! - if you have any recommendations or any plots that you want to see , just send me a message or an ask and I will gladly do it for you! (unless stated otherwise.)
fandoms: mha, the disastrous life of saiki k, haikyuu, kurokos basketball, smallville, Harry Potter, jjk, death note (and any others if I know it or ill get to know about it!)
A/n: all of my work will have all genres (and are x reader) unless stated otherwise. This will also be updated every time.
TALK PRETTY WHILE YOU’RE MAKIN’ A MESS OF ME ( katsuki bakugou )
GOONING SESSION ( denki kaminari )
LOOK AT YOU SHAKING ALREADY FOR BOTH OF US ( kagami taiga & aomine daiki )
more coming soon ꩜ .ᐟ
reblogs and likes will be much appreciated! I hope you enjoy reading <3
Please don’t repost my work.
images + dividers + characters ARE NOT mine and all belong to their respective creators. I am not taking anyone’s artwork as my own and DO NOT claim them as my own.
Snowed in at a remote research cabin, warmth becomes a shared resource—and restraint becomes harder to maintain.
This content contains mature themes, sexual tension, intimacy. Contains soft smut. Minors do not interact.
Xavier x reader. around 1.7k wc
I recommend listening to the song above for maximum emotion.
The cabin wasn’t built for comfort; it was a scar of wood and reinforced steel carved into the unforgiving, frozen ribs of the mountains. It was a contingency point—a place designed for the moments when the Deepspace Hunter’s Association lost their grip on a mission, when extraction failed, and the storm swallowed the world whole.
You and Xavier had lived in these cabins before, it was nothing new. You were partners accustomed to the continuously sudden shifts in weather and the high-stakes silence of a mission gone sideways. But tonight, the atmosphere inside the cabin didn't just feel cold; it felt unbearably pressurized, as if the oxygen was being slowly replaced by something heavy, gold, and dangerous.
The snowstorm had rolled in with a predatory speed, thick enough to choke the signal clean out of your comms. First, the frantic voices of the Link on the other end turned to grit, then to static, then to a haunting, absolute nothing.
Protocol was a cold comfort: Shelter. Conserve energy. Wait.
The heavy door thudded shut, sealing the two of you into a space that felt intentionally compressed. Efficient. Small. A single queen-sized bed was shoved against the far wall, a kitchenette no more than an arm's reach away, and a single heater mounted low on the wall that ticked unevenly, like a heart struggling to beat against a rising tide.
Xavier didn’t pace. He never did.
He moved with that infuriating, graceful lethality he always possessed, dropping his pack and crossing to the console. His fingers—pale, long, and elegant—danced over the controls, checking power levels and backup batteries. The dim emergency lights caught the silver of his hair, turning him into something ethereal, a celestial being trapped in a wooden box.
You moved to the bed, smoothing the scratchy wool blanket. Your hands lingered there, pressing into the mattress, feeling the phantom vibration of the storm through the floorboards. Or perhaps it wasn't the storm. Perhaps it was just the humming tension in your own marrow, a reaction to the sheer, unavoidable proximity of him.
“Storm’s not easing,” Xavier said. His voice was soft, a silken ripple in the quiet, but it carried that weight of centuries-old patience.
You looked toward the window. The world had vanished. There was no horizon, no sky, just a violent, swirling white that pressed against the glass as if the mountain itself was trying to get in. “So we’re here for the night?”
“Fortunately,” he replied.
He reached out and flicked on the small, outdated television. He didn't expect a broadcast; he just wanted the noise.
Static crackled softly, a jagged, white sound that filled the gaps between your heartbeats. He adjusted the volume until it was a low, rhythmic hiss—a reminder that a world existed beyond this box of wood and stone.
When you turned back, he was watching you. It wasn't the look of a teammate checking for injuries. It was the way a star looks at the planet it’s bound to—unblinking, gravitational, and quietly burning with a heat that could incinerate if you stepped too close.
“I’m going to take a shower,” he said, his eyes dropping to the damp, salt-stained hem of your tactical gear. “The cold is settling in. I can feel it in my bones.”
“Yeah,” you blurted out, the word hitting the air too fast, too jagged. “I’ll... I’ll check the heater. See if I can coax it into working.”
The bathroom door clicked shut, the sound echoing like a gavel. A moment later, the pipes groaned—a mechanical protest before the sound of rushing water took over. It was a terrifyingly intimate sound. Every splash, every muffled movement of his body behind that thin door felt like it was being broadcast directly into your nervous system. You knelt by the heater, adjusting a dial that did nothing, your breath fogging in the air.
You told yourself not to picture him. You told yourself not to imagine the way his Evol might flicker beneath his skin when he’s relaxed, the faint light of his core glowing through his chest.
You failed spectacularly.
The background noise of the TV blurred with the sound of the shower, creating a hypnotic, sensual drone that made your skin feel too tight for your body.
When the water finally stopped, the silence that followed was visceral.
The door creaked open, and Xavier emerged, draped in a haze of steam that clung to him like a shroud. He brought the humidity with him, a cloud that smelled of cedar and the clean, intoxicating scent of his skin. He had a towel slung low—dangerously, heart-stoppingly low—around his hips. His skin was flushed a soft, bruised pink from the heat, making the pale scars on his shoulders stand out in sharp relief.
You looked. You couldn’t help it. Droplets of water traced slow, agonizing paths down the center of his chest, carving a line over his abdominals before disappearing into the white terry cloth. He caught your gaze. He didn't look away. Instead, he tilted his head, his eyes darkened into a shade of gold that looked like molten honey.
“I can wait outside while you change,” you offered, your voice sounding thin.
“It’s fine,” he said. His voice had dropped an octave, a low, vibrating baritone. “I’ll be quick.”
He turned his back to you to pull on his boxers. The sight of his spine—the way the muscles shifted under his skin—made your throat go bone-dry.
“I should change too,” you whispered.
Xavier glanced over his shoulder, his eyes tracing the line of your throat. He reached into his pack and pulled out a clean, oversized long-sleeved shirt. “Here. This will keep the heat in better. You’re shivering.”
You took the fabric from him. Your fingers brushed—just for a fraction of a second—but it felt like a lightning strike.
Inside the bathroom, the air was still thick with him. You pulled on his shirt. It was massive, the hem hitting your mid-thigh, the fabric still carrying a hint of his residual warmth. It didn't make you feel safer; it made you feel like you were being consumed.
When you stepped back out, the cabin was even darker. The only light came from the flickering, hypnotic gray of the TV static. Xavier was sitting on the bed, his back against the headboard.
“Signal’s still dead,” he said.
“Figures,” you replied, crawling onto the far side of the bed. You pulled the blanket up to your chin, but the mattress dipped deeply under his weight, pulling you toward the center. Toward him.
The cold of the storm began to seep through the walls, persistent and biting. You shivered—a small, uncontrollable tremor. Xavier reacted instantly. He shifted, lifting the edge of the blanket and drawing you toward him with a quiet, devastating decisiveness.
His body was a fucking furnace. Your back hit his chest, and you let out a ragged breath. His arm draped over your waist, his large, calloused hand settling flat against your stomach.
“This is just for warmth,” he murmured against the shell of your ear. “Practicality,”
“Yeah,” you whispered. “Practicality.”
But then you shifted, and your leg moved against his. The bare skin of your calf brushed the firm, solid muscle of his thigh. You both froze. The noise of the TV seemed to roar in the silence.
Xavier’s grip on your waist tightened. He let out a low, pained groan deep in his throat and rolled you over so you were pinned beneath him. The gray light caught the gold in his eyes. They were wide, the pupils blown so large they almost swallowed the iris.
“You’re making this hard,” he whispered, his face inches from yours. “I’ve tried so hard to be the partner you need. To be ‘practical.’ To be patient.”
Your pulse was skidding, erratic and wild. “Xavier…”
“But you’re wearing my clothes,” he trailed off, his gaze dropping to your lips. “And the world is gone outside that door. And I can’t hear anything but the way your heart is screaming for me.”
“Xavier,” you breathed like a prayer.
“I want to hear you say it,” he rasped, his nose brushing yours. “Tell me you’ve been wanting this as much as I have.”
“I have,” you confessed, your voice breaking. “Since the beginning.”
He broke. He kissed you with a ferocity that was a reclamation. His mouth was hot, his tongue sweeping against yours. He bit the soft skin of your neck, and as you moaned, he lifted you with effortless strength, settling you onto his lap so you straddled him.
He hooked his fingers under the hem of the shirt, pulling it upward. Inch by inch, the fabric retreated. As it slid off your shoulders, he let out a hitching breath. “God... you’re so beautiful. More than I ever imagined.”
He circled your waist with his thumbs, tilting your hips to press your heat firmly against the hard, throbbing length of him. You let out a sharp gasp, your hands digging into his shoulders.
“You feel that?” he whispered, his forehead against yours. “That’s what you do to me. Every single day I spend with you.”
