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In which you ask roommate!Nanami to massage your sore breasts
“A-are you,” he begins, clearing his throat when his voice comes out shaky, “Are you sure you want me to, um, touch them?”
Without bothering to answer, you plop yourself down on his lap, grabbing those big, veiny hands you’ve been eyeing for years now and placing them on your clothed tits. Choked sounds splutter behind you. “Ken, didn’t you once say you’d do anything for me?”
His voice vibrates against your back. “Well, yes, I did, but I was hardly thinking about this when I made that promise.”
Head leaning back on his broad shoulder, you nuzzle against his jaw, the scruff of a beard yet to be shaved tickling your skin. Lips glossy, you skim them against the shell of his ear. Nanami shudders.
“Liar.
There's no room for rebutting your accusation when you’re grinding down on the evidence of his untruth. It's hard, hot, and throbbing. And all yours now.
“Ah, fuck.” Emboldened, and probably trying to hide his embarrassment, your roommate growls. His long fingers dig into your flesh, groping and squeezing with expert pressure. You moan. Gone is his shyness, the awkwardness, the not knowing where to look or how to be in your presence. In their place, sits a man bearing your weight, and not only is he unburdened by it, but he's sinfully urged.
“Is this what you wanted? You -mmm move those hips, sweetheart, that's it- you got bored in your room and came into mine to what? Hump me, like some desperate, dumb dog? This isn’t the girl I know. The girl I know is well-behaved. She's polite and sweet. She knows better than to be sitting on my lap without panties.”
Uh oh.
“What? You thought I wouldn’t -ngh- n-notice how you’re soaking my pants? How your bare pussy lips are hugging my cock through the cotton?" He scoffs. "And here, I thought you were smarter than that. What a disappointment.”
He’s breathy, raspy, and grinding up into you.
Who could blame you for striking when he had been walking around your shared apartment with a loose shirt and joggers?
Sure, nothing about that sounds particularly seductive, but he had just gotten back from the gym. He was all sweaty, flushed, and asking if you could wait for him to shower before dinner like a married man. Like your married man. And those joggers?
They’re. Fucking. Grey.
And hide nothing.
Mewling, you arch your back into his punishing grip. His thumbs are grazing your hardened nipples, flicking like how you once told him, in a drunken stupor, you liked it. Fuck, if you get up now, there’d be a humiliating puddle on his pants. He’d probably rip it off when you leave and press the soaked material to his nose, drowning in your scent. Just like how you found him inhaling the scent of your dried juices from the ruined bedsheets you left for him to wash.
A sexy, glasses-wearing mouse in your trap.
“I’m sorry, Ken,” you whimper. “I just couldn’t -ah! f-fuck- help myself.”
Darkly, he chuckles, lips shifting against your forehead, as if he was mouthing kisses – it contrasts the dirty, rough circling of his hips and the sudden pinching of your nipples – and says, “No, I bet you couldn’t. Well, then, if my precious roommate needs help easing her…aches…what am I to do but help?”
You’re close. So so so close.
And when your high, that peak, that euphoric wave neared, a hair's breadth away, you’re stunned to find it snatched away. “W-what—”
Creeping down, a hand cups your sobbing cunt, pressing in so you can hear the obscene squelching of your juices. Once, twice, he lays a hard smack to your covered clit. You gasp.
“What do you say?” You have no response and he tuts. “When someone helps you, what are you supposed to say? Use your big girl words. Come on, sweetheart. You can do it.”
Oh, shit.
A trap was indeed laid out, but the one caught?
It wasn’t him.
“T-thank you, Kento.”
