#smashed fig

because unlike makki, iwaizumi doesn’t immediately start laughing.

there’s just... a pause.

then hajime’s voice, low and normal and totally unaware of the crime scene he has stepped into. “you busy?”

issei looks directly at you.

you shake your head at him in horror and delight.

he licks his lips.

“little bit.”

“then why’d you answer?”

“’cause you called. i’m polite, iwa.”

“you sound weird.”

issei hums, and his thumb slides back over you, slow enough to make your legs tense.

you bite down on your knuckle.

“do i?”

another pause.

oh, hajime knows now.

you can hear the exact second he knows. the silence changes shape. gets heavier. more aware.

“... matsukawa.”

“yeah?”

“are you fucking around right now?”

issei’s smile is lazy and lethal.

“technically, my mouth’s occupied.”

you make the worst sound into your hand.

hajime goes dead silent.

not scandalised loud like oikawa. not delighted loud like makki.

silent.

issei’s brows lift like he’s fascinated.

then, with the calm of a man setting down a drink, he taps speaker and lays the phone flat on your stomach.

the cool edge of it makes you twitch.

you choke on a laugh, which turns into a gasp when he slides two fingers back into you, slow and deliberate.

“oh my god,” you breathe.

the phone is right there. resting on your stomach, speaker up, close enough that every little broken sound you make has nowhere to hide.

issei looks too pleased with himself.

“iwa,” he says casually, as if he is not knuckle-deep and watching your hips start to lift. “you still there?”

no answer.

issei’s fingers curl.

your back arches.

“hajime,” issei sings, awful and soft. “don’t be rude.”

“i’m here,” iwaizumi says, voice tight.

there it is.

not hanging up. not telling him to stop. not even pretending hard enough to hate this.

issei’s grin goes slow.

“yeah?” he murmurs. “you wanna be?”

the silence after that is fucking insane.

you stare at issei, wide-eyed, breath catching in little pieces as he keeps touching you. he’s not even going down on you anymore. he’s just watching. sitting between your legs with his cheek against your thigh, fingers moving steadily, gaze flicking between your face and the phone on your stomach like this is some kind of casual group activity.

“i asked you something,” issei says.

hajime exhales through his nose.

“... if she’s okay with it.”

your whole body tenses.

issei’s fingers pause.

not stop, exactly. just slow.

his eyes come to yours, humour gone thin for half a second. the real question underneath it.

you nod.

he waits.

“yeah,” you whisper. “i’m okay with it.”

issei’s smile comes back, softer first.

then worse.

“you hear that?”

“i heard,” hajime says.

his voice sounds different now. lower. rougher around the edges.

god help you.

issei kisses the inside of your knee. “good. then stay quiet if you’re gonna be shy about it.”

“fuck off,” hajime says, but it has no bite.

“mm. that isn’t very nice, hajime.”

you laugh, breathless, and issei rewards it by dragging his fingers just right.

your laugh snaps into a moan.

hajime makes a sound.

tiny. barely there.

but it is a sound.

issei hears it.

of course he does.

“oh?” he says.

“don’t.”

“didn’t say anything.”

“you were about to.”

“i was just thinking.”

“do that privately.”

issei’s fingers slow, and you whine before you can stop yourself.

he looks down at you with mock pity.

“see what you did? distracted me.”

“issei,” you complain.

“yeah, baby?”

he says it so casually. so warm. like he isn’t turning you into a trembling mess with his best friend listening.

“don’t stop.”

iwaizumi’s breath catches audibly.

issei’s eyes darken.

“bossy.”

“you’re being annoying.”

“i’m being generous.” his gaze flicks to the phone. “aren’t i, iwa?”

hajime says nothing.

issei laughs quietly.

“still there?”

“yeah.”

“quiet.”

“yeah.”

“you jerking off, boy scout?”

the silence is immediate and catastrophic.

your eyes go huge.

“issei.”

“what?” he asks, innocent as a knife. “it’s a question.”

hajime’s voice comes back strangled. “you’re a fucking asshole.”

“that wasn’t a no.”

“jesus christ.”

“that wasn’t either.”

you are going to die.

you are actually going to die in this bed because matsukawa issei cannot behave for five consecutive minutes and iwaizumi hajime apparently has a closet pervert streak big enough to qualify as a second apartment.

issei leans down and kisses you, right above where his fingers are still moving.

soft. terrible.

then he speaks, not to you this time.

“she’s so wet,” he says, conversationally. “you should feel this.”

your face burns so hot you think you might pass out.

hajime swears under his breath.

issei watches your reaction like he loves it.

