fabric. “jin,” you manage, breathless and needy, “please—,”

“please what.” it isn’t a question. he grips your hips and pulls them back against him, lining himself up with an excruciating slowness that contradicts every frantic thing about the last ten minutes. “use your words.”

“i want you.”

he pushes in — slow, all the way, until he’s buried to the hilt and your breath is stolen entirely — and holds there for one torturous moment with his forehead dropped against the back of your neck. for a moment he just breathes, uneven in a way that jin never is, his lips resting against your skin like he’s grounding himself.

like he needs a second. like this is something more than what it’s supposed to be. your throat tightens with something you refuse to name.

then he starts to move.

the pace he sets is punishing, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, each thrust punctuated by the soft sounds you can’t keep from making no matter how hard you press your face into the mattress. one hand slides up your spine and tangles in your hair, pulling your head back so your back arches — there, his rhythm stutters for just a moment when you clench around him, something in his composure finally fracturing.

his lips find the curve of your neck, your shoulder, pressing open and warm against your skin between ragged breaths — and that undoes you more than anything else. jin, who is always so composed, always so precise, coming apart quietly against you like you’re something worth unraveling for.

“say it,” he grits out, quiet and urgent against your skin.

“yours,” you breathe. “i’m—yours, jin—,”

his grip tightens. something in his exhale comes undone.

“mine,” he agrees, and it comes out like something he didn’t intend to say out loud — unguarded, unpolished, nothing like him — and you file it away somewhere tender and private, right next to every other thing about tonight that has felt dangerously close to real.

afterwards he gathers you against his chest in the dark, his arm settled around your waist, his breath slowing against your hair. it’s never been part of the arrangement. you’ve both always known where the lines are.

but his hold on you is quiet and certain, and he presses his lips once to the top of your head — barely there, almost accidental — and doesn’t pull away.

neither do you.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

elias has never once hesitated to indulge your whims — from stolen kisses in dusty closets to letting you talk him into whatever happens to catch your interest. it’s just how he is with you, has always been; utterly incapable of saying no when it’s you doing the asking.

he’s reminded of the conversation you had only hours before. “c’mon, pretty please?” your lips had curved into that pout he’s never once been able to resist, eyes wide and hopeful in that way you probably knew was unfair. he’d taken one look at you and felt every intention of arguing dissolve completely.

“it’ll be fun,” you promised sweetly, “i promise.” and he’d believed you, because he always believes you, because you’ve never once given him a reason not to.

and somehow, that was all it took.

what he hadn’t expected was how completely undone he’d feel.

his face is contorted in bliss, brows furrowed deeply as another string of moans escapes him. he hadn’t expected this — hadn’t expected to feel so much, so fast, hadn’t expected to lose himself so entirely. there is nothing left of him that is composed or guarded or careful. there is only this. only you.

“please—,” he doesn’t even know what he’s begging for, the word falling out of him half formed and desperate, but you seem to catch on — you always catch on — and he squeezes his eyes shut when your thrusts reach the deepest parts of him, successfully hitting that sweet spot that has him seeing stars.

“you’re taking me s’good, baby.” you murmur, and the gentleness in it wrecks him just as thoroughly as each devastating thrust, letting him feel every ridge and curve of your strap.

sweat beads at his forehead, cheeks flushed with warmth as he struggles to keep his half-lidded gaze trained on you. he watches the way you rock your hips to a synchronised rhythm he can’t hear, head feeling fuzzy as the coil in his stomach tightens.

without so much as a warning you wrap a hand around his leaky cock, stroking in time with each motion of your hips. it pulls a broken wail from his throat, “‘m sensitive—!” he cries out but it doesn’t deter you — smearing his slick down his length in quick strokes.

you lean down to press a open mouthed kiss to his mouth, tasting his tongue. elias groans into the kiss, tears staining his cheeks as the beginnings of overstimulation starts to crash into him.

“c’mon, cum f’me.” you pant into his mouth, and your hand cups his jaw and keeps him there, keeps him with you, and that’s what does it — not just the feeling but the fact that you want to see him, want to hold his gaze through it, want to be the thing he’s looking at when he goes over the edge.

his dick twitches in your palm as he finally comes undone, his whole body trembling with the force of it, and your name falls from his lips like it’s the only word he has left.

“that’s it,” you murmur. “good boy.”

the aftershocks ripple through him slowly, his muscles going lax one by one, and he sinks into the mattress feeling hollowed out in the best possible way. wrung out and warm and completely, utterly at peace.

you collapse on top of him and he feels you exhale — long and satisfied — and it makes his chest ache sweetly.

“fun, right?” you ask after a moment, voice still a little breathless, face warm against his neck.

he huffs a breath that’s almost a laugh. almost, because he doesn’t quite have the energy for a full one yet. “yeah,” he admits. “very.”