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ask you something. (iwaizumi hajime x reader) chapter three

>> the floodgates have opened, and you're both a little more desperate than expected <<

tags/cw: very suggestive, innocent reader, possessive iwa/reader, slightly perverted iwa (he will in fact get worse <3), brat tamer!iwa

chapter two || masterlist || chapter four

he tastes like black coffee, bitter and sharp.

‘will you show me?’ you’d asked, waiting with bated breath for him to fill in the blank.

he hadn’t, and you’re convinced even now that he’d done it on purpose. ‘show you what?’ is all he’d muttered. but he’d shifted closer to you on the couch, his thigh burning against yours.

‘what happens at parties.’

he’d angled his body toward you, and you’d leaned closer. you could feel his breath on your skin, the heat radiating from his bare chest.

‘all of it?’ he’d whispered. your heart has lurched into your throat then, beating uncomfortably. ‘or just a little bit?’

your breath had caught, and your face had warmed to the point of being impossible not to notice.

you hadn’t answered him.

he hadn’t needed you to.

‘just a little bit, then.’

his hand had cupped your face, hot from the mug, and he’d turned you toward him. you’d closed your eyes, unable to meet his.

his kiss feels the same as it had a year ago.

you don’t know what to do with your hands, so you leave them in your lap, trembling as they fist the fabric of your pants. he’s careful with you, mouth gentle and sweet, just like you’d known he’d be.

his voice may be rough, but that’s all it is. you still wonder — what if — but you don’t think this is the time to push it. you don’t think this is the time to do anything but try not to faint. your head is staticky and light, and your body tingles as your limbs go numb, so it’s a non-zero possibility.

he angles his head, and you lean into it, settling your shaking hands on his chest. his lips are patient, pushing and then pulling back just a little, just enough to make you chase him. you try to keep your wits about you, but iwaizumi hajime’s mouth is warm, soft, and tastes like coffee, so your wits are the last thing you’re willing to hang onto.

when his teeth nip at your bottom lip, a test, your breath catches and then falls out in a stuttered mess. he tries again, pulling your lip between his teeth and running his tongue over it. you gasp, starting to pull away. he doesn’t let you, sliding his hand from your cheek to the back of your neck, keeping you there.

“open your mouth,” he whispers against you, loud in this dark apartment.

“what?” you squeak, feeling his heart pick up under your palm as he scoots closer. his tongue slides across the seam of your lips, and you recognize that you were right — it hadn’t felt good at the party, but it feels good now.

“open.”

your heart skips, but there’s a fire burning in the pit of your stomach, lighting up when he talks to you like that. when he’s not so careful with you.

and when he groans quietly because you’re listening to him — because your lips part for him, because you do as he says — you know that listening to iwaizumi hajime is something you’re good at. you can do that, for as long as he needs you to.

his tongue swipes across your lip again, a warning, and then it dips hesitantly into your mouth, his head angled and his hand — searing hot — pressed against your spine. your breath stutters and stalls when his tongue brushes against yours, and he retracts it quickly, his own breath labored in your mouth.

when you return the gesture, slipping just into his mouth and then retreating to safety, you feel something shift with him. he has your permission now, your invitation to keep going.

he pushes his body against yours, and your hips are being grabbed and pulled in his direction. you’ve got your knees on either side of his thighs before you can put together that he’d lifted you into his lap.

you gasp again but don’t pull away, too caught up in your own heartbeat and the heat of iwa’s hands on your hips, seeping into your bones. he leans up into you, mouth hard on yours and breath heavy in between every rough push of his lips. you latch onto him, letting him nip and bite and suck. letting his tongue slide against yours, hot and wet and effortlessly good at provoking the addicting pulse of your own heartbeat between your thighs.

you whine and moan, too overwhelmed by these new sensations to have a sense of how loud you’re being, how loud your noises sound when they echo off of his walls. you’re wriggling without realizing it, your body reacting to him and wanting more. you shift your hips this way and that, and you push your chest flush to his, mindlessly craving the feeling of him.

he doesn’t laugh or comment or give any indication that you’re too much for him. he just holds you down in his lap while you move and swallows as many of your moans as he can. he just belts his arm around your waist tighter when you whine his name, that needy ‘haji’ echoing off his walls, too.

he just lets you pull away when you do, only steadying you so you don’t fall, because you’re gasping and burning with things you’ve never felt before when something hardens against your inner thigh.