“she likes when i talk about her,” he continues, still lazy, still cruelly calm. “acts embarrassed, but she gets tighter every time.”

you shake your head.

his fingers curl again.

your hips jerk.

“liar,” he murmurs to you.

“i hate you.”

“no, you don’t.”

“i might.”

“you’d miss me.”

“i’d miss your dick.”

“same thing.”

hajime makes another sound then, partly a laugh, half a curse. like he can’t believe he is hearing this. like he cannot believe he is not hanging up.

issei’s smile sharpens.

“there you go,” he says. “knew you were alive.”

“shut up.”

“nah. iwa, she’s trying so hard not to make noise.”

“don’t drag me into it.”

“you’re on speaker on her stomach. you dragged yourself in.”

“that was you.”

“you could hang up.”

nothing.

issei hums.

“thought so.”

then he lowers his mouth back to you.

and if the fingering was bad, this is worse.

because now he is showing off.

not in a clumsy way. not obvious and exaggerated. issei is too smooth for that, too confident in the exact way that makes him irritating. he just settles back between your thighs and eats you out like he knows hajime is listening to every wet sound, every shaky breath, every broken little syllable of his name you fail to swallow.

your hand flies into his hair.

the phone shifts on your stomach as you arch.

“careful,” issei murmurs against you, and the vibration makes your legs tremble. “don’t drop him.”

“i’m going to kill you,” you gasp.

“after?”

“maybe.”

he laughs into you.

hajime says nothing.

but he is breathing.

that’s the thing that gets you. the quiet on the other end isn’t empty anymore. it’s full of him. tense and controlled and too present. you can imagine him sitting somewhere with his jaw clenched, phone in one hand, the other maybe—

you whimper.

issei’s eyes flick up.

“oh, what was that?”

“shut up.”

“you thinking about him?”

you try to close your thighs, which is a mistake because his shoulders are there and he just spreads you open again.

“don’t hide now.”

“issei.”

“answer.”

your pulse is in your throat. “maybe.”

hajime curses.

issei grins against you.

“cute.”

then he stops talking and gets serious.

which is how you know you’re fucked.

he knows exactly how to pull you apart when he wants to. knows when to tease and when to shut up, when to give you pressure, when to back off just enough that your body chases him. his hands lock around your thighs, his mouth gets precise, and everything narrows down to heat and breath and the weight of the phone rising and falling with your stomach.

you come with hajime listening.

it’s not graceful.

it never is with issei when he’s showing off.

your back arches, one hand in his hair, the other clutching at the sheets, and the sound that leaves you is loud enough that you hear hajime inhale sharply through the speaker. issei doesn’t let up until you’re squirming, thighs trembling against his cheeks, voice breaking around a too-much little sob.

then he lifts his head.

slowly.

mouth wet.

eyes dark.

“good?” he asks.

you nod weakly.

“words.”

“i’m good.”

“yeah?”

“yeah.”

he pats your thigh once.

“great.”

then he grabs your hips and yanks you down the bed.

you squeal.

actually squeal.

because you’re overstimulated and boneless and he moves you like you weigh nothing, dragging you to the edge so suddenly that the phone nearly slides off your stomach. you catch it with one clumsy hand, laughing breathlessly even while your whole body is still shaking.

on speaker, hajime makes the craziest fucking sound.

not a full moan.

not a word.

just this punched-out, involuntary thing that tells on him so badly the room goes still for half a second.

issei freezes.

then looks at the phone.

then at you.

his smile becomes a war crime.

“iwa.”

“don’t.”

“that was cute.”

“don’t.”

“you liked that?”

“fuck you.”

“i’ll pencil you in.”

you laugh again, helpless, and hajime sounds like he might be suffering psychic damage.

issei stands at the end of the bed.

and yeah.

yeah, you forget how to speak for a second.

because he is tall. tall in that loose, lanky way that hides the sheer size of him until he is standing over you with your hips in his hands and his hair falling into his eyes. he drags you to the very edge, lifts your ass like it’s nothing, adjusts you until your legs are hooked just right.

the angle alone makes your stomach flip.

then he lays his cock over your lower stomach.

just rests there.

heavy and hard and obscene against your skin.

you stare down.

he does too.

“issei,” you breathe.

“i know.”

he loves this.

loves seeing it. loves the visual of how deep he’ll reach, how far up your body he can mark the promise of it before he even gets inside. it makes him smug in the worst way, quiet and satisfied and absolutely aware of what it does to you.

his thumb strokes your hip.

“look at that,” he murmurs.

hajime is dead silent.

issei tilts his head toward the phone.

