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The air in Miwa's apartment is thick with the aftermath of their encounter, the couch creaking faintly beneath them as they catch their breath. Hachiman's heart still races, his skin tingling where Miwa's hands linger on his chest. She's sprawled against him, her body warm and pliant, her eyes half-lidded but gleaming with a mix of satisfaction and hunger. The sight of her—flushed, disheveled, utterly unapologetic—stirs something deep in him, a need that goes beyond the physical.
Miwa shifts, her lips brushing his jaw, and murmurs, "You're not half bad at this, Hikigaya." Her tone is teasing, but there's a softness there, a crack in her usual bravado that makes his chest tighten.
"Don't sound so surprised," he replies, his voice rough, his hand resting on her hip. Her skin is fever-hot under his fingers, and the urge to explore her again is almost overwhelming.
She laughs, low and husky, and slides off the couch, tugging him with her. "Come on," she says, leading him toward her bedroom. The hallway is dim, cluttered with vinyl records and stray guitar picks, but Hachiman barely notices. His focus is on Miwa—the sway of her hips, the way her underwear clings to her curves, the promise in her backward glance.
Her bedroom is small, the bed unmade, a single lamp casting a warm glow. Miwa doesn't hesitate, pulling him onto the mattress with a grin. They're kissing again, slower now, savoring the taste of each other. Hachiman's hands roam, memorizing the planes of her body—the dip of her waist, the softness of her thighs, the way her breath hitches when he grazes her inner thigh. She's responsive, every moan and shiver guiding him, and he's learning her, cataloging what makes her arch and beg.
Miwa's hands are just as bold, tugging his boxers down with a wicked smile. She strokes him, her touch firm and deliberate, and Hachiman groans, his hips jerking into her hand. "Fuck, Miwa," he mutters, his voice strained, and she laughs, clearly delighted by his reaction.
"Language, Hikigaya," she teases, but her eyes are dark with want. She pushes him onto his back, straddling him, and the sight of her above him—naked now, her body a study in curves and shadows—steals his breath. She leans down, kissing him deeply, her hair falling around them like a curtain. Her hips rock against him, teasing, and the friction is maddening, his arousal pressed against her heat.
"Tell me what you want," she whispers against his lips, her voice a mix of command and plea. It's a challenge, and Hachiman, for once, doesn't overthink.
"You," he says, his hands gripping her hips, guiding her closer. "All of you."
Her smile is radiant, almost tender, and she reaches for a condom from her nightstand, rolling it on with practiced ease. She positions herself, her eyes locked on his, and lowers herself slowly, taking him in inch by inch. Hachiman's head falls back, a low groan escaping him as her warmth envelops him, tight and overwhelming. Miwa gasps, her nails digging into his chest, and for a moment, they're still, adjusting to the intensity of being joined.
Then she moves, slow at first, her hips rolling in a rhythm that makes his vision blur. Hachiman matches her, thrusting upward, his hands guiding her movements. The room fills with the sounds of their breaths, their moans, the creak of the bed. Miwa's voice is a litany of gasps and curses, her body trembling as she chases her pleasure. Hachiman watches her, mesmerized by the way she loses herself, her head thrown back, her breasts bouncing with each movement.
He sits up, pulling her closer, his lips finding her neck, her collarbone, her breasts. He takes a nipple into his mouth, sucking gently, and Miwa's moans grow louder, her pace quickening. His hands grip her ass, urging her on, and the pressure builds, a coil tightening in his core. "Miwa," he groans, his voice raw, and she responds by kissing him fiercely, her tongue tangling with his.
"I'm close," she breathes, her movements erratic now, desperate. Hachiman slides a hand between them, finding her clit, circling it with his thumb. It's enough to push her over the edge—her body tenses, her moan sharp and unrestrained as she climaxes, her walls clenching around him. The sensation is too much, and Hachiman follows, his release hitting hard, his vision whitening as he spills into her, his hands clutching her like a lifeline.
They collapse together, panting, their bodies slick with sweat. Miwa rests her head on his chest, her fingers tracing lazy patterns on his skin. Hachiman's hand settles in her hair, his mind reeling. It wasn't just sex—it was a surrender, a connection that feels dangerously close to something more.
"You okay?" she asks, her voice soft, almost hesitant. It's the first time she's sounded unsure, and it tugs at something in him.
"Yeah," he says, his thumb brushing her cheek. "You?"
She nods, but her eyes are searching, like she's waiting for him to pull away. He doesn't. Instead, he pulls her closer, kissing her forehead, and they lie there, tangled in each other, the world outside forgotten.
Later, when Miwa's asleep, Hachiman stares at the ceiling, her warmth pressed against him. He's crossed every line he swore he wouldn't, and yet, he doesn't regret it. But a quiet fear creeps in—what happens when desire this intense starts to demand more than just bodies?
Miwa, stirring in her sleep, murmurs his name, and Hachiman's heart clenches. They're in deep, and the depths are only getting darker.