He kisses your temple. “You’re welcome. Now, why don't you turn around and let me see your pretty face.”
but he has seen your tits more than your gynecologist. and he’s eaten you out exactly once, on your birthday.
there’s no real explanation for it, either—not sexual (except when it is, lol), not romantic (except in that weird, liminal way you both don’t notice). but intimacy is so baked into the friendship that it doesn’t shock either of you when he’s tugging your tank top down to examine a hickey near your breast, thumb grazing your nipple until it stiffens. he squints. clicks his tongue.“sloppy work. two out of ten.”
you have names for his balls. “how’re Beelzebulb and the Lesser One holding up?” and he’s seen you pull a single strand of hair between your buttcheeks in the shower. you’ve walked in on him jerking off and critiqued his wrist angle mid-stroke while brushing your teeth. he adjusted, and you nodded in approval before spitting into the sink. supportive environment.
you’ve rubbed one out in his bed while he played apex five feet away, headset on. sometimes you grunt just to be annoying. he groans back, in solidarity. you share a bed more often than not. he rolls over, arm slung around your waist. but you’re best friends; you don’t make it weird or awkward. “if your dick pokes me again, i’m gonna bite it clean off.” he grins into the pillow. “ah, promises, promises.”
when someone assumes you’re a couple, you both gag in synchronized horror. “ew, no.” “he wishes.” “you think i’d date that?” “puh-lease, i have standards.”
he calls you ‘trouble.’
you claim that he’s ‘not your type.’
because he loves you too much to fuck you stupid.
and you trust him too much to ruin the friendship.
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“I want mama!” your son screams, tears filling up his eyes—the same color as Nanami’s.
And speaking of Nanami…he feels helpless.
The boy won’t stop crying, won’t stop calling for you. His little face is red and scrunched up, his cheeks wet, chest heaving with each shaky breath. You’d told him you’d be gone for a few hours—explained it gently, with a kiss to his forehead and a promise that Papa would take care of everything. But none of it seemed to matter.
You’re gone and his world feels like it’s ended.
“Please, baby…Mum will be back any time soon.” Nanami spares a glance at the clock, in thirty minutes you’d be here. “Should we finish your meal in the meantime, mh?” He tries, voice tight, panic folding over his usual calm.
But your son only screams louder, fists pounding the highchair tray, tears flowing freely.
It’s been hours, and Nanami has come to the conclusion that : he doesn’t want me.
He stares at his son’s red, tear-slicked face. There’s no hatred in it, just unfiltered, helpless longing.
“I want Mamaaaaaa!!” Nanami flinches. Exactly, the toddler is longing for you.
The little boy’s small chest rises and falls in erratic sobs, hiccupping on the edge of breathlessness.
Nanami exhales slowly through his nose. You can do this, he tells himself. You’re his father. You can do this.
So, he tries.
He pulls out the little wooden train you carved together one weekend. Places it on the floor. “Do you want to show Papa how fast it goes again?” he asks, voice as gentle as possible.
No response.
He tries the animal book—the one with flaps and texture that always make him giggle. “Tell Papa where’s the lion. Can you find the lion for me?”
Nothing.
Just a heartbreaking, hoarse little “Mama…”
Nanami even tries to put on the cartoon with the talking blue bear. The one your son usually dances to.
As nothing seems to work, Kento feels his heart breaking inch by inch. He picks him up despite the flailing little arms, holds him against his chest, firm but not tight, like you’ve teached him.
His son won’t stop. Not even a little. The screams turn into an open-mouthed wail, the kind that turns cheeks purple and voices raw for hours.
Nanami’s hands tremble slightly. He sits down on the floor with the boy in his lap, gently cradling him, head bowed. He’s never felt this powerless.
Not during cursed missions, not under pressure—but here, in his own home, with his child breaking apart in his arms… He feels not enough.
Not soft enough.
Not warm enough.
Not you.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers into the crown of his son’s head. “I’m trying. Papa’s trying so hard.”
And that’s when the front door creaks open. “I’m home!”
And just like that, your son’s head snaps up from where he’s been sobbing into Nanami’s lap. Your husband doesn’t even have the time to rise to his feet that the boy is squirming violently in his arms, “mama! Mama! MAMA!!” Nanami lets him go without resistance. He stands slowly as your son flings himself into your arms when you appear in the doorway.
Concern is written all over your face. “I’m here, baby. I’m here…” you look up and see Nanami standing a few feet away, shoulders sagging, eyes tired behind his glasses.
“he’s been crying for hours,” he says softly. “didn’t want anything from me. Wouldn’t eat. Wouldn’t play.”