He moved to the waistband of your shorts, pulling them down until you were completely exposed. Every touch was a worship. He leaned forward, his mouth finding the swell of your breasts, his tongue slow and reverent. You arched your back, fingers tangling in his hair.
“Xavier, please,” you urged, your hips rolling against him instinctively.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured, his voice thick with desire. He pulled his own boxers off as he shifted his thighs to frame yours, pulling you flush against him so no air remained between you. One hand settled on your lower back, pulling you into a deep, grinding friction that made your vision blur.
You moved in a slow, deliberate rhythm, testing the weight of him. Xavier followed your lead, his hips lifting to meet your downward press, matching your pace with a discipline that was fracturing.
“Look at me,” he commanded softly, his eyes shimmering with golden light. As you met his gaze, he increased the intensity, his hands cupping your thighs to guide the depth of the contact. “Is this okay? Tell me what you need.”
“More,” you gasped, your chest heaving against his. “I need... closer.”
He groaned, the sound raw and desperate. He pulled you tighter, his mouth returning to yours as his hips began a steady, powerful drive upward. It was no longer a tease; it was a collision. You could feel every pulse of his heartbeat through the friction of your bodies, the heat between your thighs becoming a white-hot spark.
“You’re so tight,” he rasped into the hollow of your neck. “I’m not going to be able to go slow anymore. You’re ruining me.”
“Don’t go slow,” you pleaded, your nails scratching the skin of his back.
He took the invitation, his rhythm becoming faster, more urgent. He held your hips in a vice-like grip, grounding you as the sensation began to coil into a tight, unbearable knot. You were moving together in a blur of skin and static, the TV being a perfect backdrop to the sounds of your joined breaths and the wet friction of the act.
“That’s it,” he whispered, his voice dark and possessive as he felt your body begin to tense. “Stay with me. Just like that.”
The coil inside you snapped. You arched your back, a long, shattered cry escaping you as the pleasure rolled through you in waves. Xavier didn't stop; he drove into the friction one last time, his thumbs digging into your hips, his own breath catching in a ragged, broken moan as he followed you over the edge.
He held you through the tremors, his forehead resting on your shoulder, his chest heaving. The silence that followed was sacred. He didn't pull away; he kept you close, his hands stroking your back as your breathing slowly returned to the room.
“I’ve wanted to do that for so long,” he whispered into your skin, his voice small and honest. “I’m never letting you go back to just being my partner. You know that, right?”
You collapsed against him, your heart still drumming against his ribs. “I know.”
Outside, the storm erased the mountains. But inside, under the flicker of the static, the white noise had finally settled into peace.
end
A/n: please be sure to check out my other works if you liked this & I really do hope you enjoyed reading this piece! reblogs and likes are always much appreciated.
He only comes to you when he’s drunk and lost. You stay long enough to realize love isn’t supposed to feel like disappearing.
This content contains emotional angst and heartbreak but also the painful truth that not all hearts are meant to be fixed.
Timeskip!Atsumu x Reader. around 1.1k wc
I recommend listening to the song above for maximum emotion.
The phone vibrates at 1:17 a.m.
You don’t need to look at the screen to know who it is. The timing is a signature—late enough to signify a disaster, early enough to catch you in the fragile space before deep sleep. The vibration hums against the nightstand, a low, tectonic rattle that settles somewhere behind your ribs.
atsumu:
‘m comin over
open pls
The spelling is sloppy, the words urgent and entitled. He never offers a greeting or an explanation. He moves through your life like he moves on the court: assuming the space is already his. You stare at the glow of the screen, your thumb hovering like this is still a choice you make freely, like history hasn’t already taught you what happens next.
You unlock the door. You don’t even check the peephole.
By the time the elevator chimes, you’re standing barefoot on the cool tile, the apartment quiet and dim. Tokyo stretches endlessly beyond the windows—a sprawl of cold neon and distant sirens, a city too vast to notice people like you learning the same devastating lesson over and over again.
You open the door before he can knock.
Atsumu stumbles inside with a familiarity that used to feel like intimacy, but now just feels like a trespass. He’s too large for the narrow entryway, his shoulder clipping the frame. He kicks his shoes off—one hitting the wall, the other overturned—and the air in the apartment shifts. He brings the outside in with him: the smell of stale whiskey, the ozone of a storm, and the sharp, metallic tang of blood.
He’s a mess of jagged edges. There’s a split at the corner of his mouth and a bruise already blooming like a dark, ugly flower along the sharp line of his jaw. He looks like a masterpiece that someone took a hammer to.
“Hey,” he says. His voice is a rough sandpaper rasp, but it softens when it lands on you, that familiar Kansai lilt dragging over your name like a hook.
You don’t comment on his face. You never do. To speak of it is to acknowledge the cycle, and you aren't ready to break the silence yet. You just step aside and gesture toward the bathroom. He follows without protest, his gait heavy and uncoordinated, his presence sucking the oxygen out of the hallway.
The bathroom light is a clinical, unforgiving white. It strips away the glamour of the MSBY star, the "Miya Atsumu" the world worships, and leaves only the wreckage. You soak a cloth at the sink, wring it out carefully, and turn back to him.
He’s sitting on the edge of the tub, elbows on his knees, watching you from beneath his gold-tinged lashes. In this light, he looks stripped down—unguarded in a way the cameras never see. It’s the look he saves just for you, a curated vulnerability that he uses to keep you tethered.
“You’re good at this,” he murmurs as you press the cool cloth to his split knuckles.
The words weigh more than he knows. You don’t answer though. You focus on the rhythm of the work—the steady pressure, the way his breath catches when you hit a sensitive spot. You’ve memorized the map of his endurance. You know exactly when to pull back and when to hold firm.
Your knees brush as you crouch before him. He’s warm, radiating a heat that makes your chest ache. He leans into your touch slightly, instinctive, trusting, like this is where he’s meant to be when things fall apart.
“Ran into some idiots,” he says lightly, trying to find his swagger. “Nothin’ big. Just some guys with loud mouths.”
You hum, a low, noncommittal sound. Outside, a siren wails in the distance, a lonely sound that matches the hollow feeling in your gut. You clean the cut above his brow with surgical precision. This part is easy. It’s the "after" that hurts—the part where he leaves and takes all the light with him.
“You didn’t have to come here, Atsumu,” you say quietly.
He lets out a breathy, jagged laugh that smells of bourbon. “Yeah, I did. Didn't know where else to go.”
“You have other places,” you reply, your voice cracking despite your best efforts to remain cool. “You have a high-rise, a team, a life. Other people.”
His jaw tightens. The softness in the room curdles into something sour. He looks away, his eyes fixing on the grout of the tiled wall.
“She just—” He stops, shaking his head as if the rest of the sentence is too heavy to lift. “Forget it. It doesn’t matter.”
But it does. Her presence is a third person in the cramped bathroom. She is the reason for the blood on his shirt and the hollow look in his eyes. You’ve learned to live in her shadow, convincing yourself you were "strong" for being the one who picks up the pieces she breaks. Some nights, it feels more like you’re just… convenient. A safety net he doesn't have to thank.
“You know she shouldn’t hit you,” you say, the words finally slipping out.
The shift is instantaneous. The vulnerability vanishes, replaced by the iron-clad ego that made him a legend. He straightens his spine, his posture becoming a shield.
“Don’t start,” he says, his voice dropping an octave, warning.
“I’m not starting anything. I’m just saying what I see.”
“You always think you see everythin’,” he snaps, pushing to his feet too fast. He sways, his balance betrayed by the alcohol, and instinct wins—you reach out, steadying him by the forearms.
He doesn’t pull away.
Instead, his hands find your waist, heavy and possessive. His forehead drops to yours, his breath warm and smelling of regret. For a heartbeat, the world shrinks to this: the heat of him, the familiar weight, and the way your heart betrays you by wanting to stay right here in the wreckage.
“You’re makin’ it a bigger deal than it is,” he whispers against your skin, his thumb tracing the hem of your shirt. “It ain't like that.”
“Then what is it like?” Your voice is shaking now, tears pricking the backs of your eyes. “Because from where I’m standing, you argue, she hits you, you fight strangers, and you end up here.”
“That’s none of your business,” he says, the coldness returning to his tone like a sudden frost.
“You make it my business,” you reply, finally wrenching yourself out of his grip. The loss of his heat is a physical shock. “Every time you knock on my door at 1 a.m. because you're too ashamed to go anywhere else, you make it my business.”
He scoffs, a sharp, ugly sound. “I didn’t ask you to take care of me. You just do it.”
“Because I thought I was helping you,” you whisper.
The silence that follows is thick.
“She’s perfect,” he says suddenly, the words flying out of his mouth like a defensive reflex, as if it’s a fact that should end the conversation.
You stare at him, truly seeing him for the first time in years. “Perfect? Atsumu, look at your face. Look at your hands. Look at this room.”