“sorry,” he says roughly, his breathing uneven and forcing his chest to rise and fall in jagged pants. “can’t really help that part.”

you stare down at him with wide eyes. his cheeks are burning red, and his eyes are hazy and he won’t look at you properly, and his lips are wet and swollen and pink, so pretty in the dim light of the room. he’s got both hands on your body, still but firm, and his head is leaned back against the couch while he catches his breath.

“can i stay here tonight?” you just ask, quiet and nervous. his eyes fly to yours, alarmed and surprised, and you rush to explain. “my roommate asked me not to go back…”

“oh,” he breathes, relaxing a bit. “i thought you meant-“ he swallows. you try not to piece together the rest of his sentence, but it’s hard not to. “yeah, that’s fine. you can stay.”

“i can take the couch,” you offer. it’s empty, and he knows it’s empty, because he just smiles to himself and looks off into the kitchen.

“oh, you’ll take the couch?” he teases, snorting under his breath.

you purse your lips, ears burning. “if you want me to.”

“and if i don’t?”

silence stretches between you, and that burning feeling in your gut returns. your breath runs shallow, and your hands press just a little harder into his chest.

“then i guess i won’t.”

his eyes dart to his bed, still ruffled and warm, and then back to you. that olive green is heated — it melts you to your core, and you stand from his lap shakily. his eyes graze over you, landing on your trembling thighs and the way you press them together. he smiles to himself, clearly satisfied, but doesn’t say anything about it.

you do.

“uh-“ you stumble back when he stands, nearly tripping over his coffee table. he just grips your arms tight and pulls you back to him, chest to chest. “i’m not sure… what i’m-why i feel so-“

“you’re not sure?” he asks, quiet and dangerous against you. when you shake your head, unable to look him in the eye, he just grins, a little wicked. “none of those boys before me made you feel like this?”

none of those boys before me.

not quite friends, not quite more. not willing to specify, not willing to talk about it.

“no,” you breathe, eyes screwed shut. “first time.”

his inhale is sharp, sharp like the harsh tug of nerves in your navel.

“maybe you should sleep on the couch,” is all he says in response.

you don’t feel rejected, oddly enough.

—

things are back to normal. things are finally back to normal.

when hajime wakes the next morning, you’re still curled up on his couch. the small part of him that had worried that you would leave while he was asleep is appeased, and he makes you both fresh coffee and breakfast. he tries not to jump when he feels your forehead press between his shoulder blades, your body warm from sleep against his back while he cooks.

“can i shower?” you mumble sleepily. “got class at ten, and i look like a stripper.”

hajime snorts, glancing at the clock on the stove. it’s a quarter to nine. he nods. “grab whatever you want from my dresser.”

“thank you,” you breathe, and he thinks he feels your fingers ghost over his waist when you push off of him.

when you emerge from his bathroom, steam spilling into the room with you, he has to remind himself that you wearing his clothes isn’t new. he has to remember that he’s seen you like this before, that it’s normal.

you’re fixing a pair of his athletic shorts, adjusting the material on your hips and shifting his t-shirt around on your shoulders until it falls right. you smell like him, he thinks, when you sit beside him on the couch and pull the plate of eggs and bacon into your lap.

“thanks, haji,” you say sweetly, digging in.

god, your skin looks so good when it’s moist like that. he wants to run his tongue over your throat, to lick away the condensation and drops of water still lingering there. he wants to push his hands up against your torso and grope you while you whine his name, fingers hidden and doing terrible things under his own t-shirt. he wants to-

“haji,” you breathe, and he blinks hard, snapping out of it. you’re pursing your lips, your little smile overtaken by the warm rush of heat in your cheeks. “why are you staring at me?”

“i’m not,” he says immediately, lying straight to your face. “you smell nice.”

“i smell like you,” you giggle.

“well, then, i smell nice,” he barks, snatching his plate up and turning away from you, not even bothering to acknowledge how stupid he sounds. “what time’s your class?”

“ten,” you say, leaning forward with a teasing grin. “like i said earlier.”

right. you had said that earlier.

“well,” he snaps, hearing the edge in his own voice. he was right — you aren’t sensitive to it anymore. he doesn’t know why he doesn’t like that. “hurry up, then. i wanna go to the gym before my class.”

“okay,” you chirp, humming while you eat. “what’s your schedule today?”

that’s the first time you’ve asked since you got here.