“wish you were looking, iwa?”

“don’t be mean,” you manage.

“shame. i’m so good at it.”

hajime’s voice is rough when he says, “you’re evil.”

“little bit.”

“more than a little.”

“you’re still here.”

another pause.

then hajime says, very low, “yeah.”

oh.

oh, that gets everyone.

even issei’s expression flickers for a second, amusement giving way to something hotter. he looks down at you, brows raised like, you hearing this?

you nod, dazed.

“yeah,” issei says softly. “he is.”

then he slides into you.

you lose your breath.

fully.

it’s so deep at that angle that your hands fly to his wrists, nails digging in as he holds you up to meet him. your mouth opens, but nothing comes out at first. just a stunned little gasp that cracks at the edges when he bottoms out.

issei’s jaw tightens.

“fuck.”

hajime mutters something under his breath that you don’t catch.

issei catches it.

“what was that?”

“nothing.”

“liar.”

“keep going.”

the words are clipped. controlled. almost angry.

they make you clench so hard issei groans.

“oh, she liked that.”

“stop narrating everything,” hajime says.

“no.”

then he starts moving.

slow at first, because the angle is insane and because you are still sensitive from his mouth. deep, measured thrusts that push the air out of you every time, his hands firm under your ass, lifting you to meet him like he’s using your body exactly how he wants and making sure it ruins you properly.

the phone is still on you, slid down now to stick to the sweaty skin just below your tits.

you can feel the vibration of hajime’s breathing through the case.

it is obscene.

it is ridiculous.

it is so hot you almost can’t stand it.

issei talks through everything.

of course he does.

he tells you how good you feel, how tight, how pretty you look trying to take him like this. tells hajime how your face changes when he gets deep enough. how your thighs shake. how you get louder when you forget to be embarrassed.

and hajime just listens.

quiet.

too quiet.

until issei pushes.

“say something, iwa.”

“no.”

“why not?”

“because you’re already insufferable.”

“she wants to hear you.”

your eyes fly to his.

issei grins.

“you do.”

“i—”

he thrusts deep, and your words scatter.

“see?”

hajime’s voice is rough. “she okay?”

the question punches right through all the heat.

because it’s hajime, of course it is. repressed pervert or not, he still sounds like himself. grounded. careful. checking, even with his voice strained.

you swallow, breathless.

“yeah. i’m okay.”

“you sure?”

“yeah.”

issei’s expression softens for the smallest second.

then he ruins it by saying, “hear that? she’s okay. you can keep jerking off now, boy scout.”

“mattsun,” hajime snaps.

you make a sound that is half laugh, half moan.

issei’s grin comes back full force.

“there we go.”

“you’re going to hell.”

“probably. wanna come with?”

“not answering that.”

you are absolutely dissolving.

every thrust punches up into that deep, impossible place that makes your legs go useless. issei’s hands hold you steady, thumbs digging into the soft of your hips. your head tips back against the mattress, one hand fisted in the sheet, the other pressed weakly over the phone like you can somehow hide the sounds and keep hajime close at the same time.

issei notices.

“don’t cover him.”

“i’m not.”

“you are.”

“you’re annoying.”

“you love it.”

“you’re too deep.”

his hips slow immediately.

“too deep bad?”

you shake your head fast.

“no. good. just— fuck!”

“more words.”

“good,” you gasp. “it’s good.”

“yeah?” his voice goes warm and filthy. “you want more?”

you nod.

“say it.”

“more.”

hajime exhales sharply.

issei’s eyes glitter.

“oh, he liked that one.”

“i hate both of you,” you breathe.

“liar.”

then he gives you more.

not faster. deeper. meaner in that careful way that has your body going loose and desperate beneath him. the whole bed shifts with it, rhythm steady, your ass lifted in his hands, his cock hitting so deep that your vision goes blurry.

and then he says it.because he knows exactly when to.

“wanna come for iwa?”

you whine.

“yeah?” he asks, voice low. “wanna come while he jerks off to the sound of you getting fucked like this?”

hajime makes a strangled noise.

“issei.”

“what?”

“you’re— fuck.”

issei laughs, breathless and dark. you nod before you can think better of it.

issei’s gaze snaps back to you.

“please,” you whisper.

his hands tighten.

“please what?”

“make me come.”

“who for?”

you are gone. truly gone. no dignity. no shame. just heat and pressure and hajime’s breathing through the speaker.

“for haji.”

the silence after that is violent.

then hajime groans. low. wrecked. utterly ruined.

issei’s composure almost cracks.

almost.