“Oi,” he snaps, his eyes flashing with a dangerous, petty fire. “You don't understand her. You don't understand what we have.”
“I understand more than you think,” you say, words spilling now, unstoppable. “I understand that I’m the one cleaning your blood off my towels while she’s sleeping in your bed. I see you chasing someone who hurts you. I see you breaking yourself in half trying to be enough for her. And I see myself standing here, pretending it doesn’t kill me.”
His expression hardens into a mask of pure, arrogant ice. This is the Atsumu who crushes opponents, the one who doesn't know how to lose. He looks down at you with a chilling indifference.
“You’re takin’ this too personal,” he says.
“Because it is personal,” you snap back. “You come here when she’s done with you. You let me clean up the mess. And the second I say something you don’t like, I’m ‘overstepping.’”
“You don’t know your place. You never did.”
The words land with more force than any punch he took tonight. The "place" he’s assigned you—the secondary character, the silent healer, the footnote.
Something inside you finally gives. It isn't a loud, dramatic break; it's a quiet, devastating clarity. It’s the sound of a key turning in a lock for the last time. You realize that you aren't the person who saves him—you're the person who makes it possible for him to keep being destroyed. By being his safety net, you’ve become his enabler.
You slap him.
The sound is a gunshot in the small bathroom. His head snaps to the side, his blond hair falling over his eyes. He goes completely still. His eyes go wide, stunned into a silence he hasn't felt in years. Your hand stings—a sharp, electric heat that makes you feel more alive than you have in months—but you don’t pull it back.
“Fuck you,” you say, your voice terrifyingly steady. “I’m done being the place you land when everything else falls apart.”
He opens his mouth, his tongue darting out to touch the new copper taste of blood on his lip. He looks like he’s searching for a joke, an insult, a way to regain the upper hand, but for once, he finds nothing. You step back, putting a chasm between you that no amount of history can bridge.
“Get some sleep,” you say, walking toward the door. “You know where the couch is. You’ll be gone by the time I wake up. And don't bother ever coming back here.”
“Wait—”
You close your bedroom door before he can finish. You turn the lock. It’s a small, metallic click, but in the heavy silence of the apartment, it sounds like a funeral bell.
You lean your back against the wood, sliding down until you’re sitting on the floor. You listen to the muffled, clumsy sounds of him moving in the other room, the rustle of the couch cushions, the eventually heavy silence of a man who has lost the only real person in his life.
Outside, Tokyo keeps glowing, beautiful and indifferent. Your chest aches with a weight that feels like it might actually kill you. But as you sit there in the dark, listening to the city hum, you realize that some hearts aren't meant to be fixed by other people. Some hearts are meant to stay broken until they learn how to beat for themselves.
end
A/n: I wanted to write something raw and emotional —about loving someone you shouldn’t, about heartbreak that feels inescapable, and moments where love and pain collide. Atsumu was always such a complicated character to me, and I needed to explore him in a way that’s messy, emotional, and real. So, thank you for letting me share this version of him to you (even though it is terribly devastating to read).
He only comes to you when he’s drunk and lost. You stay long enough to realize love isn’t supposed to feel like disappearing.
This content contains emotional angst and heartbreak but also the painful truth that not all hearts are meant to be fixed.
Timeskip!Atsumu x Reader. around 1.1k wc
I recommend listening to the song above for maximum emotion.
The phone vibrates at 1:17 a.m.
You don’t need to look at the screen to know who it is. The timing is a signature—late enough to signify a disaster, early enough to catch you in the fragile space before deep sleep. The vibration hums against the nightstand, a low, tectonic rattle that settles somewhere behind your ribs.
atsumu:
‘m comin over
open pls
The spelling is sloppy, the words urgent and entitled. He never offers a greeting or an explanation. He moves through your life like he moves on the court: assuming the space is already his. You stare at the glow of the screen, your thumb hovering like this is still a choice you make freely, like history hasn’t already taught you what happens next.
You unlock the door. You don’t even check the peephole.
By the time the elevator chimes, you’re standing barefoot on the cool tile, the apartment quiet and dim. Tokyo stretches endlessly beyond the windows—a sprawl of cold neon and distant sirens, a city too vast to notice people like you learning the same devastating lesson over and over again.
You open the door before he can knock.
Atsumu stumbles inside with a familiarity that used to feel like intimacy, but now just feels like a trespass. He’s too large for the narrow entryway, his shoulder clipping the frame. He kicks his shoes off—one hitting the wall, the other overturned—and the air in the apartment shifts. He brings the outside in with him: the smell of stale whiskey, the ozone of a storm, and the sharp, metallic tang of blood.
He’s a mess of jagged edges. There’s a split at the corner of his mouth and a bruise already blooming like a dark, ugly flower along the sharp line of his jaw. He looks like a masterpiece that someone took a hammer to.
“Hey,” he says. His voice is a rough sandpaper rasp, but it softens when it lands on you, that familiar Kansai lilt dragging over your name like a hook.
You don’t comment on his face. You never do. To speak of it is to acknowledge the cycle, and you aren't ready to break the silence yet. You just step aside and gesture toward the bathroom. He follows without protest, his gait heavy and uncoordinated, his presence sucking the oxygen out of the hallway.
The bathroom light is a clinical, unforgiving white. It strips away the glamour of the MSBY star, the "Miya Atsumu" the world worships, and leaves only the wreckage. You soak a cloth at the sink, wring it out carefully, and turn back to him.
He’s sitting on the edge of the tub, elbows on his knees, watching you from beneath his gold-tinged lashes. In this light, he looks stripped down—unguarded in a way the cameras never see. It’s the look he saves just for you, a curated vulnerability that he uses to keep you tethered.
“You’re good at this,” he murmurs as you press the cool cloth to his split knuckles.
The words weigh more than he knows. You don’t answer though. You focus on the rhythm of the work—the steady pressure, the way his breath catches when you hit a sensitive spot. You’ve memorized the map of his endurance. You know exactly when to pull back and when to hold firm.
Your knees brush as you crouch before him. He’s warm, radiating a heat that makes your chest ache. He leans into your touch slightly, instinctive, trusting, like this is where he’s meant to be when things fall apart.
“Ran into some idiots,” he says lightly, trying to find his swagger. “Nothin’ big. Just some guys with loud mouths.”
You hum, a low, noncommittal sound. Outside, a siren wails in the distance, a lonely sound that matches the hollow feeling in your gut. You clean the cut above his brow with surgical precision. This part is easy. It’s the "after" that hurts—the part where he leaves and takes all the light with him.
“You didn’t have to come here, Atsumu,” you say quietly.
He lets out a breathy, jagged laugh that smells of bourbon. “Yeah, I did. Didn't know where else to go.”
“You have other places,” you reply, your voice cracking despite your best efforts to remain cool. “You have a high-rise, a team, a life. Other people.”
His jaw tightens. The softness in the room curdles into something sour. He looks away, his eyes fixing on the grout of the tiled wall.
“She just—” He stops, shaking his head as if the rest of the sentence is too heavy to lift. “Forget it. It doesn’t matter.”
But it does. Her presence is a third person in the cramped bathroom. She is the reason for the blood on his shirt and the hollow look in his eyes. You’ve learned to live in her shadow, convincing yourself you were "strong" for being the one who picks up the pieces she breaks. Some nights, it feels more like you’re just… convenient. A safety net he doesn't have to thank.
“You know she shouldn’t hit you,” you say, the words finally slipping out.
The shift is instantaneous. The vulnerability vanishes, replaced by the iron-clad ego that made him a legend. He straightens his spine, his posture becoming a shield.
“Don’t start,” he says, his voice dropping an octave, warning.
“I’m not starting anything. I’m just saying what I see.”
“You always think you see everythin’,” he snaps, pushing to his feet too fast. He sways, his balance betrayed by the alcohol, and instinct wins—you reach out, steadying him by the forearms.
He doesn’t pull away.
Instead, his hands find your waist, heavy and possessive. His forehead drops to yours, his breath warm and smelling of regret. For a heartbeat, the world shrinks to this: the heat of him, the familiar weight, and the way your heart betrays you by wanting to stay right here in the wreckage.
“You’re makin’ it a bigger deal than it is,” he whispers against your skin, his thumb tracing the hem of your shirt. “It ain't like that.”
“Then what is it like?” Your voice is shaking now, tears pricking the backs of your eyes. “Because from where I’m standing, you argue, she hits you, you fight strangers, and you end up here.”
“That’s none of your business,” he says, the coldness returning to his tone like a sudden frost.
“You make it my business,” you reply, finally wrenching yourself out of his grip. The loss of his heat is a physical shock. “Every time you knock on my door at 1 a.m. because you're too ashamed to go anywhere else, you make it my business.”
He scoffs, a sharp, ugly sound. “I didn’t ask you to take care of me. You just do it.”
“Because I thought I was helping you,” you whisper.