“uh-“ he stutters, trying to remember his plan for the day. “class until two. clinic hours until four.”

“i’m busy until four, too,” you mumble. “i was thinking of going to that hiking club organizational meeting.”

he snorts into his coffee. “you hate exercise.”

“well, maybe i wanna branch out. try new things.” you say it jokingly, but he still cuts a hard glance at you.

if you’d said that to him yesterday, he would have thought you’d meant trying new things aside from him. away from him. try new people that aren’t him. he would have hated it, would have panicked.

today, he only watches you shrink under his gaze, embarrassed and shy and swallowing hard as you try not to be seen by him. he watches you come to understand the implications of your own words, alone in his apartment with him.

“never hurts to try new things,” he says simply. you meet his eyes, wide and laced with something he wants so badly to place as desire.

“yeah,” you mumble, nodding and fiddling with the string on his shorts. your breath is short, almost a pant, and hajime is only a little embarrassed to realize he’s half-hard in his sweats. “wanna try new things.”

everything’s back to normal.

—

at noon, he gets a text from you, asking if he wants to eat lunch with you and your friends.

his heart surges with excitement, because you really aren’t avoiding him anymore, and he responds that he would if he weren’t stuck in lab. but that he’ll pick you up and walk you to your next class if you want.

another test, just to make sure.

‘you don’t have time to eat??’ you say, and hajime can’t tell if this is a worried text or an accusatory one. if you’re upset he’s not eating or upset he’s not spending time with you.

he thinks of you being a little irrational, a little needy or angry with him for something he can’t control. pouting up at him with those pretty little lips, calling him ‘haji’ with a little attitude.

he has to turn away from his lab partner so he doesn’t see how hard hajime’s getting.

‘no time,’ he texts back, vague and offering nothing else. just to see. just to check. ‘but i’ll pick you up. is that fine with you?’

‘i guess.’ a minute passes, and then— ‘ill bring you some food, okay?? you gotta eat.’

you’re just worried, sweet and soft and pretty as ever. not giving him attitude. but, if he ignores that last message, he can pretend you are. he can pretend you’re as needy as he wishes you’d be, that pout sitting in front of his eyes while he finishes running the bio lab.

he makes it to the dining hall by 12:45, texting you quickly. you come outside with your friends, holding a tupperware of dining hall food, and he turns away, steadying his breath and trying to make it look like he hadn’t just run across campus for you. you introduce him to your roommate, and he smiles handsomely down at her. he doesn’t need to impress her — he’s been your best friend since you were learning to walk — but he knows girls talk. he wants her to think he’s good for you.

she shoots you a look of approval and whispers ‘so this is your man’ when she thinks he’s too busy opening the tupperware to notice, and hajime knows he’s cleared the bar. you nudge her, and he makes a point of getting distracted by the chicken stir fry you packed for him, just so he can hear you mumble ‘shut up’ in that embarrassed way he loves so much.

“thanks,” he says plainly, capping the plastic container. “i would’ve had to subsist on clinic granola bars until dinner.”

you pout, and he laments that it’s sweet but not the one he craves. “that’s no good,” you say, stepping close — too close to be friendly — and tugging on his sleeve. “don’t they teach you about nutrition in the exercise major?”

“sports science,” he corrects with a mocking edge, and then he flicks his eyes to your roommate. she’s watching the two of you with her arms crossed, a knowingly smirk spreading across her face. she can see something you can’t, something hajime wishes you would. “and the clinic granola bars are nutritious.”

“i’ll get you something from now on,” you say with finality, so deliciously close to demanding, and he just lifts his brows with a smirk.

“yes, ma’am,” he whispers, forcing a grin down when your face starts to radiate heat.

“okay,” your roommate says, clapping. “i’m leaving.”

you turn to her, eyes wide. “we’re going to the same class.”

“yeah, but-“ her eyes find his, and he knows she can see how badly he wants to be alone with you. “-i’m not in the mood to third wheel. that guy from last night is ghosting me.”

“third wheel-“ you protest, mouth open dumbly, and she just kisses you on the cheek.

“see you in ten, babe.”

you turn to him once she’s gone. he doesn’t bother to hide the smug grin on his face.

“coffee?” he says innocently, checking his watch. “i can make it happen in three minutes.”

you flush, but you don’t do more than mumble ‘jerk’ under your breath before following him. he laughs, picking at his new lunch while he walks you.

neither of you address why he’s so smug, why you’re so embarrassed.

why the air between you is so charged, something so very acknowledged and unacknowledged at the same time, something so obvious that it’s left unsaid.