“fuck,” he mutters. “good girl.”

he shifts one hand, keeping you lifted with the other, and gets his thumb on your clit.

that’s it. that’s the end of you.

the angle, the pressure, the phone, hajime’s barely contained sounds, issei’s voice talking you through it like he has all the time in the world. it all collapses at once.

you come hard enough that your voice breaks. hard enough that your whole body shakes in his hands, hips jerking uselessly as he keeps you exactly where he wants you. issei talks you through the entire thing, filthy and soft, telling you there you go, that’s it, let him hear you, while hajime swears on the other end like he’s trying not to fall apart too loudly.

issei follows not long after.

he holds you tight, thrusts going uneven, head tipping back with a groan that would be embarrassing if he were capable of shame. he comes deep, still standing at the edge of the bed, hands locked around you like he’s anchoring himself through it.

for a few seconds, no one says anything.

you are wrecked.

hajime is silent.

issei is breathing hard, staring down at where he’s still inside you with a lazy, satisfied look that makes you want to kick him if your legs worked.

then hajime says, flat and disbelieving, “are you fucking serious?”

issei doesn’t miss a beat. “nah. her name isn’t serious.”

hajime hangs up. immediately. the room goes dead quiet.

then you burst into exhausted laughter.

issei looks down at the phone, then at you, completely calm.

“rude.”

“you are the worst person alive.”

“he asked.”

“you are insane.”

“yeah.” he finally eases you back onto the bed with surprising gentleness, one hand sliding under your thigh so you don’t jolt too hard. “you good?”

you blink up at him, sweaty and ruined and still trying to recover from the fact that iwaizumi hajime just got dragged into this ecosystem and absolutely did not leave.

“yeah,” you mumble. “i’m good.”

“yeah?”

“mhm.”

“nice.”

he pulls out carefully, and you make a tiny miserable sound because everything is too much now. he kisses your knee like he’s apologising, which is offensive because he is not sorry.

then he grabs his phone.

you squint at him. “what are you doing?”

“checking if he blocked me.”

“did he?”

a pause. “no.”

“coward.”

“right?”

the phone buzzes once in his hand.

issei reads it and smiles.

“what?”

“iwa says he hates me.”

“you deserve it.”

“he also says to never call him again.”

“you answered his call.”

“i’ll remind him later.”

“don’t.”

“i won’t.”

“you absolutely will.”

“probably.”

you groan and cover your face.

issei tosses the phone aside and pats your thigh.

“okay. shower.”

“don’t boss me around after ruining my life.”

“you’re gross.”

your eyes snap open. “it’s your fault.”

“yeah.” he shrugs, shameless. “still gross.”

“i hate you.”

“no, you don’t.”

“i hate your friends.”

“no, you don’t.”

you stare at him and he grins.

“especially not haji.”

you grab a pillow and throw it at him. he catches it against his chest, laughing, then leans down to kiss your forehead like he has any right to be sweet after all of that.

“come on,” he says. “shower before makki finds out and the group chat becomes unlivable ’cause we left him out.”

your voice comes out too even. too casual. you’re proud of that for about half a second, until rintarou shifts his mouth and your heel digs hard into the couch.

osamu rounds the corner into the living room still in his work clothes, dark shirt clinging at the shoulders, sleeves shoved up just enough to show the strong line of his forearms. he looks tired in the way he usually does after a day at the shop— shoulders a little low, hair slightly flattened from his cap, expression set into that resting bluntness that makes strangers think he’s annoyed even when he’s just thinking about rice.

then he sees you.

then he sees rin.

and his mouth curves.

not surprised. not scandalised. not even particularly slowed down by it.

just that warm, crooked grin that means he’s home, and the house is exactly as stupid as he left it.

“figures,” he says.

you barely glance away from your switch. “missed you too.”

“didn’t say i didn’t.”

he crosses the floor, stepping around rintarou’s long legs like this is an obstacle he expects to find in his living room. rin’s hair brushes your inner thigh when he turns his head a fraction, acknowledging osamu’s presence with nothing but a pleased hum into you.

your body jolts.

the switch nearly slips.

osamu catches it with one hand before it can slide off your stomach.

“careful,” he says, amused.

“he’s cheating.”

rin’s eyes flick up. slow. bored. shiny-mouthed.

he does not stop.

osamu leans over the back of the couch and kisses you.

it’s easy. familiar. one hand braced on the cushion beside your head, the other still holding your switch safely against your stomach like he’s saving both your dignity and your game. he kisses you like he just got home from work and you’re his favourite part of the apartment. no hesitation, no self-consciousness, no particular concern for the fact that rintarou’s face is still buried between your legs.

you smile into it, breath hitching when rin’s teeth catch just enough to make you twitch.

brat.

osamu pulls back an inch, brows lifting because he feels the gasp against his mouth.