The silence that follows is thick.
“She’s perfect,” he says suddenly, the words flying out of his mouth like a defensive reflex, as if it’s a fact that should end the conversation.
You stare at him, truly seeing him for the first time in years. “Perfect? Atsumu, look at your face. Look at your hands. Look at this room.”
“Oi,” he snaps, his eyes flashing with a dangerous, petty fire. “You don't understand her. You don't understand what we have.”
“I understand more than you think,” you say, words spilling now, unstoppable. “I understand that I’m the one cleaning your blood off my towels while she’s sleeping in your bed. I see you chasing someone who hurts you. I see you breaking yourself in half trying to be enough for her. And I see myself standing here, pretending it doesn’t kill me.”
His expression hardens into a mask of pure, arrogant ice. This is the Atsumu who crushes opponents, the one who doesn't know how to lose. He looks down at you with a chilling indifference.
“You’re takin’ this too personal,” he says.
“Because it is personal,” you snap back. “You come here when she’s done with you. You let me clean up the mess. And the second I say something you don’t like, I’m ‘overstepping.’”
“You don’t know your place. You never did.”
The words land with more force than any punch he took tonight. The "place" he’s assigned you—the secondary character, the silent healer, the footnote.
Something inside you finally gives. It isn't a loud, dramatic break; it's a quiet, devastating clarity. It’s the sound of a key turning in a lock for the last time. You realize that you aren't the person who saves him—you're the person who makes it possible for him to keep being destroyed. By being his safety net, you’ve become his enabler.
You slap him.
The sound is a gunshot in the small bathroom. His head snaps to the side, his blond hair falling over his eyes. He goes completely still. His eyes go wide, stunned into a silence he hasn't felt in years. Your hand stings—a sharp, electric heat that makes you feel more alive than you have in months—but you don’t pull it back.
“Fuck you,” you say, your voice terrifyingly steady. “I’m done being the place you land when everything else falls apart.”
He opens his mouth, his tongue darting out to touch the new copper taste of blood on his lip. He looks like he’s searching for a joke, an insult, a way to regain the upper hand, but for once, he finds nothing. You step back, putting a chasm between you that no amount of history can bridge.
“Get some sleep,” you say, walking toward the door. “You know where the couch is. You’ll be gone by the time I wake up. And don't bother ever coming back here.”
“Wait—”
You close your bedroom door before he can finish. You turn the lock. It’s a small, metallic click, but in the heavy silence of the apartment, it sounds like a funeral bell.
You lean your back against the wood, sliding down until you’re sitting on the floor. You listen to the muffled, clumsy sounds of him moving in the other room, the rustle of the couch cushions, the eventually heavy silence of a man who has lost the only real person in his life.
Outside, Tokyo keeps glowing, beautiful and indifferent. Your chest aches with a weight that feels like it might actually kill you. But as you sit there in the dark, listening to the city hum, you realize that some hearts aren't meant to be fixed by other people. Some hearts are meant to stay broken until they learn how to beat for themselves.
end
A/n: I wanted to write something raw and emotional —about loving someone you shouldn’t, about heartbreak that feels inescapable, and moments where love and pain collide. Atsumu was always such a complicated character to me, and I needed to explore him in a way that’s messy, emotional, and real. So, thank you for letting me share this version of him to you (even though it is terribly devastating to read).
Hey I just wanted to say that you have my all time favorite characterization of Bokuto in a fic ever it’s toooooo good 🙏🙏🙏 it’s so hard to find good fics for him pls consider writing more or reposting ones you like you’d do the community a favor 😛🥹❤️
Hii omg you’re so sweet because of this, I’ll write a short oneshot just for you!!
ONE-SHOT — “Not Cold”
(bokuto x reader, fluff mixed with sadness)
Practice ran later than usual.
The gym lights had that faded, end-of-day yellow glow, the kind that felt like someone was slowly dimming the world. Everyone was tired. Voices were lower. Even Bokuto, who was usually all daylight and noise, had settled into that softer version of himself he only showed after pushing through every last drill.
You zipped your jacket higher, rubbing your hands together just once before he noticed.
Of course he noticed.
“Hey.” His voice came from right behind your shoulder — warm, close, like it always was. “You forgot your gloves again.”
You rolled your eyes because that’s what you did. “I didn’t forget them. I just… didn’t bring them.”
“That’s forgetting.” His tone was simple, unquestioning, Bokuto-logic.
But his hands were already catching yours, turning your palms up, rubbing them between his own before you could protest. Big hands, rough from tape and rope burn and blocking drills, but warm. Always warm.
Your breath stuttered a little — not enough for anyone else to hear.
But he wasn’t just anyone. He didn’t comment on it, he didn’t need to.
He tucked your left hand into his pocket with his, just like always, like your hands belonged there.
The walk home was quiet tonight. Snow was falling the way snow falls when it wants to cover the world gently. You could hear your steps more than his. He walked lightly for someone with shoulders like doors.
“You’re quiet,” he said after a minute. Not accusing. Not curious. Just… noticing. “Did something happen?”
You shrugged, breath fogging out in front of you. “Just tired.”
His head tilted, the way it always did when he didn’t believe you but didn’t want to push. “The tired-tired?”
You swallowed. “Yeah. That one.”
He hummed. A soft sound. Almost comforting.
You walked another block like that — his hand holding yours in the shared heat of his pocket, snow gathering on his hair like white confetti, street lamps flickering gold behind him.
You didn’t mean to sigh — it just happened, escaping your chest without permission.
He stopped walking.
You almost kept going, momentum carrying you half a step before his hand tugged you gently back.
“Hey,” he said, voice low enough that the snow seemed to hush for it. “What’s going on?”
You blinked, and your vision blurred for a half-second. The cold must’ve been stinging your eyes.
Except — when you lifted your fingers to swipe at your cheek, they came away damp.
“Oh.” Your voice cracked. “I… I didn’t know I was—”
“Crying,” he finished softly, like the word was something fragile, something he didn’t want to break.
He stepped closer without thinking. Bokuto never thought about the way he touched you — that was the problem. Or the reason. Or both.
One hand cupped your jaw, thumb brushing under your eye, warm and slow and unbearably careful. The other stayed around your hand in his pocket — holding you in place without trapping you.
“Hey,” he murmured. “Look at me for a second?”
You did.
His face was close — not for effect. Just because it always was. His eyes were that soft, amber-brown color that only happened when he wasn’t thinking about being loud or cheerful or anything for anyone else. Just him. Just here.
“What happened?” he asked.
Your throat tightened. The words tangled.
“I think I’m just… tired of trying to keep up. Everyone’s figuring everything out. Everyone has a plan. Everyone seems fine and I just—” Your voice broke, thin and tired. “I don’t feel fine. And I feel stupid for feeling like this.”
He didn’t say you weren’t stupid.
He didn’t say you were wrong.
He didn’t rush in with some bright reassurance that missed the point.
He just exhaled slow and pulled you to him.
The hug wasn’t careful. It wasn’t gentle. It was full, like his arms were meant to hold the entire weight of you.
Your face pressed into the solid heat of his chest. His coat brushed your cheek. His heartbeat was steady, real, patient. His arms wrapped around your waist and back like he was bracing you to stand. Like he’d hold you up for as long as you needed.
His chin settled lightly on your hair.
“You don’t have to be okay all the time,” he said quietly. “Not with me.”
Your fingers curled into the fabric between his shoulder blades. God, he was strong. Solid in a way you could lean into without falling.
“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” you whispered before you could stop yourself.
He went still.
His arms tightened — slow, like he didn’t want to give himself away.
“You won’t have to find out,” he said, voice warm against your hair. “I’m not going anywhere.”
The snow kept falling and the world stayed quiet. His hands didn’t let go.
Not even when you did.
END
reblogs and likes will be much appreciated! I hope you enjoyed <3
Please do not repost my work.
all images are not mine, this isn’t how the characters act/or are intended to act. This is just my personal idea on how they would act.
The cold night air bites at your exposed skin as you press deeper into the shadowed corner of the rooftop. Your fingers tremble around the broken inhibitor device, its shattered screen casting faint blue light across your palm. Each ragged breath you take feels like a betrayal, carrying your scent further into the polluted city air. You can feel it—that dangerous sweetness blooming in your blood, seeping through your pores despite your desperate attempts to contain it.
Below, Eidolon City stretches out like a glittering circuit board, its neon signs and hover-vehicle trails painting the smog-filled sky. But up here, on this abandoned high-rise in District 7, there's only the whisper of wind through broken ventilation shafts and the frantic beating of your own heart. The inhibitor's failure warning blinks relentlessly, a silent scream in the darkness. You'd thought you could make it to the black-market clinic before the collapse, but your body had other plans.
The scent hits you first—not your own, but something else. Dark and commanding, like storm-charged air and aged whiskey. Your knees weaken instinctively, a primal recognition that shatters what little composure you had left. You press your back against the cold concrete wall, the rough surface scraping through your thin clothing. Every nerve ending screams with awareness.