You nod as your rubs your son’s back. “I’m sorry. He’s just been going through this clingy phase.”
“I know.” Nanami offers a tired smile, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “it’s okay.”
Later, after dinner and a bath your son is finally asleep, curled on your side of the shared bed, clutching one of your shirts tightly, your scent comforting him.
Nanami stands in the doorway, arms crosses, watching the soft rise and fall of your kid. You come up behind him, circling his waist with your arms, letting your cheek rest on his strong back.
One of his hands intertwin with yours. “He wouldn’t even let me hold him,” he says, barely above a whisper. “I’ve never felt that…useless before.”
“Kento…”
“I know he’s still small. I know it’s not personal. But…” he pauses, swallowing hard. “I tried everything. Toys, books, food, music. He didn’t want any of it. It felt like…like…I wasn’t enough. I wasn’t…probably am, not a good dad.”
Your heart twists at the words. “Can you please turn to face me, love?”
He lets out a deep exhale, like the breath hurts to let go, and turns. When his eyes meet yours, you feel like the weight of the whole world just collapsed onto your chest.
Nanami is silently crying.
His eyes are rimmed red, and cheeks drenched wet.
You gently cup his jaw. “You were more than enough Kento. You held him even when he didn’t want to be held. You didn’t get angry. You didn’t walk away. You didn’t even raise your voice once. That’s not just ‘enough’. That’s what a good dad does. That’s love.”
He closes his eyes, leaning into your touch as more tears gather in his long blonde lashes. “I just…” his voice breaks. “I just wanted to be what he needed.”
Nanami wraps his arms around you tighter, letting his forehead drop to your shoulder. He breathes into your neck, letting your scent comforting him—just like his son does.
“I don’t mind not being the favorite,” he murmurs after a while, his voice quiet and raw. “But I hope, one day, he’ll reach for me too.”
You press a kiss the top of his head, pulling him impossibly closer to you. “He will. And when he does…he won’t want to let go.”
before you started dating hamzah, old memories resurface, making you realize they might still mean something.
firstboyfriend ! hamzah masterlist
the basement smells like dust and old laundry detergent. all you see is cardboard boxes and forgotten memories shoved into corners. it’s not exactly where you pictured spending the first real day of summer - your last summer home, the one dangling between high school and college - but your mom had other plans for you.
“just go through the boxes,” she said, waving you off with a knowing look. “some of that stuff’s yours and you’re not leaving it all here.”
so of course you dragged hamzah down with you.
he’s sitting cross-legged on an old blanket now. there’s a frayed bandaid on his knee and grass stains on his shorts from being outside before this. his curls are messy from biking over, his shirt slightly damp from how fast he pedaled.
“your basement is scary,” he says, tapping the side of an unlabeled box with his fingertips. “it smells weird.”
“it smells like your room.”
he gives you a flat look. “i cleaned my room.”
you laugh. “since when?”
“since you told me to,” he mutters under his breath, sheepish.
everything feels so easy with him. the kind of easy that makes time feel like it doesn’t really exist.
you open up a box. inside is a jumble of old notebooks, little trinkets made from polymer clay, a crooked photo of you and hamzah at someone’s birthday party - his toothy grin front and center, your eyes half-closed mid-laugh.
he looks over your shoulder at it now. you feel the heat from his body cascading down your back as he stands behind you.
you keep digging. there are pokémon cards, friendship bracelets, art supplies, and a beaded ring you thought you’d never see again. you hold it up. “oh my god, remember this?”
hamzah half-gasps, half-laughs. “you made that for me and i thought i lost it and you were mad at me for, like, two whole days.”
“i thought you betrayed me,” you say, glancing back at him with a grin.
“i cried over that, y’know.”
you did too - but you don’t say it out loud. instead, you pick up the box and place it on the floor, both of you sitting down to keep rummaging through it.
then hamzah makes a noise. a tiny oh? of curiosity. he’s holding something - a folded piece of paper, slightly yellowed, the edges worn.