“good day?” you ask, like nothing happened.

he looks down at rin.

rin looks up through his lashes and blinks once, slow as a cat.

osamu snorts. “same old. lunch rush was stupid. atsumu called twice t’complain about rice balls he didn’t even buy.”

“tragic.”

“devastatin’.” osamu’s gaze drags back to you, taking in the switch, your flushed face, the way your thighs keep trying to close around rintarou’s head and rin keeps holding them open. “rin been good t’ya?”

rin hums again, mouth full.

the vibration goes straight through you. you bite the inside of your cheek and whack the top of his head lightly with the edge of your switch.

“define good.”

osamu’s hand settles at the back of rin’s neck.

it’s casual, almost absent. his fingers slip beneath the hair at rintarou’s nape, thumb stroking once over the warm skin there. affectionate. possessive, but not sharp about it. the kind of touch that says he knows exactly where both of you belong.

rin’s shoulders loosen under it.

your stomach flips.

osamu notices that too, because osamu notices everything useful and pretends not to.

“ya eatin’,” he says, fingers tightening slightly at rin’s neck, “or just playin’ with yer food?”

rin lifts his mouth only enough to mutter, “both.”

his breath is hot against you.

you make an undignified sound and glare down at him.

osamu laughs under his breath. “yeah, sounds right.”

then he straightens like the matter is settled and heads toward the kitchen, already unbuttoning his cuffs.

“what d’you two want for dinner? i got chicken thawed. was thinkin’ karaage unless yer both gonna be useless and make me order somethin’.”

“karaage’s good,” you say immediately.

rin’s hand slides up to your stomach, palm pressing there to keep you still when he goes back in with more focus. your hips jump anyway.

“rice?” you add, voice thinning slightly.

osamu opens the fridge. “gotta make a fresh pot.”

“aren’t we out?”

“bought more yesterday.”

“because i reminded you.”

“because ya nagged me.”

“same thing.”

“not even close.”

you grin at the ceiling and try to choose a move in your battle. the screen is a blur of colours and tiny pixel violence. rintarou chooses that exact second to drag his tongue slow and flat, and your thumb hits the wrong command.

“fuck.”

“language,” osamu says automatically, reaching for the ginger.

“i’m losing!”

“to rin or the game?”

“both.”

rin’s laugh is muffled and unbearably smug.

osamu rinses his hands at the sink, then starts moving through the kitchen with the kind of competence that always makes you a little stupid to watch. cutting board dragged down. knife selected. rice measured and washed in a bowl with three quick, practised turns of his wrist. he does everything like his body remembers before his brain has to, like cooking is just another language he speaks when he’s too tired for words.

the apartment fills with small, domestic sounds.

water running.

rice shifting in the pot.

the clean knock of knife against board.

rin’s mouth.

your own breathing, becoming harder to keep level.

that’s the thing that always gets you about the three of you. not the fact that rin is eating you out on the couch while osamu starts dinner ten feet away. it’s the normalcy. the way these things sit beside each other without fighting for space. the way osamu can ask about dinner while rintarou’s tongue makes your thighs tremble. the way rin can be completely indecent and still lean into osamu’s hand like he’s being petted.

it should feel absurd.

it does feel absurd.

it also feels like home.

“spicy mayo or plain?” osamu asks, glancing up from where he’s slicing ginger.

you try to answer.

rintarou, because he is evil, sucks your clit into his mouth at exactly the wrong moment.

your voice catches hard.

“uh—” you swallow, fingers clenching around the switch. “plain. plain’s good.”

rin’s eyes flick up.

he looks pleased with himself.

osamu points the knife in his direction without even looking. “rinnie.”

rin pauses.

barely.

“don’t make ’em useless before i finish cookin’.”

rin lifts his mouth, chin shiny, expression flat. “you gave me twenty minutes.”

“i gave ya a warnin’.”

“sounds like a deadline.”

“sounds like yer gonna get dragged off the couch by yer shirt if ya don’t behave.”

rin’s mouth curves.

you groan. “don’t threaten him with something fun.”

osamu’s laugh is low and easy. “yer both impossible.”

“you love us.”

rin kisses your inner thigh with exaggerated sweetness.

you nudge his forehead with your knee. “don’t start acting cute now.”

“i’m always cute.”

“you’re a parasite.”

“favourite parasite.”