Then you see him.
Emerging from the rooftop access door like a shadow given form. Tall and impeccably dressed in black that drinks the dim light, his movements are fluid and precise. Even from across the roof, you can feel the weight of his gaze—crimson eyes that seem to see straight through your fragile defenses.
The red warning lights along the roof's edge cast intermittent pulses across his sharp features, illuminating the calm intensity in his expression. He doesn't rush, doesn't shout. His approach is measured, each step bringing him closer to the source of the anomaly—to you.
Your body reacts before your mind can process the danger. A warm flush spreads through your limbs, your skin tingling with sudden sensitivity. The broken inhibitor slips from your numb fingers, clattering against the concrete. The sound seems unnaturally loud in the tense silence.
"Signal Noise detected. Illegal pheromone resonance. Immediate isolation required." The automated system alert crackles through the communication device on his wrist. His eyes never leave yours as he raises his other hand, fingers moving with deliberate grace to switch off the comm. The sudden silence feels heavier than the alarm.
He's close enough now that you can see the subtle dilation of his pupils, the way his nostrils flare slightly as he takes in your scent. The air between you thickens with the mingling of your pheromones—his dark and commanding, yours sweet and unraveling. It's a dangerous chemistry that makes your head spin.
"Such a rare fragrance," his voice is low, smooth like velvet wrapped around steel. "The system had no record of this particular... bouquet."
You try to speak, to form some kind of defense, but your throat constricts. All you can manage is a shaky exhale that carries more of your scent into the space between you. His eyes darken in response, that crimson gaze intensifying.
He takes another step, closing the distance until you can feel the heat radiating from his body. Your back meets solid concrete—there's nowhere left to retreat. His presence surrounds you, overwhelming your senses until all you can process is him and the terrifying, thrilling awareness humming through your veins.
"Running only makes the scent stronger, little omega." His words are barely a whisper, but they resonate deep in your core. "Every frantic heartbeat pumps it through your system. Every panicked breath releases it into the air."
Your body betrays you, responding to his proximity with a fresh wave of that intoxicating sweetness. You can feel it pouring from you, mingling with his dark aroma in a dance as old as time. The combination is dizzying, awakening instincts you've spent years suppressing.
His gaze drops to your neck, to the place where your pulse beats a frantic rhythm against your skin. You see something shift in his expression—a flicker of hunger quickly masked by cool control. But you felt it, that momentary crack in his composure that mirrored the one spreading through your own defenses.
The wind picks up, carrying the mingled scent of you both across the rooftop. Some distant part of your mind registers that this should frighten you more—that his proximity, his obvious interest, his authority to detain you should send you scrambling for escape. But your body has different ideas, singing with a strange, terrifying rightness at his nearness.
He reaches out, not touching you yet, but close enough that you can feel the energy crackling in the space between his fingers and your arm. "The system says you should be isolated," he murmurs, his eyes tracing the line of your trembling form. "But some scents are meant to be appreciated, not contained."
Your breath catches, the sound embarrassingly loud in the tense silence. The part of you that's spent years hiding, suppressing, controlling, screams at you to run. But the omega in you, the part you've tried so hard to silence, recognizes something in his scent—something that feels like coming home.
His fingers hover just above your skin, and you can feel the heat of them as if he's already touching you. The air shimmers with the tension between what should be and what is—between the law he represents and the instinct pulling you together.
"The inhibitor failed," you finally manage to whisper, the words tasting like surrender.
His lips curve in a faint, knowing smile. "Some things weren't meant to be inhibited." His gaze drops to your mouth, and you feel an answering pull low in your belly. The space between you vanishes as he closes that final distance, his body not quite touching yours but close enough that you can feel his heat through your clothes.
Your head spins with the intensity of his scent, with the rightness and wrongness of this moment. The city continues its indifferent hum below, but up here on this abandoned rooftop, the world has narrowed to just two people and the dangerous attraction humming between them.
His hand finally makes contact, not grabbing or restraining, but simply resting against the wall beside your head, caging you in without force. You could push past him if you wanted to. But you don't want to. And that realization is more terrifying than any arrest.
"The system would call this contamination," he says softly, his breath ghosting across your cheek. "I'm beginning to think they have their definitions wrong."
Your own breath hitches as his other hand comes up, fingers hovering near your jaw. Not touching, just there, making you achingly aware of how much you want that contact. The mingled scent of you both grows stronger, wrapping around you like a silken cord.
"Tell me to leave," he challenges, his voice dropping to that intimate register that vibrates through your very bones. "Give me one good reason to walk away from this... anomaly."
You open your mouth, but the words won't come. Because there are no good reasons, not when your entire being is screaming for exactly what he's offering. Not when every instinct you've fought to control is rising to the surface, demanding you acknowledge this connection.
His fingers finally make contact with your skin, just a light brush along your jawline, but it sends electric sparks dancing through your nervous system. You shudder, a soft sound escaping your lips that you barely recognize as your own.
"That's what I thought," he murmurs, his thumb stroking gently along the line of your jaw. The touch is deceptively tender, belying the intensity in his crimson gaze. "Some desires are too fundamental to deny."
The wind catches a strand of his white hair, brushing it across his forehead. You have the absurd urge to reach up and push it back, to feel the texture of it between your fingers. The thought is so foreign, so unlike you, that it shocks you almost as much as his proximity.
His scent wraps around you, dark and comforting and dangerous all at once. It speaks to something ancient in your blood, something that recognizes him on a level deeper than reason or law. Your own scent answers, sweet and sharp and completely beyond your control now.
"You've been hiding for a long time, haven't you?" His observation is soft, but it strikes at the core of your existence. All those years of careful suppression, of stolen moments and hidden truths, laid bare by a man who shouldn't exist in your world.
Your silence is answer enough. His fingers continue their gentle exploration, tracing the line of your throat, not quite touching the sensitive gland at the side of your neck, but close enough to make you shudder with anticipation.
"The system failed to account for perfection," he says, his voice taking on a reverent quality that surprises you. "They track the ordinary, the predictable. But you... you're something entirely different."
His other hand comes up to bracket you against the wall, not trapping you, but creating a space that belongs only to the two of you. The city's lights glitter in his crimson eyes, and for a moment, you forget that he's an inspector and you're a fugitive. There are only scents and sensations and the terrifying, thrilling realization that your carefully constructed world is about to shatter.
"Beautiful," he breathes, the word barely audible but resonating through your entire being. "And completely, utterly illegal."
His head dips closer, his scent enveloping you completely now. You can feel the warmth of his breath against your skin, the promise of contact humming in the narrow space between you. Your eyes flutter closed, your body arching toward him of its own volition.
The last coherent thought you have is that you should be fighting, running, doing anything but standing here waiting for the touch that will change everything. But then his lips brush against your temple, feather-light and devastating, and all thought dissolves into sensation.
He makes a low sound in his throat, something between satisfaction and hunger. "Now," he whispers against your skin, "let's see what other surprises you have for me."
His whisper hangs in the air between you, a promise and a threat woven together. You can feel the warmth of his breath against your temple where his lips just brushed, the sensation lingering like a brand. Your heart hammers against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat that seems to echo in the sudden stillness.
"Surprises?" you manage to choke out, the word tasting like ashes in your mouth. "I don't know what you're talking about."
His low chuckle vibrates through the minimal space separating your bodies. "Don't you?" His fingers trail down from your jaw to your collarbone, not touching skin but close enough that you feel the phantom pressure. "This scent of yours... it's unlike anything in the registry. Like moonlight on wildflowers, with just a hint of lightning."
You stiffen, every instinct screaming at you to run even as your body betrays you by leaning into his proximity. The broken inhibitor lies forgotten on the concrete, its blue light pulsing weakly like a dying heartbeat.
He produces a small, sleek device from his pocket—black metal that seems to drink the ambient light. It hums softly as he holds it near your neck, where your pulse beats its frantic rhythm. "Let's see what the scanner makes of you."
The device emits a soft chime, and his eyebrows lift slightly. "Fascinating. No match in the central database. Not even a close relative." His crimson eyes meet yours, and you see genuine curiosity burning behind the cool control. "How is that possible, little omega? Everyone gets registered at presentation."
Memories flash through your mind—the first terrifying rush of scent at sixteen, your mother's panicked whispers, the midnight flight from the registration center. Years of careful hiding, of stolen suppressants and calculated movements, all unraveling because of one malfunctioning device.
"I'm nobody special," you whisper, the lie tasting bitter.
"Nobody special doesn't evade the system's notice for... how long has it been?" His gaze sweeps over you, calculating. "Years, I'd wager. The control you must have learned... impressive."
Panic surges through you, sharp and clean. You twist suddenly, ducking under his arm and bolting for the rooftop access door. The move surprises him—you see the brief flash of shock in his expression before it smooths into something darker, more dangerous.
