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You’re thinking about hands.
Long, slim fingers and knuckles that are a little prominent, a little pink. Rough-looking, worn, but careful in their ministrations, cradling the back of your head even as they yank at your hair, pulling your gaze around to meet his.
Hands, hands, hands—thumb brushing your lower lip before pushing past to rest on the flat of your tongue; calloused palm gentle against your cheek. Hands on your neck, giving just enough pressure to have you seeing stars. Or maybe no pressure at all—maybe they sit loose around the base of your throat like a collar, a choker, curling in a manner mostly just meant to remind you of your place. A hand resting on your clavicle, fingers dancing across the exposed skin; feel them trace between freckles, across veins. They dip just below the neckline, and you can’t help but wonder (hope) if they’ll go further.
Hands that press forward, hands running along the flushed expanse of your body, paying homage to every tender place—neck, wrist, waist, thigh. Hands that still at the slightest response from you, pausing in such a way that you can feel the smugness bleed through his fingertips.
He loves it when you beg, he demands it of you; not with his words, but with this, with fingers curled just right, with your legs draped over his and his breath hot on your neck. The only thing he loves more than hearing you beg is knowing you’re too far gone to do so, too fucked-out to form words. He can pinpoint the moment it happens, too—feels it in the skip of your pulse, the way you clench around him. He loves making you look at him, then, with a hand on your jaw and another between your legs, watching as you struggle to pull your eyes back into focus—c’mon, baby, look at me, you can do it, yes, good, so good for me—and he loves the way the tears well up at that, the way the praise sets off something so primal inside you. You always want to pull him closer after that. Sloppy, open-mouth kisses, his tongue against yours as you cry out, ankles locked around his waist, hands clutching at his shoulders in desperate search for an anchor. Sometimes he’ll pin them back on either side of your head, fingers interlacing, and—
“That’s it for today! I’m holding office hours three to five tomorrow, to make up for Monday, so be sure to pop by if…”
Class is over? You could have sworn you’d just opened up your laptop and logged on, but your professor seems very clearly to be wrapping things up. A quick glance at the clock confirms that, yep, you’ve been checked out for the last half hour of the lecture. A lecture for a class you’re already thisclose to failing—in other words, a class you absolutely can’t afford to miss.
You pull open your calendar with a sigh. Office hours, here I come. At least you have plenty of time to squeeze that in—it’s not as though there’s anywhere to go. Still, this is starting to get ridiculous. You’re pretty sure that, if you tallied all of the hours you’ve spent rewatching lectures you zoned out through, you’d come out somewhere in the triple digits.
In short, you need to spend more time focusing on your schoolwork, and less time lusting over your roommate.
“You look like shit.”
Your sharp-tongued, six-five, stupidly hot roommate.
“Happy Friday to you, too.” You close your computer and shove it off your lap, flopping onto your side with a groan, your voice slightly muffled by the pillow before you turn to look at him. “If I have to spend another five weeks learning about microphysics, I might just toss my laptop out the window.”
“We live on the first floor.”
“I’m going for horizontal distance, not vertical.” You trace out the imaginary trajectory. “Long and low.”
“What, like a frisbee?” He leans against the doorframe, looking amused and disheveled and unbearably smug. “We might have to find new neighbors, then. Last time I saw you try to throw a frisbee, you took out a window. Remember?”
You toss the pillow at him. You’re gunning for his head, but your aim is, in fact, so poor that he doesn’t have to move very much at all to avoid getting hit.
“Nice throw.”
“Asshole.” You roll up into a sitting position. “Is there a point to this? Or are you just here to annoy me?”
“Both?” Now it’s his turn to chuck something at you. “Package for you.”
By some miracle, you catch it, a small, rectangular box that lands neatly in your lap. Ah. You know exactly what this is. Immediately, your day goes from a two to a solid ten out of ten. “Thanks.”
“Also, we’re out of eggs. Anything else while I’m out?”
“Get two cartons this time.”
“We don’t need—“
“I’m not the one going through three boiled eggs a day.”
He rolls his eyes, but doesn’t disagree as he sidles back out of the room. “Later, lameass.”