—

you find him in the library after your club meeting. ‘third floor stacks’ is what he’d texted you when your meeting had gone over time, and you’re wandering the dark aisles of the empty stacks now, searching for him.

“third floor stacks,” you mutter to yourself. “couldn’t be more specific?”

“did you need me to be?”

you scream, the sound sharp and echoing, and whirl around. iwa’s poking his head out of one of the aisles, one you’d already looked into. you must have missed his shadow in the dark.

“haji, no one uses the stacks.” you stomp over to him, huffing in annoyance as you drop your backpack at your feet. “it’s creepy and dark and full of spiders in here.”

“it’s also where the books are,” he teases, and you realize he’s got a small stack of health sciences textbooks at his feet. “how was hiking club?”

“good,” you say, surveying the shelves around you. “there’s a retreat in a couple weeks. getting to know each other or something.”

he hums, crouching and scanning the titles. “sounds fun – if you like hiking, i guess.”

“i could like hiking.”

“you could, yeah. but do you?” he chuckles when you sniff in annoyance at him. “let me know when you figure it out.”

“there’s a meeting this weekend,” you offer. “going to a trail nearby, something for beginners, apparently.”

“take enough water. and food. and a hat and sunscreen.” he rattles the list off distractedly, and you get the feeling he’s reading out of a mental textbook.

“i’m asking if you wanna go,” you sigh, standing over him and digging the toe of your shoe into the linoleum. he blinks away his to-do list now, his eyes clearing as he looks up at you.

when he stands, towering over you now, it takes everything in you not to wither. because he’s got his short sleeves rolled up to his shoulder, a habit since high school, and his jeans are dark and fit him just right. and there’s writing on the inside of his left forearm, the call numbers for books he needs scribbled impatiently in black pen.

and he smells good and is standing close and has eyes that make you want to fold like a lawn chair. and he’s smirking, those stupid lips curling in a way that makes you ache for him, and his warmth — the heat he always radiates without trying — is washing over you. making you feel drunk.

drunk, still hoping uselessly that he can’t tell. hoping he can’t see the fog in your head, reflected in some traitorous haze in your eyes. hoping you’re not drooling, because it feels like you are.

hoping you’re not imagining that he’s stepping closer to you, his gaze cast down his nose and burning right through you.

“i dunno about that,” he says, barely above a whisper. “it’s not really my thing.”

“you’re athletic,” you argue weakly, hearing your own words slur in your ears. “be athletic.”

“i play club volleyball twice a week.”

“but you don’t hike. different muscle groups.”

“is that right?” he chuckles. the sound goes straight between your legs. “you got a source for that?”

“haji,” you whine. you know how you sound, but you’re starting not to care. you’d been desperate to hide your feelings for him before — your attraction, spilling off of you in thick waves. now you’re just desperate for him, and he’d shown you last night that that’s okay. that it’s allowed.

it shouldn’t be allowed. you’ll stop trying to control yourself if it’s allowed.

“yeah?” he asks, and you know for sure this time that he’s stepping closer.

“please?” you say, tilting your mouth up toward his, an invitation.

he doesn’t take it. you wait a moment, just in case, but he just stares down at you expectantly. you frown.

“haji,” you ask again — beg, really.

he just lifts his eyebrows. “you haven’t told me what you want.”

your frown deepens. he watches it happen. “you know what i want.”

“do i?” he smiles, tilting his head to the side and pretending to be confused. your impatience grows. “i’m not sure i do.”

you can’t help it. you stomp your foot. you stomp your foot like a spoiled princess and glare up at him. “don’t be mean-"

and then you gasp, loud and echoing in the aisle, because he’s grabbing you by the hips and pinning you roughly to the shelf.

“h-hey,” you stutter, laughing nervously up at him. he’s staring down at you with molten eyes, excitement dancing in his gaze and making his hands tighten on your waist. a shock of nerves courses down your spine. you don’t know what this is, but there’s a tug in the pit of your stomach that tells you you don’t hate it. you don’t hate it at all.

“who're you talkin’ to like that?” he asks, laughing quietly in your face. “you’ve never been the bratty type.”