“most expensive parasite maybe,” osamu mutters from the kitchen.

rin looks smug enough that you would kick him if you trusted your legs.

osamu tosses the sliced ginger into a bowl, then starts working on the marinade. soy sauce, sake, a little grated garlic. he eyeballs every measurement because he’s good enough to get away with it. you watch him for a second over the top of your switch, his hair falling forward as he leans over the counter.

“cucumber?” he asks.

“yes.”

“salad or just sliced?”

“just cucumber and vinegar.”

“how d’ya want it?”

“thin,” you say immediately. “not your usual brick chunks.”

osamu pauses with the knife halfway to the board.

slowly, he looks at you.

“brick chunks?”

“you heard me.”

“they’re good chunky. more crunch.”

“they’re better thinner, soaks up the vinegar better than your stupid big chunks.”

rin snorts against your thigh.

you point down at him without looking. “don’t even.”

rin nips you.

you gasp and bap his forehead with two fingers.

“less teeth.”

“you like teeth.”

“i like appropriate teeth.”

“define appropriate.”

“not during menu planning.”

osamu is grinning now, knife moving through cucumber in neat, thin slices just to prove a point. “bossy thing.”

“thank you for listening.”

“didn’t say i was listenin’. just didn’t wanna hear ya complain through dinner.”

“because you love me.”

“because i love quiet.”

rin lifts his head. “wrong person to love, then.”

you kick him gently in the ribs.

he catches your ankle and kisses it before going back down.

it’s unfair how quickly the banter turns into heat again. one second you’re laughing about cucumbers, the next rin’s tongue is flat and unhurried, his lip ring catching just slightly, cool metal dragging over a nerve-bright place that makes your stomach jump under the switch.

your breath breaks.

the pokémon battle music keeps playing.

you lose.

badly.

“no,” you whisper, devastated and breathless.

osamu glances over. “game?”

“rin made me lose.”

rin, mouth still against you, makes a sound that is very clearly not an apology.

you drop the switch onto the cushion beside you before it can become collateral damage. your fingers slide into his hair instead, not sure if you’re pushing him away or pulling him closer. he looks up only long enough to catch his breath, lips slick, eyes half-lidded, expression lazily cocky in the exact way that makes you want to ruin his life.

“need something?” he asks.

his voice is rough.

you thumb his forehead.

“a new boyfriend.”

rin smiles. “which one?”

“you.”

“harsh.”

“less teeth.”

“heard you the first time.”

“then why are you still doing it?”

“because you sound cute when you complain.”

osamu’s voice floats in from the kitchen. “he’s right.”

betrayal.

you turn your head to glare toward the kitchen, but osamu isn’t looking at you. he’s coating chicken in potato starch, expression completely neutral except for the dimple trying to show near the corner of his mouth.

“i’m being bullied.”

“ya started it.”

“i am literally vulnerable.”

“yer playing pokémon while gettin’ head.”

rin laughs again, then shuts you up with his mouth.

the problem with rintarou is that he looks lazy until he decides not to be.

most people mistake the slow blink and slouched posture for a lack of intensity. they see him sprawled on couches, hood up, phone in hand, thumbs moving over a screen, and assume he is half-asleep through life. you know better. osamu knows better. rintarou is lazy only when he doesn’t care.

when he does care, he’s relentless.

and rintarou cares very deeply about getting his mouth on you.

he holds your hips down when you start squirming. he follows every little shift, every attempt to roll away from the pressure once it starts tipping from good into too much. his hands spread wide over your thighs, keeping you open, keeping you there, his tongue slow and precise and mean with knowledge.

“rin,” you breathe.

no response.

“rintarou.”

his eyes flick up.

that’s all.

osamu turns on the burner. oil starts warming in the pan with a low, patient shimmer.

“rin,” he calls, not looking away from the stove. “set the table when yer done.”

rin lifts his head, mouth shiny, hair a mess from your hands. “busy.”

“then stop bein’ busy.”

“no promises.”

“don’t tire ’em out before dinner, asshole.”

rin looks up at you.

you are flushed, thighs trembling, one hand braced on the couch, the other still tangled in his hair like you’re going to personally remove him from your body by force.

his smile goes soft around the edges in a way that somehow makes him look worse.

then he says, “they’re fine.”

you wheeze. “i’m not fine.”

“dramatic.”

you make a half-hearted attempt to shove at his forehead.

he does not move.

at all.

it’s actually offensive.

“rintarou,” you warn, but there’s not enough air in your lungs to make it land.

he hums and doubles down.

the oil pops softly in the kitchen.

osamu makes a thoughtful noise. “y’want lemon too?”