You don't make it three steps before something wraps around your wrists—not physical, but a shimmering darkness that feels like liquid night. It pulls your arms behind your back, the pressure firm but not painful. You struggle against the bonds, but they tighten in response, holding you in place.
"Now, now," his voice comes from directly behind you, calm and measured. "Running only makes this more difficult."
You whirl to face him, your breath coming in ragged pants. The dark energy around your wrists shifts, cool and strangely alive against your skin. "Let me go! You have no right—"
"I have every right," he interrupts, his voice still that infuriatingly calm tone. "I'm a special-grade inspector, and you're an unregistered omega emitting illegal pheromone levels. By law, I should have you in isolation already."
He steps closer, and you instinctively back away, only to be stopped by the wall behind you. The dark bonds keep your arms pinned, leaving you feeling exposed and vulnerable. Your scent spikes with fear and anger, that wildflower-and-lightning aroma intensifying in the confined space.
His nostrils flare, and for the first time, you see a crack in his composure. His eyes darken, the crimson deepening to something nearly black. "Gods," he breathes, his voice losing some of its smooth control. "When you're frightened... it becomes even more potent."
You struggle harder against the energy bonds, your movements frantic. "Get away from me!"
The more you fight, the more your scent pours into the air between you. It's happening again—that terrifying loss of control you've spent years mastering. You can feel it building inside you, a pressure that needs release.
Sylus watches you, his expression unreadable. "Stop fighting it. You're only making it worse."
"Go to hell," you snarl, putting all your strength into one final, desperate pull against the bonds.
Something snaps inside you.
It starts as a warmth in your core, then spreads outward in a wave of pure, undiluted scent. Wildflowers blooming under a stormy sky, lightning striking so close you can taste the ozone. The release is so powerful it makes your knees buckle, and only the energy bonds keep you upright.
Sylus staggers back a step, his hand coming up to cover his nose and mouth. But it's too late—the scent has already reached him. You see his eyes glaze over slightly, his pupils dilating until the crimson is just a thin ring around black. His own scent—that dark, storm-charged aroma—answers yours, rising to meet it in the air between you.
For a long moment, he just stares at you, his breathing uneven. The professional detachment has completely vanished from his expression, replaced by something raw and hungry. The energy bonds around your wrists flicker, their hold weakening.
"The system..." he murmurs, more to himself than to you. "They said unregistered omegas were dangerous because they couldn't control their scents. But this... this isn't lack of control. This is purity."
You slump against the wall, spent from the sudden release. The memory of your first presentation washes over you—the terror, the confusion, your mother's tears as she explained why you could never be registered. The government didn't just track omegas—they "adjusted" those with unusual scent profiles, calling it optimization. You'd seen what happened to your cousin after her registration—the dullness in her eyes, the way her unique scent had been reduced to something generic and bland.
Sylus takes a hesitant step toward you, then another. The energy bonds dissolve completely, but you're too drained to run. He reaches out, his fingers trembling slightly as they brush a strand of hair from your face.
"They're wrong," he whispers, his voice thick with some emotion you can't name. "All of it... the regulations, the controls... it's all wrong."
His touch is different now—not the clinical examination from before, but something warmer, more personal. His thumb strokes along your cheekbone, and you shudder at the contact.
"Do you know what they do to anomalies like you?" he asks softly. "They don't just register you. They... modify you. Until you fit their standards."
You nod weakly, tears pricking at your eyes. "I know. That's why I ran."
His expression shifts, the hunger in his eyes mingling with something that looks almost like protectiveness. "All these years, enforcing their laws... and I never stopped to question why certain scent profiles needed to be 'corrected.'"
He leans closer, his scent wrapping around you like a sheltering cloak. The storm-and-whiskey aroma should feel threatening, but instead it feels... safe. Like coming home.
"Your scent," he murmurs, his lips close to your ear. "It's not something that needs fixing. It's perfection."
His hand slides from your cheek to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair. The position is dominant, possessive, but his touch remains gentle. You should be fighting, running, doing anything but standing here while an inspector—your natural enemy—handles you so intimately.
But your body has other ideas. It arches toward him of its own volition, a soft sound escaping your lips as his scent fills your lungs. The part of you that's been hiding for so long recognizes something in him—not just an alpha, but someone who sees you. Really sees you.
"The system would call this contamination," he says, his voice barely audible. "But it feels more like... revelation."
His other hand comes to rest on your hip, his grip firm but not painful. Through the fabric of your clothes, you can feel the heat of his palm, the slight pressure of his fingers. Your skin tingles everywhere he touches, everywhere you imagine he might touch.
"You should take me in," you whisper, the words feeling like a betrayal of your own survival instincts. "It's your job."
His laugh is soft, bitter. "My job is to protect people from dangerous pheromone emissions. But you..." His eyes sweep over your face, lingering on your mouth. "You're not dangerous. You're... miraculous."
The word hangs between you, too big, too meaningful. You've spent your life thinking of your scent as a curse, something to be hidden and controlled. But the way he says it—like it's something precious, something rare—makes your chest ache with a feeling you can't name.
His head dips lower, his forehead resting against yours. The contact is shockingly intimate, more so than any of his previous touches. You can feel the warmth of his skin, the slight dampness from the night air. His scent surrounds you completely now, dark and comforting and utterly intoxicating.
"Tell me to stop," he murmurs, his breath mingling with yours. "Give me one reason to do my job and take you in."
You open your mouth, but no sound comes out. Because there are no reasons, not when his scent is weaving through yours in a dance that feels more right than anything you've ever known. Not when every instinct you've fought to control is rising to the surface, demanding you acknowledge this connection.
His fingers tighten slightly in your hair, not enough to hurt, but enough to make you aware of his strength. "That's what I thought," he says softly, his lips brushing against yours in the ghost of a kiss.
The contact is fleeting, barely there, but it sends electric sparks dancing through your nervous system. Your eyes flutter closed, your body swaying toward him. The last vestiges of your resistance crumble, washed away by the tide of sensation and scent.
His hand slides from your hip to the small of your back, pressing you more firmly against him. You can feel the hard planes of his body through his clothing, the solid strength of him. His scent intensifies, that storm-and-whiskey aroma becoming almost overwhelming in its potency.
"The system failed to account for this," he whispers against your mouth. "This... compatibility."
His lips find yours again, this time not a ghost but a firm, claiming pressure.
The kiss isn't gentle. It's a claiming, a possession, his lips moving against yours with a hunger that steals the breath from your lungs. His hands slide from your hair to cradle your face, holding you still as he deepens the contact. The taste of him—dark and complex like aged whiskey and night rain—floods your senses, and you can't help but respond, your mouth opening under his in silent surrender.
When he finally breaks the kiss, you're both breathing heavily, the mingled scent of your arousal hanging thick in the air between you. His crimson eyes are dark with want, the professional detachment completely gone now.
"Come with me," he murmurs, his voice rough with barely restrained need. He doesn't wait for your answer, simply wraps an arm around your waist and guides you toward the rooftop access door. The dark energy reforms around your wrists, but it's different now—not restrictive, but possessive, like a lover's embrace that happens to hold you in place.
You don't fight as he leads you down the dim stairwell, your body still humming from the kiss. Every step feels surreal, like you're moving through a dream. This should be terrifying—being taken by an inspector to an unknown location—but the part of you that's been starving for this connection, for this recognition, is singing with a strange, terrifying joy.
He takes you to a discreet elevator you hadn't noticed before, hidden behind what looked like a maintenance panel. The doors slide open to reveal opulent interiors—dark wood and plush velvet, a stark contrast to the decaying building around it. As the elevator descends, he presses you against the wall, his body pinning yours, his hard cock evident through his trousers as it presses against your stomach.
"Such a responsive little omega," he breathes against your neck, his lips tracing the line of your jaw. "Every time I touch you, your scent gets sweeter."
The elevator doors open directly into what appears to be his private quarters. The room is spacious and elegantly furnished, dominated by a large bed with black silk sheets. The lighting is low, casting deep shadows in the corners. He guides you toward the bed, the energy bonds dissolving as he lays you back against the cool silk.
"Now," he says, his voice taking on that calm, controlled tone that somehow feels more dangerous than his hunger. "Let's see how you respond to a more... targeted approach."
He doesn't touch you physically at first. Instead, he begins to release his scent in controlled waves—that dark, storm-charged aroma that makes your head spin. But it's different now, layered with something soothing, something that feels like safety and protection. Your body responds instinctively, your own scent rising to meet his in a dance that feels more intimate than any touch.
"Good," he murmurs, watching your reaction with those intense crimson eyes. "Your body knows what it needs, even if your mind is still fighting."
He kneels on the bed beside you, one hand coming to rest on your stomach. The touch is light, almost casual, but it sends electric sparks dancing across your skin. Through the fabric of your shirt, you can feel the warmth of his palm, the slight pressure of his fingers.