“‘m not bratty,” you argue. the tick of light in his gaze makes it clear that you’re making it worse. “i’m telling you what i want-”

“mm-mm,” he argues, dipping his head low and brushing his nose against yours. his eyes drop to your lips. “you’re really not. but you’re free to remind me.”

“haji,” you complain, feeling embarrassed. embarrassed that he’s pegged you for what you are — desperate.

when his lips brush against your ear, you latch onto his biceps to keep yourself upright.

“you’re never this shy, you know,” he whispers. “you’re usually a little too honest.” you pant against him, arching your back and pressing your chest against his. something hard pushes against your hip, but you know now that that’s a good thing. that it’s good when iwaizumi hajime feels like that.

“ask me,” he breathes, dropping his lips to a spot under your ear. his breath makes you shiver. “ask me what happens in the stacks.”

your breath catches audibly, and you shift unconsciously against him, all too aware of the quiet grunt he lets out when you press your hips against his.

“h-have you ever been here with a girl?” you ask, your face on fire and your eyes pricking with humiliation. “in the s-stacks?”

he smiles, irritatingly pleased. you realize that the rough edge doesn’t need to be in his voice for you to feel pushed around by him. bullied by him.

you don’t know how to tell him that this is the feeling you’ve been waiting for.

“no, i can’t say i have,” he mumbles, shaking his head. your heart jumps at the admission. “do you wanna try it out with me?”

“yes,” you breathe, immediate and wanton and embarrassing. “yes, please.”

his lips are so rewarding, brutal and rude on yours. he forces his tongue past the seam of your lips without warning you, but you open up for him gratefully, and he moans into your mouth, praise to your ears.

“haji?” you ask when he breaks away, breathless and unable to think about much except for the searing hot line he’s kissing down your throat.

“hm?” he asks distractedly, and you realize only when his teeth scrape against your skin that he’s marking the same place that the blond guy had last night. covering any trace of another man on your skin.

“you’ve really never been in here with anyone?” he shakes his head, and shivers start at the crown of your head and spill down your body when he passes his tongue over the spot he’s just bitten down on. “then—how many girls have you been with?”

he snorts when you ask, but you can feel his arms tense under your fingertips. he sets one hand on the shelf behind you, caging you in. “you really want me to answer that?”

he’s nervous. he doesn’t want to tell you.

you definitely want to know now.

“yes,” you say, your voice wavering — because he’s sucking on a spot that makes your knees weak — but you say it with certainty. “tell me.”

he sighs, rough and a little frustrated, and pulls away to look you in the eye. his brows are furrowed.

“four. but you can’t be mad.” you are mad. your chest swells with jealousy, green and ugly. he must see it, because his mouth — pretty and swollen from kissing you — sets into a hard line as he stares down at you. “you dated after i left, y/n. you can't be mad.”

he’s mad, too.

that shouldn’t make you as giddy as it does.

you lift your brows, leveling him with a smug smile. your nerves flip in your stomach, strong and swooping over each other in uneven turns, but you lean up into his face, anyway. “not mad.” he scoffs in disbelief. your heart dances when he glares down at you like that. “just want you to teach me.”

his eyebrows fly to his hairline, clearly surprised with the turn this conversation’s taking. but there’s something in his eyes that conflicts with it. something that makes you think he might have been wanting you to ask.

when he looks at you like that, asking doesn’t seem so hard.

“please, haji?” you whisper, holding out against the heated look he’s giving you. “teach me?”

he looks devastatingly interested, eyes stuck on your mouth, but he still protests. he still protects you, still keeps you innocent.

“if you cross that line with me, you can’t take it back,” he murmurs, almost like he's reluctant to say it.

you just lean into him, arms around his neck and fingers tangled in his hair. “don’t wanna cross it with anyone else.”

“christ,” he breathes, his sigh warm and promising on your skin.

footsteps sound behind him, only a few aisles away. iwa steps away from you, eyes hot on yours as he leans against the opposite shelf. your phone buzzes in your pocket, and you glance at it quickly. your roommate’s asking about dinner.

when you look up again, he’s trailing his eyes down your body shamelessly. you just bend and scoop up your bag, slinging it over your shoulder. his eyes find yours, brows lifting curiously.

“bye, haji,” you whisper teasingly, grinning when he narrows his eyes at you.

you hear him sigh loudly when you turn the corner, his breath coming out in a sharp ‘fucking shit’. your face burns with nervous excitement the entire walk to dinner.

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