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The weight of Miwa's invitation—My place next time—hangs over Hachiman like a storm cloud, charged and inevitable. He spends the next few days in a fog, his mind replaying the park, her body pressed against his, the way her voice broke when she said his name. He's never been this consumed, his usual detachment crumbling under the raw force of his want. He knows what going to her place means, and the thought both thrills and terrifies him.
Miwa, too, is restless. Her apartment feels too small, her skin too tight. She's used to taking what she wants—music, freedom, fleeting flings—but Hachiman's different. His hesitation, his intensity, the way he sees through her bravado—it's disarming. She wants to unravel him, to feel him let go, but there's a part of her that's scared of what it'll mean for her own guarded heart.
She texts him late on a Thursday, casual but pointed: Gig tomorrow. My place after. You in? Hachiman stares at the message, his thumb tracing the edge of his phone. He types Yeah before he can overthink it, his heart pounding as he hits send. There's no turning back now.
The gig is at a dive bar, louder and rowdier than the last. Miwa's performance is a wildfire, her voice raw and commanding, her eyes finding Hachiman in the crowd. He's near the bar, his gaze locked on her, and every chord she plays feels like it's for him alone. Her lyrics are bolder tonight, laced with desire and defiance, and Hachiman feels the words burrow into him, stoking the heat that's been simmering since the park.
When the set ends, Miwa doesn't linger. She grabs Hachiman's hand, her grip firm, and leads him out into the night. The walk to her apartment is silent, the air thick with anticipation. Her hand stays in his, her thumb brushing his knuckles, and every touch feels like a promise.
Her apartment is a cluttered reflection of her—posters of punk bands plastered on the walls, a battered couch, a guitar propped in the corner. The door barely closes before Miwa's on him, her lips crashing against his, hungry and unyielding. Hachiman matches her intensity, his hands gripping her hips, pulling her close. The kiss is messy, all heat and need, their breaths mingling as they stumble toward her couch.
Miwa pushes him down, straddling his lap, her thighs pressing against his. She pulls off her shirt, revealing a black bra that contrasts sharply with her pale skin, and Hachiman's breath catches, his hands instinctively moving to her waist.
"You're staring," she teases, her voice low, but there's a vulnerability in her eyes, a need for him to want her as much as she wants him.
"Hard not to," he says, his voice rough, and he pulls her down for another kiss, his hands sliding up her back to unclasp her bra. It falls away, and he takes a moment to look at her, her breasts soft and full, her nipples hardening under his gaze. He leans in, kissing the curve of her neck, then lower, his lips brushing the sensitive skin before taking one peak into his mouth. Miwa moans, her fingers tangling in his hair, her hips grinding against him, and the sound drives him wild.
His hands roam, one cupping her breast, the other slipping beneath her jeans to grip her thigh. She's warm, responsive, her breaths coming in sharp gasps as he explores her. Miwa tugs at his shirt, impatient, and he pulls it off, letting her hands roam his chest, her nails scraping lightly across his skin. The friction of her hips against his arousal is maddening, and he groans, his control slipping.
She senses it, her lips curving into a wicked smile. "You want this, don't you?" she whispers, her hand sliding down to palm him through his jeans. Hachiman's hips buck involuntarily, a low curse escaping him, and Miwa's laugh is soft, triumphant.
"Miwa," he says, his voice strained, a plea and a warning. She kisses him again, slower this time, her tongue teasing his, and undoes his belt with practiced ease. Her hand slips inside, stroking him through his boxers, and Hachiman's head falls back, his breaths ragged. The sensation is overwhelming, her touch both gentle and commanding, and he's drowning in it.
But he's not content to just take. He flips her onto the couch, pinning her beneath him, and she gasps, her eyes wide with surprise and desire. He kisses her hard, his hand sliding beneath her jeans, finding the heat between her thighs. She's wet, achingly so, and his fingers move with tentative confidence, circling her sensitive core through the fabric. Miwa arches into his touch, her moans louder now, unrestrained.
"Hachiman," she breathes, her voice breaking, and it's the most beautiful sound he's ever heard. He pushes her jeans down, his fingers slipping beneath her underwear, and she's trembling, her thighs parting to give him better access. He explores her, learning what makes her gasp, what makes her clutch at his shoulders, and when he finds the right rhythm, her moans turn desperate, her body tensing.
"Don't stop," she pleads, and he doesn't, not until she's shuddering beneath him, her climax hitting hard, her nails digging into his arms. She's breathtaking in her release, her face flushed, her lips parted, and Hachiman feels a surge of pride and hunger.
They're both panting, the air heavy with the scent of sweat and desire. Miwa pulls him down, kissing him fiercely, her hand guiding his to where she wants him next. "Your turn," she whispers, her voice a promise, and Hachiman knows they've only just begun.