“Get two cartons!” you call after him. You get a vaguely dismissive noise in response. Whatever. He’s the one who’ll have to go by the grocery store if you run out of eggs early again. You turn your attention to the package, which is…already opened? Huh. “Hey, did you open my mail?”
No response. You poke your head out the door and see his coat is missing. He already left, then. Which is good, actually, because you’re realizing that he definitely must have been the one who opened the package, and that’s definitely why he looked so smug as he left, and the last thing you need right now is to look him in the eyes and know that he knows that you bought a vibrator.
Kei isn’t an idiot. He knows hooking up with a roommate is a shitty idea. Possibly the worst idea he’s ever had (and there have been many).
But you’re making it incredibly hard for him to remember that.
You, prancing around the apartment in ankle socks and tiny little shorts, paired with oversized sweaters that hang off your shoulder and make it look as though you aren’t wearing any shorts at all. You and all your casual touches—a kiss on the cheek when you thank him for doing some mundane chore, head resting on his shoulder when you sit next to each other on the couch, hand on his arm as you pass him in the hall. You, sweet-voiced and soft-eyed (but never a pushover), blushing at everything he says, dirty or otherwise.
You, buying a vibrator.
He’s always been curious about your sex life, yeah, but you haven’t given him much to work with. Even before the pandemic, you weren’t really in the habit of bringing anyone home. There was that one asshole you’d been dating long-term when you first moved in, but you always slept over at his place. Though, to be honest, Kei’s met him a few times, seen the way he treated you, and it didn’t take him much more than five minutes of knowing the guy to be pretty sure there were approximately zero orgasms happening there.
And now…now your bedroom shares a wall with his.
And now you own a vibrator.
He wonders if he’ll be able to hear you. Probably not. You’ve been living together for almost a year; surely you must have gotten off in that time. He can just picture you biting down on your lip, brows slightly knit as you shake and tense and arch off the mattress. He’s always liked his partners vocal, but for some reason, the thought of you in his bed, trying so desperately to stay quiet, just makes him want to rise to the challenge. Already you make the prettiest noises whenever you’re startled, or excited, or flustered (and you’re deliciously easy to fluster). Given the chance, he could coax a fucking symphony out of you, he just knows it. He just doesn’t know when (if) such an opportunity will ever arise.
As it turns out, though, opportunity does knock—and sooner than either of you would have ever thought.
Friday night means wine—or vodka, or tequila; really just whatever’s cheapest—and you’re perched on opposite ends of your bed (platonically, you remind yourself. It’s just because there’s more room here for lounging than there would be on a couch), and neither of you is particularly drunk drunk yet, but the combination of alcohol and several months’ cabin fever is enough to send you into a half-baked game of Never Have I Ever.
“Never have I ever…uh…” You’re starting to run out of things to ask—which, to be clear, is shocking, considering how little adventurous and/or reckless you’ve been in your young life. He has eight fingers down to your one (and a half—you agreed to disagree that wandering off in the mall at seven counted as “running away from home”). Also, after so long knowing each other, living together—there isn’t much you don’t know about each other. You clap your hands with a laugh. “I got it! Never have I ever been twenty two years old and not known how to ride a bike.”
“Original.”
“It’s funny, okay? It’s funny to me.” He rolls his eyes, but puts down a finger, and takes a swig. You giggle into your glass, shaking your head. “You go.”
“Never have I ever gone my whole life without coming even once.”
“What?” You suppose you did sort of open the floor for targeted attacks, with the whole can’t-ride-a-bike thing, but…what? “Where did that come from?”
He nods at the box with the vibrator, which you only now realize is sitting wide open on your nightstand. “Just assumed.”
You sit up, sending what’s left of your wine careening around the bottom of the glass. “I just got out of a yearlong relationship.”
“I’ve met your ex. My point still stands.”
“What, that—you think I’ve never come?”
“Have you?”
“Yes.” He tilts his head, unconvinced. The action leaves you as flustered as if you were actually lying. “Yes, Christ, yes! Yes, I’ve had an orgasm before.”
“But?”