“yes,” you gasp immediately, then swear because rin looks pleased that you managed to answer while falling apart.

“both lemon and mayo?”

“both. please.”

“polite.”

“barely.”

rin’s fingers dig into your hips.

your back arches off the couch.

“rin, holy fuck, i’m gonna come—”

he ignores you.

of course he ignores you.

not because he doesn’t hear. because he hears perfectly and decides that your warning is useful only as encouragement. his mouth gets firmer, less lazy, tongue and lips working with the horrible confidence of someone who knows exactly where you are.

you try to pull him off by his hair.

he groans.

wrong choice.

“oh my god,” you gasp, and the sound comes out almost like a laugh because the whole situation is ridiculous. osamu is frying chicken. the rice cooker clicks into its low hum. you are coming apart on the couch because suna rintarou has decided dinner can wait.

“rin—”

your orgasm hits before you finish saying his name.

it rolls through you hot and heavy, legs locking around his shoulders, fingers tightening hard in his hair. rin holds you through it with both arms around your thighs, mouth still working, slower now but not stopping, not even close enough to stopping. your whole body jolts with oversensitivity.

“wait,” you gasp. “wait, wait—”

he does not wait.

you try again, palm landing on his forehead like you’re playing whack-a-mole with the world’s most stubborn man.

“rintarou, i swear—”

“rinnie.”

osamu’s voice cuts through the room.

not loud.

not harsh.

just firm enough that rintarou finally stops.

he lifts his head with the world’s most offended expression, mouth slick, cheeks faintly flushed, eyes narrowed like osamu has interrupted an important scientific process.

osamu stands in the archway between kitchen and living room, tea towel thrown over one shoulder, arms folded. the smell of frying chicken follows him into the room, rich and warm.

“off,” he says.

rin blinks.

“now.”

rin’s mouth opens.

osamu points at him. “don’t.”

rin closes it.

you laugh weakly, still twitching. “thank you.”

“want ya t’walk, not crawl, to the dinner table,” osamu says, stepping closer.

rin mutters, “crawling is fine.”

“for you, maybe.”

osamu grabs the scruff of rin’s shirt and hauls him back like a misbehaving cat.

rin goes, but not with dignity. never with dignity. his expression is pure petulance, mouth pouty, hair wrecked from your hands. he looks like he’s been dragged away from a meal he personally hunted.

“i wasn’t done.”

you lift one shaking leg and gently press your foot to his shoulder. “i was. i was so done.”

“you came.”

“and then i was done.”

“sounds fake.”

“you’re fake.”

“good one.”

“i’m recovering.”

osamu looks between you both, unimpressed and fond in equal measure. then he hooks a thumb toward the hallway while heading back into the kitchen.

“go wash yer face. and don’t touch anythin’.”

rin stands slowly.

so slowly.

then, instead of going to the bathroom, he wanders directly into the kitchen.

osamu sees him coming and sighs.

“rintarou.”

rin doesn’t answer.

he steps right into osamu’s space, catches him by the front of his shirt, and kisses him.

filthy.

open-mouthed.

absolutely flavoured by you.

osamu scowls into it, but he does not shove him away. his hand comes up automatically to rin’s jaw, fingers pressing there for half a second like he’s either going to push him back or keep him close. it ends up being both.

you watch from the couch, boneless and dazed, thighs still trembling.

your stomach flips all over again.

osamu breaks the kiss first, eyes narrowed, mouth wet.

“yer fuckin’ gross.”

rin’s smile is small and satisfied.

“you like it.”

osamu wipes at his mouth with the back of his wrist, still scowling. “bathroom. now.”

rin pecks him once more, quick and smug, then finally disappears down the hall.

osamu watches him go.

then looks at you.

“don’t encourage him.”

“i literally hit him.”

“he likes that.”

osamu disappears and returns a moment later with a glass of water. he sets it on the coffee table, then crouches in front of you, big hands warm on your knees.

“drink.”

you take it with both hands because you are not entirely sure your fingers work otherwise.

he watches you drink, then reaches down and carefully fixes your underwear back into place. it’s such a practical gesture that it should not make your chest warm, but it does. he smooths the fabric over your hip, then pats you there firmly when you twitch.

like a dad with a dog.

“gonna be okay for dinner?”

you laugh into your glass. “if i can walk.”

“good. yer settin’ the table.”

“i just almost died.”

“and i cooked.”

“rin almost killed me, make him set the table.”

“rin’s gonna wash the dishes if he keeps actin’ up.”

from the bathroom, rin calls, “heard that.”

osamu doesn’t look away from you. “good.”

you smile despite yourself.

his face softens in that small way he rarely announces. his thumb brushes over the outside of your knee, once, then again.