"Tell me what you're feeling," he says, his voice low and hypnotic.
You shake your head, biting your lip. Putting words to the sensations feels too vulnerable, too real.
His fingers begin to move in slow circles on your stomach. "Is it warmth? Here?" His hand slides lower, to the waistband of your pants. "And tension? Here?"
A soft sound escapes your lips as his fingers dip beneath the fabric, brushing against the sensitive skin of your lower belly. Your hips arch off the bed of their own volition, seeking more contact.
"Your body speaks for you, sweet omega," he says, a faint smile touching his lips. "It tells me everything I need to know."
He leans down, his face close to yours. "Now I'm going to touch you properly. And you're going to let me."
It isn't a question. His hands move to the hem of your shirt, lifting it slowly over your head. The cool air hits your exposed skin, making you shiver. His gaze sweeps over your bare torso, and you feel a flush of heat spread through your body.
"Beautiful," he breathes, his eyes dark with appreciation. "So responsive. So perfect."
His fingers trace the line of your collarbone, then lower, circling one nipple until it tightens into a hard peak. The sensation is exquisite, making you gasp and arch into his touch. He does the same to the other side, his touch firm and knowing.
"Your scent is changing again," he observes, his voice taking on that clinical tone that somehow makes everything feel more intense. "Deeper now. Richer. Like flowers opening for the moon."
He lowers his head, his mouth replacing his fingers on one nipple. The wet heat of his tongue makes you cry out, your hands fisting in the silk sheets. He suckles gently at first, then with more pressure, his teeth grazing the sensitive peak until you're writhing beneath him.
"Please," you gasp, not even sure what you're asking for.
"Please what, little omega?" he murmurs against your skin, his breath warm on your damp breast. "Use your words."
You shake your head, overwhelmed by sensation. His hand slides down your stomach, slipping beneath the waistband of your pants. You tense as his fingers brush through your curls, then moan as they find your wetness.
"So ready for me," he says, his voice thick with satisfaction. "So wet and open."
His fingers explore you slowly, deliberately, tracing your folds without entering. The teasing touch is maddening, making you buck your hips in silent plea for more pressure, more contact.
"Not yet," he chides softly, withdrawing his hand. "We have all night. And I intend to learn every inch of you."
He moves down your body, his hands sliding your pants and underwear down your legs. The cool air hits your exposed sex, making you acutely aware of your nakedness, your vulnerability. But the hunger in his eyes doesn't feel threatening—it feels like worship.
He settles between your legs, his hands spreading your thighs wider. "Now let's see this pretty cunt up close," he says, the crude word sending a fresh wave of heat through you.
His thumbs part your folds, exposing your clit to the cool air. You gasp at the exposure, at the intensity of his gaze fixed on your most intimate place.
"Perfect," he breathes, his thumbs stroking gently through your wetness. "Pink and swollen and dripping for me."
He lowers his head, and you feel the first touch of his tongue—a slow, deliberate lick from your entrance to your clit. The sensation is so intense it makes you cry out, your back arching off the bed.
"Your taste," he murmurs against your flesh, his breath warm on your wet skin. "Even better than your scent. Sweet and sharp, like forbidden fruit."
His tongue delves deeper, lapping at your juices before returning to circle your clit. The pressure is perfect, the rhythm hypnotic. You can feel the pleasure building, coiling tight in your belly.
"Don't hold back," he says, his voice vibrating against your sensitive flesh. "Let me taste you coming."
His words push you over the edge. The orgasm crashes through you, making you buck and cry out as waves of pleasure radiate from your core. Through the haze of sensation, you feel him drinking from you, his tongue working you through the aftershocks.
When you finally collapse back against the sheets, spent and trembling, he moves up your body, his face glistening with your arousal. He kisses you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.
"Just the beginning, sweet omega," he whispers against your lips. "Just the beginning."
His hands slide under your hips, lifting you slightly. "Now I want to feel this tight little cunt around my fingers."
He presses one finger against your entrance, sliding in slowly. The stretch is exquisite, making you gasp as he fills you. He moves his finger in and out, his eyes watching your face intently.
"Taking me so well," he murmurs, adding a second finger. The stretch is more intense now, a delicious fullness that makes you moan. "Such a good, greedy cunt."
His fingers curl inside you, pressing against a spot that makes you see stars. Your body clenches around him, milking his fingers as another, smaller orgasm ripples through you.
"Beautiful," he breathes, watching you come apart on his hand. "Absolutely beautiful."
He withdraws his fingers, bringing them to his mouth to taste you again. "Now," he says, his voice dropping to that intimate register that makes your stomach flutter. "I think it's time you learned what my cock feels like."
He stands beside the bed, his eyes never leaving yours as he undoes his trousers. The sound of his zipper is loud in the quiet room. He pushes his pants down, freeing his erection.
Your breath catches at the sight of him—thick and veined, the head dark and leaking. He's bigger than you imagined, the sight both intimidating and arousing.
He strokes himself slowly, his eyes dark with hunger. "See what you do to me, little omega? See how hard you make me?"
He climbs back onto the bed, positioning himself between your legs. The head of his cock presses against your entrance, not entering, just resting there, a promise of what's to come.
"Ready for me?" he asks, his voice rough with need.
You can only nod, your body already arching toward him, seeking the connection, the completion. Your scent rises around you both, wildflowers and lightning meeting storm and whiskey in a perfect, dangerous harmony.
His hips press forward, just enough to make you gasp at the pressure. "Such a tight little cunt," he breathes, his eyes locked with yours. "Going to feel so good around my cock."
The pressure of his cock against your entrance is maddening, a teasing promise of the fullness to come. You can feel the thick, veined head pressing insistently against your wet folds, the heat of him seeping into your already overheated flesh. Your hips arch instinctively, a silent plea for him to end this sweet torture.
"Such an eager little cunt," he breathes, his crimson eyes dark with primal hunger. "Begging for my cock without a single word."
His hands grip your hips, his fingers digging into your soft flesh as he finally, slowly, begins to push inside. The stretch is exquisite, a burning fullness that makes you gasp and clutch at the silk sheets. He's so much larger than his fingers, the thick length of him spreading you open in a way that feels both impossibly intimate and terrifyingly vulnerable.
"Fuck," he groans, his head falling forward as he sinks deeper. "So tight... like a virgin cunt made just for me."
He bottoms out, his hips pressed flush against yours, and for a moment you both simply breathe, adjusting to the sensation of being so completely filled. You can feel every throbbing inch of him inside you, the way your inner muscles flutter and cling to his length.
Then he begins to move.
The first thrust is slow, deliberate, dragging against your sensitive walls in a way that makes you see stars. Your back arches off the bed, a broken moan escaping your lips.
"Yes," he murmurs, his voice rough with pleasure. "Sing for me, little omega. Let me hear how good my cock feels inside this pretty cunt."
He sets a relentless pace, each thrust hitting that perfect spot deep inside you that makes your toes curl. The sound of your bodies meeting fills the room—wet, slapping noises mingling with your ragged breaths and his low groans. Your scent rises around you both, that wildflower-and-lightning aroma intensifying with each movement.
He leans down, capturing one of your nipples in his mouth, his tongue circling the hardened peak before sucking hard. The dual sensation—his mouth on your breast and his cock pounding into your cunt—sends you spiraling toward another climax.
"Please," you beg, not even sure what you're asking for anymore. "Please..."
"Please what?" he asks against your skin, his hips never slowing their punishing rhythm. "Use your words, sweet omega. Tell me what you need."
"Harder," you gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders. "Please, harder..."
A dark smile curves his lips. "As you wish."
He changes angle, driving into you with renewed force, each thrust hitting so deep you can feel it in your throat. The pleasure builds to an unbearable peak, coiling tight in your belly until you're certain you'll shatter.
"That's it," he encourages, his voice thick with his own impending release. "Come on my cock, little omega. Let me feel that tight cunt milk me dry."
His words push you over the edge. The orgasm crashes through you with blinding intensity, making you scream as waves of pleasure radiate from your core. Your inner muscles clamp down on his length, milking him as you ride out the seemingly endless waves of ecstasy.
Through the haze of your climax, you feel him stiffen above you, a guttural groan tearing from his throat as he finds his own release. Hot streams of his seed fill you, the sensation so intimate it brings tears to your eyes.
He collapses atop you, his weight a comforting pressure as you both struggle to catch your breath. For several long moments, there's only the sound of your ragged breathing and the frantic beating of your hearts.
But it's not over.
You feel him hardening inside you again, his cock already beginning to swell and throb within your still-fluttering channel. He lifts his head, his crimson eyes burning with renewed hunger.
"Such a responsive little thing," he murmurs, rolling his hips gently and making you gasp at the sensitivity. "One climax isn't nearly enough for a cunt this greedy."
