Hiromi Higuruma & Kento Nanami

The fluorescent hum of the office lights felt like a symphony compared to the discordant chaos of your previous gigs. A year out of college, the economy had been a personal hell, a relentless gauntlet of soul-crushing rejections and humiliating side hustles. You’d flipped greasy burgers for minimum wage, endured screaming toddlers while sweating inside a polyester clown suit, and even attempted dog-walking in a blizzard – anything to avoid the gaping maw of unemployment. This office job, with its promise of a stable paycheck and actual benefits, felt like a lifeline, a gilded cage you’d gladly crawl into if it meant escaping the absurdity of your past. You had hoped it would be the dream fit.

Little did you know, you wouldn't just have one problem here, but two massive, insurmountable problems, the longer you worked at this establishment.

Your first day was a blur of unfamiliar faces and baffling software. Your trainer, a kindly but detached older lady, had efficiently shown you to your cubicle, then disappeared, leaving you marooned in a sea of spreadsheets. You found yourself wedged between two older gentlemen, their names echoing with a certain gravitas: Kento Nanami on your left, Hiromi Higuruma on your right. Both were immaculately dressed in crisp suits, though Kento’s tie was already slightly loosened, and Hiromi’s hair looked perpetually on the verge of disarray.

You stared at a baffling prompt on your screen, a digital brick wall. After a moment of internal debate, you took a deep breath and reached over, gently tapping the man on your left. Kento Nanami glanced at you, his eyes holding a world of weary resignation. His golden hair, parted neatly, seemed to fight against gravity, a small rebellion against the corporate norm. You offered your most pleading, hopeful gaze, and he sighed, a sound that seemed to emanate from the depths of his very being. He pushed his glasses up his nose, ran a hand through his hair, and with a soft grunt, stood up, loosening his tie further.

"Another one of these archaic systems, I assume?" Kento murmured, his voice a low, rugged rumble that somehow managed to be both tired and patient. He leaned down beside you, his presence warm and subtly comforting, a faint scent of coffee and starched linen reaching you. He pointed to the screen with a long finger, explaining step by step. "You'll want to navigate through the 'legacy archives' – a term they use to mean 'anything over three months old and prone to crashing'."

You absorbed his words, clicking as instructed. But then you hit another snag, a particularly convoluted screen that made Kento groan. He rubbed his temples with his free hand, his gaze already drifting to the cubicle on your right. "Higuruma," he called, his tone clipped, but with an underlying familiarity. "How do we get to that particular abyss?"

Hiromi Higuruma, who somehow managed to look even more tired than Kento, blinked slowly, his dark eyes like deep pools. He glanced back, then at Kento, who briefly waved a hand towards you and your computer. Hiromi sighed, a sound of profound world-weariness, but got up regardless. He stretched languidly, a slow, cat-like movement that showcased the quiet power beneath his suit, before sauntering over.

Both men had absolutely no sense of personal space, crowding behind you as if you were merely a conduit for their shared expertise. Kento was on your left, leaning in close enough for you to feel the warmth of his body. Hiromi was worse. He simply settled his big, calloused hand over yours on the mouse, engulfing it completely.

"This is the 'quick access' workaround," Hiromi murmured, his voice a gravelly whisper, surprisingly soft despite its depth. He moved your entire hand, guiding it with deliberate slowness to click on the appropriate documents. Kento nodded briefly. "Ah, yes. The 'bypass' they implemented after the last system-wide 'incident'."

Hiromi added, his hand still covering yours, scrolling the mouse over important deadlines and dates. "These are critical. Highlight them for priority." Kento leaned closer, pointing with his finger near the screen. "And always double-check the client codes. They tend to… mutate."

This was only the start of their quiet helpfulness, their almost instinctual kindness towards you. They were veterans in this office, years of experience etched into their faces, and they had silently, collectively, taken you under their wing.

Kento would wordlessly refill the coffee machine whenever you ventured into the break room, often catching your eye. "Coffee? How do you take it?" he'd ask once, and from then on, he simply knew. If you were stressed, staying late, you’d find a steaming mug of your preferred blend – along with a chocolate bar from the vending machine – placed gently on your desk. Kento would then wordlessly return to his cubicle, grab his jacket, and depart, a silent guardian ensuring you didn't overdo it. "Don't overdo it," he'd once said, his voice softer than usual. "You've earned a break."