“y’good?” he asks, quieter.

you nod.

“yeah. good.”

his mouth tips into a crooked little smile. “yeah?”

you lean forward and kiss him.

it’s softer than the kiss he gave you when he came home. less casual. more thank you. his hand comes up to the back of your neck, holding you there for one slow breath before he pulls away.

“water,” he reminds you.

“bossy.”

rin comes back with his face clean and his hair damp around the temples, like he has done the bare minimum required of him and expects applause. he flops onto the couch beside you, heavy and boneless, immediately leaning into your side. his phone appears in his hand from nowhere.

you nudge his shoulder.

he nudges back.

you nudge harder.

he looks over, expression blank.

“what?”

“asshole.”

“i just made you come, be appreciative.”

“you were told to stop.”

“eventually.”

you narrow your eyes.

rin’s thumb moves over his phone screen, but his shoulder presses more firmly against yours. apology by weight. it’s one of his languages.

you accept it by putting your leg over his lap and letting him rest his cold hand on your ankle.

osamu returns to the kitchen before the chicken burns, muttering something about living with animals.

dinner is loud in the way your dinners usually are.

not volume, exactly. more texture. oil-crisped karaage piled on a plate in the middle of the table, steam rising from fresh rice, cucumber sliced thin because osamu listens even when he complains. the lemon wedges are arranged too neatly for someone who pretends he doesn’t care about presentation. spicy mayo sits in a small bowl near rin, plain mayo near you, because osamu remembers where both of you reach without having to ask.

rin presses his cold toes against your calf under the table.

you kick him.

he does it again.

osamu, without looking up from his bowl, says, “feet to yerself.”

rin says, “wasn’t me.”

“ya got the toes of a corpse. i know it was you.”

you nearly choke on your rice.

rin’s mouth twitches.

osamu slides you a piece of chicken from the plate, one of the crispier ones, without saying anything. then a second piece. your favourite kind. golden at the edges, still steaming. he does it automatically, like feeding you is part of his own meal.

you glance at him.

he doesn’t look up.

“what?”

“nothing.”

“eat.”

rin leans closer, stage-whispering, “he loves you.”

“i know.”

osamu points his chopsticks at rin. “i love quiet too. never get that.”

“you’d be bored.”

“wouldn’t know. never tried it.”

rin steals cucumber from your plate.

you steal chicken from his.

osamu steals both from the serving plate and pretends not to see any of it.

by the time dinner is done, your body has settled into that warm, loose ache of being fed after being wrecked. rin is slouched so low in his chair he might become liquid. osamu is stacking plates with the long-suffering air of a man who claims he does all the work and secretly prefers it that way.

“i’ll wash,” you say.

osamu looks at you. “ya sure yer legs work?”

“mostly.”

rin’s eyes flick to your thighs.

you point at him. “don’t.”

“didn’t say anything.”

“your face did.”

“face is innocent.”

“face is irritating me.”

osamu snorts.

you do the dishes because osamu cooked, and because the apartment feels best like this: rin sprawled in the living room with his phone, osamu moving around behind you putting leftovers away, your hands in warm soapy water, rice cooker still clicking as it cools.

halfway through rinsing a bowl, osamu comes up behind you.

not quietly. never that quietly. you know his steps, feel him before he touches you. still, your breath catches when his body presses along your back, broad and warm, his hands settling on either side of the sink to cage you in without trapping you.

his chin dips near your shoulder.

“ya not tired out yet?”

your eyes close for a second.

behind you, he smells like oil and ginger and clean sweat. like the shop. like home. his voice sits low against your ear, easy enough to pass as teasing if you want it to.

you don’t.

you shake your head, leaning back into him with a soft, contented sigh.

“not yet.”

from the living room, without missing a beat, rin calls, “will be.”

osamu laughs against your shoulder.

low.

promising.

your hands pause in the dishwater.

rin appears in the doorway, phone hanging loose from one hand, eyes half-lidded and bright with the kind of interest that means he has absolutely recovered his energy and learned nothing from being hauled away earlier.

osamu’s mouth brushes the side of your neck.

“finish the dishes,” he says.

“bossy,” you whisper.

“ya like bossy,” he says, and you can hear the smile in it.

rin leans against the doorframe.

“i’ll dry.”

you and osamu both look at him.

rin blinks.

“what?”

“you?” osamu says.

“dry?”

“suspicious.”

rin shrugs. “want them done faster.”

you laugh, warmth sliding low in your stomach all over again.

that’s tonight’s plans sorted, then.