You aren’t quite sure what it is about this night, this moment, that propels you to such honesty. Is it the alcohol? Or his gaze, maybe, clear and cruel and honey-bright behind his glasses, eyes that bore into you with an intensity that borders on painful. “Only ever by myself,” you admit, crossing your legs in a bid to quiet the sweet, sharp ache between them. “Never, um—never because of someone else.”
To your surprise, he doesn’t laugh, or tear into you the way you’ve come to expect. Instead, he purses his lips. Shrugs. “Better than the alternative. At least you can get off on your own.”
“Yeah, I guess. I just.” You look back at the box. For once, you feel no shame. Just…emptiness. “It’s different. Being touched. Having someone touching you. Sometimes I think I’d rather have that, without the orgasms. If I, y’know. Had to choose.” You look up at him, then immediately away, suddenly aware of how serious and vulnerable and intimate the aura in the room has grown.
Until you hear him snicker.
You do look up, then, mildly wounded and majorly annoyed. “What?”
He’s smirking, the bastard. You’re sitting there all misty-eyed, and he’s smirking, looking at you like—
“You don’t have to choose.”
Like he wants to devour you.
You roll your eyes, mostly just to break the spell of his gaze. I’m imagining things now for sure. “Yeah, right.”
“I’m serious.”
“Love that confidence for you.” You drain the last few sips, then set it down on the nightstand. He mirrors the movement. “I’m just saying, for all you know, every girl you’ve ever been with has faked it.”
“Possible? Sure. But unlikely.”
“My ex couldn’t tell.”
“Again, your ex was an asshole. Not exactly the gold standard for self-aware men."
“Like you could do any better.”
He goes quiet for a moment. It’s so unlike him, so unexpected a response that you’re about to touch his shoulder, ask if something’s wrong, until he says, “Come here.”
You’ve heard him wrong, you think. You must have. “What?”
“C’mere.”
You haven’t had enough to drink to be more than lightly buzzed. Still, as you shuffle across the duvet towards him, it feels almost as though you were moving in a dream. You’ve touched before, cuddled, even, but there’s something different tonight. Something about the way he pulls you onto his lap so that you’re straddling him; something about the feeling of his hand on your thigh, of his palm cradling your cheek, his chest warm against your own. Something electric.
“Was that a challenge?” His voice is dangerously quiet.
In an uncharacteristically bold moment, you let your gaze flicker down to his lips, then back to his eyes, and tilt your head in an echo of his smarmy, self-assured posture, and you ask:
“What if it was?”
He isn’t sure which one of you makes the first move, who leans in first, but it doesn’t matter, because how many times has he fantasized about this, about exactly this? How many times has he sat there on the couch, your head on his lap as you watched some mind-numbing chick flick (he may secretly enjoy them, but he’ll never, ever admit it), run his hands through your hair, and beat back the urge to yank? He doesn’t hold back now. One hand curls into a fist, and he pulls your head back, forcing you to look up at him, and fuck, your pupils are all but blown out, cheeks flushed, lips slightly parted—
He wants to fucking ruin you.
Your hands are still against his chest, bracing yourself, though they went slightly limp in surprise at having your hair pulled. When he slides his hand up the back of your shirt, pressing on the small of your back, you seem to come back to life, winding your arms around his neck. You’re breathing faster than usual, and he can feel your nipples through your shirt, through the thin, lacy fabric of your bra, and you’re tugging at the collar of his shirt, and yeah, if he doesn’t get your clothes off sometime in the next thirty seconds he’s going to go insane.
He doesn’t tear your shirt in half—he has more self control than that. Much easier to just pull it up, forcing your arms above your head, and then, before you can bring them back down, before you can catch your balance, pushing you gently so that you fall on the bed, legs still parted around his hips, eyes wide. He tugs off your shorts and underwear, and you manage, with a fistful of the front of his shirt, to bring him crashing back into you for a desperate, open-mouthed kiss. He catches the back of your neck with one hand, mostly for support, his hand big enough in comparison to your neck that he’s able to rest his thumb just below your jaw, just above your pulse. When he gives your neck an experimental squeeze, you gasp into his mouth, your lips curling against his in a grin.
Interesting.
You’re every bit as quiet as he’d expected, all lip bites and whimpers and soft intakes of breath. It’s cute. It’s also infuriating—he wants to hear you. He wants to hear you moan, beg, scream. And he doesn’t need a vibrator to do it.