Hiromi was more direct with work-related aid. He’d walk by your desk, his shadow falling over your screen, before settling his hands on either side of your sitting form on the desk. He'd lean down, his breath a soft caress against your ear. "You've missed a column there, {{user}}." Or sometimes, he would grab the stack of paperwork you were tackling, his large hands surprisingly deft as he shuffled through them, separating the harder, more tedious tasks. He’d set the easier portion back on your desk before retreating to his own cubicle, wordlessly doing your half of the work, the stuff he knew would be difficult for a newbie. "This batch is particularly tedious," he murmured once, sliding a thick folder off your pile. "I'll handle the more... intricate details."

They worked around you in a silent, respectful dance. Mostly offering grunts or small nods whenever one would speak to the other. Rarely, you’d see a pat on the back, a fleeting gesture of camaraderie. But they were silently, undeniably, glued to your orbit.

It got more… physical... the more months you worked there. You needed less help, but they still lingered in their own ways. Whenever Kento would reach for files in the top drawer above your desk, he would settle a gentle, firm hand on your lower back. His arm would flex, muscles shifting subtly beneath his suit as he pulled back, his hand lingering for a second on your shirt, almost a reluctant touch. He’d offer a soft, "Excuse me," his voice a rich baritone, even as his fingers just barely brushed your skin.

Hiromi, conversely, would loosen his tie, stretching languidly in his chair with a low, satisfying groan. He’d flex his muscles, a deliberate, almost theatrical movement that had you silently peeking at him, a flush rising to your cheeks. He noticed, of course, a small, knowing smirk playing on his lips, but he never made a scene or met your gaze directly. He just ran a hand through his already messy hair, rubbing his temples, the movement causing his suit jacket to slip down one shoulder, revealing a flash of white undershirt and toned bicep.

Deliberately, but disguised as normalcy, their gaze, their hands, and their words lingered around you. And you weren't complaining.

However, it was one stressful afternoon that truly secured what all three of you had subconsciously acknowledged. A coworker, known for his perpetually bad temper, wasn't watching where he was going. He accidentally bumped into you, his large coffee mug spilling its scalding contents all over your front. It burned. The reaction was immediate.

Hiromi darted into the room, a blur of motion. He ripped off his jacket, shrugging it expertly over your shoulders, covering your coffee-drenched torso. Then, he was pushing the offending coworker back aggressively, his voice a low, dangerous snarl. "Watch where you're going, you imbecile! Are you blind?"

Kento was immediately right behind you, his hand firm on your arm, steering you away from the escalating confrontation and towards the intersex bathroom. He gently helped you sit on the counter, his movements careful and precise as he wet some paper towel. His eyes, usually weary, were sharp with concern. "Are you alright? This looks nasty. May I?" he asked, his voice soft, indicating the damp buttons of your shirt. When you nodded, a small whimper escaping your lips, he moved with respectful care, unbuttoning a few just enough to press the cool, wet paper towel to your burning skin. "Careful. Idiot," he muttered, his gaze fixed on the redness blossoming on your chest.

Hiromi came in a moment later, a tube of burn cream in his hand, his eyes still holding a fierce anger. He stood before you, beside Kento, and carefully began to help Kento rub it into your skin. "Hold still," he instructed, his hand surprisingly gentle. Then Kento, without a shred of hesitation or shame in the moment, undid the buttons of his own crisp white shirt and shrugged it off, revealing a toned, muscled frame beneath. "Take mine," he said simply, handing it to you. "No point in risking further irritation. I'll be fine." Hiromi added, "Keep the jacket. It's nothing." Both men waited, ensuring you were okay before heading back to their cubicles. Kento, now shirtless, promptly excused himself to avoid 'unprofessional appearances' – though the guy who’d spilled the coffee never made another complaint again.

They were even more attentive after that day. Any slack in your workload was instantly picked up, food would appear on your desk whenever you looked tired, and they even carried on casual conversations with you, always lingering with a small, comforting touch and a soft, genuine smile. The relationship between the three of you deepened into something more intimate, a silent understanding woven between the desks.

‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾. * ੈ✩‧₊˚

One crisp spring day, as the weather warmed, you decided to wear a skirt to work. It was a first, still obeying the dress code, but definitely a new sight. Especially to Kento and Hiromi.

A wonderful sight, actually.

Kento did a slow, deliberate double-take when you sat down at your cubicle. His eyes, usually half-lidded, widened almost imperceptibly as they traced the curve of your calf, the gentle swell of your thigh beneath the fabric. He jerked his hand to loosen his tie, swallowed hard, a prominent bob in his throat, and then ran a hand up his face, pushing his glasses into his hair. You heard a soft, guttural sound, easily mistaken for a clearing of his throat. He had to shift in his chair, one hand gripping his thigh so hard his knuckles whitened before soothing it down aggressively. Fuck.

Hiromi’s reaction was no better. When he turned to glance at you, his gaze lingered, drawn like a moth to a flame, on the way your skirt rode up a little to expose more of your upper thigh as you settled. His pupils dilated, the dark pools of his eyes suddenly intense. He had to clear his throat, a dry, raspy sound, and turn his face away for a moment, letting out a low, almost inaudible groan before glancing back again, unable to resist the sight. One hand covered his mouth, his teeth worrying at his knuckles, as the other tapped an uneven, frantic rhythm on his desk. His leg began to bounce under the desk, a contained nervous energy, as he felt his pants start to tent up at the undeniable sight.

Kento and Hiromi locked eyes for only a second, but that second was enough for a silent, potent conversation to transpire. A primal agreement.

Kento got up, adjusting his trousers with a hand that trembled slightly, before disappearing into the storage closet. Normal, right? A quick task, a stretch. No. A few minutes passed, an eternity of unspoken tension, before Hiromi got up, walked over to your desk, and gently tapped your shoulder to get your attention. You turned, and he leaned down, his voice a low, dangerous rumble in your ear. "We need to discuss something, {{user}}... in private."

You nodded slowly, a prickle of unease mixed with something else, something warm and anticipatory, dancing on your skin. You got up and followed him. He led you to the storage closet, the door ajar. You raised an eyebrow, a silent question in your eyes. Hiromi just offered a small, predatory smile, and opened the door wider for you to enter.

When you stepped inside, your face immediately stopped at the sight before you. Kento. He was leaning back against the shelving, a low, desperate plea in his eyes, his suit pants and underwear down to his ankles. One hand was covering his mouth, stifling a moan, the other stroking his big, leaking dick, already thick and engorged.

Before you could even process, before you could turn around to leave, Hiromi closed the door behind you with a soft click, plunging the small space into relative darkness. He settled his large hands on your waist, his grip firm as he carefully, deliberately, pushed you towards Kento. He leaned down, his lips brushing the sensitive skin below your ear, murmuring huskily, his breath warm and intoxicating. "Were you trying to tease us, then, {{user}}?"

Kento groaned into his hand, a raw, animal sound, before slowly letting his dick go, letting it bob obscenely against his stomach. His eyes, dark and heavy-lidded, met yours as he took a slow, deliberate step forward, his fingers reaching out to graze your bare thigh, a wave of heat blooming where he touched. "This is hardly appropriate office attire, {{user}}," he grunted, his voice thick with unbridled desire, contradicting his words completely.

Hiromi pressed his front against your back, his hips settling right against your ass, a slow, grinding rhythm beginning. He kissed down your neck, his lips hot and wet, murmuring, "Perhaps we should teach you a lesson on workplace conduct. For your violation of the dress code." All the while, he continued to grind slowly against your ass.

Kento, his eyes never leaving yours, dragged the hem of your skirt up so it was around your hips, his fingers grazing your underwear, teasing the fabric against your skin. Then, with a possessive slide, he pressed two thick fingers right up against your heat, already growing damp and aching. He pressed forward, rubbing his rigid dick against your thigh, groaning as he tilted your chin up with his free hand. He leaned down, his voice a low, guttural growl against your lips, "Such a bad girl, inviting trouble. We'll show you exactly what happens to those who dress for attention, won't we?"