“what’s that?” you ask.
hamzah squints. “m’not sure.”
he unfolds it gently, revealing large, lopsided handwriting in blue marker. at the top, underlined and bolded it reads, “CONTRACT.”
you freeze, your eyes going wide. “oh, no. no way.”
hamzah’s already smirking, his eyes scanning the page. “oh my god. we were actually insane.”
“read it,” you say, scooting closer until your knees bump his.
he clears his throat. “this says - if we are not married by age thirty we have to live together forever anyway because we’re best friends and we would be really good roommates and maybe we can get a cat too.”
you burst out laughing. “we wrote that?”
hamzah holds up a finger. “wait. there’s more.”
he flips the paper around, and there, at the bottom, is a scribbled drawing. stick figures - one with brown curls, one with what looks like pigtails or braids - standing under a crooked arch made of what might be balloons or clouds. they’re holding hands. there’s a tiny heart above them.
“i think that’s pretty good,” hamzah says proudly, eyes scanning his own art.
you smile, stifling a laugh. “you drew us getting married.”
“and?” he says, raising a brow. “it’s a legally binding contract.”
you look at the drawing again. and then - maybe it’s the dust or the heat or the fact that you’re leaving soon, that everything’s about to change - but something in your chest does a weird little flip.
“do you think we actually believed we’d do it?” you ask softly.
hamzah’s quiet for a second. then he says, “i think i wanted to.”
you don’t say anything else. neither does he. because if you do, it might become too obvious that you’re both thinking the same thing.
you kind of still want to.
you stare at the paper a second longer, thumb brushing over the crease down the middle, right through the hand-drawn heart. it’s so silly. ridiculous, even. the kind of thing two kids write in secret when the world still feels small enough to promise forever in.
but now that you’re older, legally an adult, “forever” doesn’t feel silly anymore. it feels like something real, something you don’t want to mess up.
you clear your throat, forcing a laugh. “well, then i guess we’d better start house hunting in, like, over a decade.”
“you think i’m gonna make it that long on my own? who’s going to tell me to clean my room?”
you roll your eyes. “i’m not your wife yet.”
yet.
he smiles at that. a real, slow, warm one. “not yet,” he echoes, voice teasing. but then he goes quiet, like he’s said too much or maybe exactly enough.
it’s always like this lately. these moments that feel like they’re almost something. like if one of you just reached just a little further, you’d tip right over the edge into something new.
hamzah gently places the contract in your lap like it’s fragile. then he shifts back to sit against a box, arms stretched behind his head, and looks up at the ceiling like he’s trying not to look at you.
you glance at him. he looks relaxed, but you can see the little things - the way his foot bounces, the slight twitch in his fingers. it’s all very subtle. anxious.
“do you think we’ll still talk every day?” you blurt out. “when we’re at different schools?”
hamzah doesn’t hesitate. “obviously.”
“you say that now, but..”
he turns to look at you, brows furrowed like you’ve insulted him, deep in his core. “stop. don’t even think like that.”
you nod, averting your gaze to your lap. “okay. yeah, you’re right.” you both go quiet again. the air is charged with dug-up memories. your knee is still brushing his, just barely. neither of you move away.
“i think,” hamzah says suddenly, voice quieter, “even if we hadn’t written that.. i still would’ve picked you.”
your chest tightens. your eyes flicker upwards to meet his, and your heart stutters in your chest.
“to live with,” he adds quickly. “i mean. as roommates. because you’d probably never leave dishes in the sink. and you don’t snore.”
you laugh, a little breathless. “you do.”
“i don’t.”
“you do.”
and then you’re laughing again, full and warm, and it feels like the kind of laugh you might look back on years from now, just like how you’re looking back today. the kind you’ll remember when you’re sitting in a dorm room alone and missing him so much it aches.
you fall back on the floor, staring up at the ceiling. “i feel like this summer’s gonna go by fast, isn’t it?”
hamzah stretches out beside you, arms tucked behind his head, so close you can feel the buzz of warmth of his skin against yours.
“yeah,” he says. “i think so.”
neither of you say it out loud, but the same thought hangs between you two anyway: we can’t waste it.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
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