(Make no mistake, he still intends to use it. Just not right now.)
You’re playing with the hem of his shirt. Your fingers are electric against his skin, the slight touch sending flickers of desire careening through his veins, and it’s too much and not enough and he reaches around your back to snap open the hook of your bra a moment before he lets you pull his shirt over his head, and there are no words to explain how it feels to have your bare chest flush against his, to reach down and feel how wet you are. This is what he’s been missing during lockdown, what a quick, porn-fueled fap can’t replace. The heat, the silk-smooth slip of skin on skin—you’re soft and warm and so, so wet, it’s driving him crazy and he isn’t even inside you.
He will be, soon. But not yet.
As he pulls away, backing up to stand once more by the edge of the bed, you scramble into as upright a position as you can manage, trying to brace yourself on your elbows. “What are you—”
The mattress seems to slip out from under you as he pulls you forward by the waist, positioning you so that your hips are in line with the end of the bed as he sinks to his knees and buries his face in your cunt.
He doesn’t move slowly, doesn’t ease you into it. One moment you’re lying there, bewildered, and the next you’re trying to buck your hips up against his face. Trying, because he’s holding you down with enough force you half hope to find his fingerprints there tomorrow, his claim on you spelled out in black and blue. He listens to you, of course; pausing until you whisper yes, and please; taking each twitch of your legs and sharp intake of breath into consideration as he finds each sweet spot and latches onto them with near clinical precision.
You scrabble for something to hold onto, grasping in vain at the sheets. He takes just enough pity on you to reach one hand up—the other on your hips, keeping you firmly in place—his fingers interlacing with yours. Another lick has you arching off the bed, head thrown back in wordless supplication, and it takes you a moment to realize he’s guided your hand to the back of his head.
You thread your fingers loosely through the curls at the crown of his head, careful not to pull. He can tell you’re holding back, you think, because he makes a frustrated noise against you, the vibrations running up your abdomen in a way that has you sucking in breath, the urge to moan so fierce it’s almost painful, and then he turns his head and bites your thigh, his free hand pushing your hand more insistently against his hair. When he sucks on your clit again, it’s startling and sweet and so persistent that you don’t think twice about tightening your grip, unconsciously guiding him exactly where you want—need—him.
The first time you really let go and tug at his hair, he lets out a growl, pleased and primal. His hold on your hips loosens, allowing you to ride his face in earnest, all your shy manners gone and forgotten as the overwhelming wave of sensations narrows to a pinprick point of pure, excruciating pleasure, and you finally, finally come.
He doesn’t stop.
Why would he? Now that he finally has you where he wants you. And vice versa, if the way you’re still writhing on the bed is any indication. You’re still frustratingly quiet, but the sight of you so lost in sensation, twitching with the aftershocks, is enough to sate him for now.
You’re overstimulated for sure, your hand weak against his temple, but all your half-baked protests die on your lips, replaced by whispered pleas for more, oh fuck as he slips one finger inside you. Slowly, though you don’t really need it, wet as you are and relaxed from your first orgasm of the night.
Yes, your first. Did you really think he’d stop at one? The thought makes him chuckle against you, in tandem with the curl of his finger, long and clever and two knuckles deep. And, to his delight, he gets something more than a gasp. He repeats the motion, adding another finger, and oh, oh, you sound just as good as he’d imagined. Better, so much better. It spurs him onward, knowing that this time when you come he’ll get to hear you, and he moves harder, faster, working you with a new sense of purpose until he feels you tensing, feels you right on the edge—
And stops.
You whine. You’re practically keening at the loss, craning your head up to look at him. He’s pleased to see what a mess you look—flushed face, messy hair, your lips kiss-swollen and red. Your eyes, still clear and soft with the afterglow of your previous orgasm. “Why did you stop?”
He lets out a low, thoughtful hum before turning, slick from jaw to upper lip, to face you. “What’s the matter?” You would be embarrassed, were it not for the look in his eyes when they flick up to meet yours. You’re taken aback by the eagerness, there, the hunger; after dragging the back of his hand across his face, he licks his thumb—licks you off his tongue—and smirks, and you flush an even warmer shade of red. “One isn’t enough?”
“I—“
He climbs up the bed to meet you in another bruising kiss, the taste of you still on his lips, your legs spreading further to allow his hips to slot between them. One you’ve helped him rid himself of all clothing below the belt, you melt into his touch, only to be jolted back when he rolls over to pull you on top of him, your forehead still pressed to his.
“I stopped,” he murmurs, getting a good handful of thigh to squeeze, smirking when he hears the resulting moan, “because this time, you’re going to come on my cock.”
He pulls you against him, as if to demonstrate, and you can’t help but let out another, louder sigh at the feeling of him, long and hard and throbbing against you. You sit up to align yourself, and the first press of him inside you, that welcome stretch, is so good that your head tips back, your lower lip caught between your teeth as you bite back another moan.
His voice is mocking, edging on cruel, but he breaks as you slide down to be seated fully against him, the tip of his cock practically kissing your cervix. “Fuck—such a cock-hungry whore, come once already and you’re still so tight—is this what you needed?” He starts leading you in an achingly slow rhythm, relishing in the way you clench around him with every thrust. You nod, eyes fluttering shut. The sting of his hand on your ass shocks your eyes back open. “C’mon. Want to hear you say it.”
“Say—oh, fuck—what—I—“
“You act so innocent—I bet you think about this all the time, huh? Tell me.” He fucks up into you hard, just once, his hands on your hips preventing you from picking up the pace on your own. “Convince me you deserve to come.”
”I—“ When you reach for your clit, he catches your wrists in one hand, twisting until it’s just short of painful. “Please.”
“Please what?”
“Please—please let me come.“
He shakes his head. “Not good enough. If you’re desperate enough to grind on my cock, you’re slutty enough to tell me exactly what you want me to do to you.”
Desperate, slutty—you’d never realized until now that degradation was something you were into. Now, those words, the way he slings them at you, cruel and casual—it’s just enough to strip away the last of your inhibitions. You bite your lip one last time, eyes fixing on his. “I want to come on your cock. Please, Kei, fuck, I—“ He rewards you with a few fingers circling your clit, and you almost choke on a moan. ”I want you to fuck me into the mattress until I can’t see straight.”
He can’t help but shudder at that, at the sound of you—you, his shy, not-so-innocent roommate, such filthy words dressed up in your sugar-sweet voice. It’s only a matter of seconds before he has you on your back with your legs draped over his shoulders, filling you up at an almost punishing pace. He’s rewarded with the shaking of your legs, the frantic drag of your nails across his back—fuck, that’ll sting later—and, most of all, your voice, the way you can’t help but moan with each thrust as you grow closer and closer to falling over the edge. When you come again, you seem to melt into him, clenching around him with the prettiest cry he’s ever heard, and that’s all it takes for him to follow, pulling out so that he can come on your stomach. You’re still twitching as he does, still trying to catch your breath, and all he can think as he collapses next to you is that he’d give anything to see you like this, fucked out and hazy and covered in his come, every day for the rest of his life.
“Two orgasms,” he finally says, once the two of you have spent a few minutes in silence. You’re pleased to hear that he sounds at least a little breathless, still—not nearly as unflappable as he’d have you believe. “Easy. Your ex must be even more of an idiot than I’d thought.”
Huh. For him, that’s…almost sweet.
Without thinking, you press a kiss to his shoulder. “Thanks,” you mutter. He doesn’t answer, not at first. Not verbally. But a moment later, you feel him shift, reaching across you to grab something from the nightstand. All at once, he’s above you, and even though the kiss he offers is soft, deep, sleepy in your mutual post-orgasmic haze, you sense some mischief behind it. When he pulls back, you see it in his eyes, as well. You blink up at him, too blissed-out to feel any real alarm. “What are you—“
“Making you come again.” You can do nothing but grab at his shoulder again as he reaches down to lower the vibrator to your clit, and as you whine again at the unbearable, inescapable sting, as you feel his free hand on your cheek and take two of those long, slim fingers into your mouth, you swear you hear his voice curl up into a smirk. “Two more times, at least. Maybe three.”
(For the record, it ends up being four.)