He withdraws, flipping you onto your stomach with effortless strength. "On your knees," he commands, his voice leaving no room for argument. "I want to see this pretty ass while I fuck you from behind."
You scramble to obey, your body still trembling from your previous orgasm. The position leaves you feeling exposed, vulnerable in a way that makes your skin prickle with awareness. His hands grip your hips, his thumbs spreading your cheeks to expose your still-dripping entrance.
"Look at that," he breathes, his cock nudging against your wetness. "My cum already leaking out of this pretty hole. But don't worry—I'll give you more."
He thrusts into you in one smooth motion, the change in angle hitting spots he hadn't reached before. You cry out, your hands fisting in the silk sheets as he sets a brutal pace. The sound of your bodies meeting is louder now, more animalistic.
"Such a perfect little whore," he groans, his hands moving to your breasts, squeezing and kneading the soft flesh. "Taking my cock so well in this position."
He leans over your back, his mouth finding the sensitive spot where your neck meets your shoulder. "I'm going to mark you," he breathes against your damp skin. "Going to make sure everyone knows who this cunt belongs to."
The promise should terrify you, but instead it sends a fresh wave of heat through your already overheated body. Your scent spikes again, that wildflower-and-lightning aroma becoming almost overwhelming.
"Yes," you gasp, the word torn from you as he hits a particularly deep spot. "Please..."
His teeth graze your skin, a warning of what's to come. "You want my mark, little omega? You want everyone to know you're mine?"
You can only nod, your ability to form words lost to the pleasure coursing through your veins. His pace quickens, becoming almost frantic as he approaches his second release.
The moment his teeth break your skin is unlike anything you've ever experienced. It's not just pain—it's a blinding, all-consuming pleasure that radiates from the bite throughout your entire body. Your third orgasm crashes through you at the same moment he spills inside you again, his seed hot and abundant as it fills you.
But even as the pleasure peaks, something else happens. A flood of images and sensations that aren't your own—memories that don't belong to you. A different time, a different life. A man with Sylus's eyes but wings like night itself, and you—or someone who looks like you—standing beside him under a sky with two moons.
He stills above you, his breathing ragged. "What..." he begins, then stops, his body tensing. "What was that?"
You can feel his shock mirroring your own. The mark on your neck tingles, the sensation both strange and familiar. He withdraws slowly, turning you to face him. His crimson eyes are wide with something that looks like recognition—and fear.
"Your blood," he whispers, his fingers tracing the bite mark gently. "It... showed me things. Memories that can't be mine."
Your own mind is reeling with fragmented images—ancient temples, dragon wings, a love so profound it transcends time itself. The scent of your mingled pheromones has changed, deepened into something ancient and powerful.
"The system..." you begin, your voice trembling. "They said my bloodline was... cleansed. After the Great Purge."
His expression shifts from shock to something darker, more protective. "Cleansed," he repeats, the word tasting like ash in his mouth. "They tried to erase you. Your entire lineage."
He looks at you—really looks at you—and you see the moment his decision is made. The inspector is gone, replaced by something far more primal, far more dangerous.
"They won't touch you," he says, his voice low and fierce. "I won't let them."
His hands frame your face, his thumbs stroking your cheeks. The tenderness in the gesture is at odds with the rough possession of moments before.
"But we need to be careful," he continues, his eyes scanning your face as if memorizing every feature. "If the system detects what you are... what we are to each other now..."
He doesn't need to finish the sentence. You know the punishment for unauthorized bonding—especially with an unregistered omega of a purged bloodline. It would mean re-education for him, and far worse for you.
His cock, still semi-hard, twitches against your thigh as if in agreement with his words. A fresh wave of your scent rises between you—that wildflower-and-lightning aroma now layered with something new, something that smells distinctly of him.
"Fuck," he breathes, his eyes darkening as he takes in the changed fragrance. "Our scents have bonded."
He leans in, inhaling deeply at the juncture of your neck and shoulder. "You smell like mine now."
The possessiveness in his voice should frighten you, but instead it sends a thrill through your newly sensitized body. Your hips shift restlessly, seeking friction against his thigh.
He notices the movement, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Still hungry for me, little omega? Even after all that?"
You nod, unable to form words around the need coiling in your belly. The claiming has awakened something in you—a hunger that feels bottomless, eternal.
"Good," he murmurs, his hands sliding down to grip your hips. "Because I'm not nearly done with this perfect cunt."
He rolls you onto your back once more, his body covering yours in a way that feels both protective and possessive. His cock, already fully hard again, nudges against your slick entrance.
"This time," he breathes against your lips, "we take it slow. I want to remember every second of this."
I reblogged him the day i started treatment and 1. GOT TO MY APPOINTMENT ON TIME 2. FOUND A FREE PARKING TICKET SOMEONE LEFT IN THE METER FOR ME AND 3. GOT FREE STARBUCKS AFTER MY APPOINTMENT!!!!!
݂ ݃ 𓂂 ֯ riding katsuki bakugo after long missions ˊ .
⋆˚࿔ ⤷ ゛premise: after weeks of exhaustion from late-night missions and endless paperwork, you and katsuki finally steal a night just for yourselves. he swore he’d let you “take control” this time, but katsuki doesn’t do submission easily—especially when you’re riding him like you want to ruin him.
a/n: i actually have no idea if the request means the cowgirl like the horse thing or the position lmao
the agency’s hallways were still buzzing when you finally saw him—hair wild, jaw tight, fresh out of a debrief that had stretched well past midnight. katsuki didn’t even make it three steps before your fingers hooked into the collar of his shirt, tugging him down to kiss you. he grumbled into it, but his hands were already digging into your waist, grounding himself in the only thing he hadn’t had for weeks: you.
“the hell was that for?” he muttered when you pulled back, voice gruff.
“you’ve been gone for days,” you shot back softly, brushing a thumb along the line of his jaw. “i missed you.”
his crimson eyes softened for just a second before he clicked his tongue, tearing his gaze away. “tch. let’s get home before you get all sappy on me.” but his hand stayed locked with yours, tight, like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go.
the door to your apartment barely shut before katsuki pushed you against it, lips rough, hungry, like he needed to make up for lost time. you kissed back just as fiercely, tugging at his hair until he groaned into your mouth.
“fuckin’ tease,” he rasped when you broke for air, panting. “you don’t get it, do you? i’ve been thinkin’ about this—about you—for days.”
“then let me make it up to you,” you whispered, eyes flashing with mischief. “you promised you’d let me have control tonight.”
his brows furrowed. “control? you think you can handle that, princess?”
you smirked. “watch me.”
you didn’t give him time to argue—you shoved him onto the bed, climbing over him in one fluid motion. katsuki propped himself up on his elbows, glaring up at you with a spark of challenge in his eyes.
“don’t look so smug,” he growled, but his voice cracked when you pressed your weight down on his hips, grinding slow.
“already breaking?” you teased, nails dragging over the hard planes of his chest. “you haven’t even felt me yet.”
katsuki’s jaw tightened, breath shuddering as you reached between you to free his cock, thick and heavy in your hand. you stroked him slow, savoring the way his composure frayed with every pump.
“quit fuckin’ around,” he snarled, though the way his hips jerked betrayed him. “sit on it—now.”
you lowered yourself inch by inch, the stretch stealing your breath as his cock filled you. katsuki cursed loud, head slamming back against the pillow, fists bunching in the sheets.
“holy fuck—tight—fuckin’ perfect,” he hissed, voice wrecked.
you stayed still just long enough to watch him tremble under you, his chest heaving, his mouth slack. then, with a slow roll of your hips, you started to move.
the rhythm built gradually, your pace teasing at first, relishing every twitch of katsuki’s muscles as he tried to stay still. his eyes locked on you, feral and hungry, following the bounce of your body like he couldn’t tear himself away.
“shit—look at you,” he rasped, hands finally breaking free to grip your thighs, digging bruises into your skin. “fuckin’ takin’ me like you’re made for it.”
you leaned down, pressing your forehead against his, your moans spilling into his mouth as you bounced harder, faster. his teeth gritted, curses spilling between ragged breaths, until he snapped—his hips driving up to meet yours, pounding into you from below.
“you wanted control? then keep it, dumbass—ride me harder,” he snarled, voice breaking, hands dragging you down flush against him.
you choked on a cry, the new angle hitting deeper, harder, your body trembling with every thrust. his words, his raw need, pushed you closer, the coil in your stomach winding tighter.
“katsuki—i’m—fuck—”
“do it,” he cut in, voice guttural, eyes blazing. “cum all over me. show me how much you missed me.”
the orgasm tore through you, violent and overwhelming, your walls clamping tight around him as you cried out his name. katsuki cursed sharp, groaning as your body milked him, his cock twitching dangerously inside you.
but he didn’t let you stop. he gripped your hips like a man possessed, thrusting up into you with reckless abandon, even as you shuddered from overstimulation.
“don’t fuckin’ think we’re done,” he growled, forehead pressed to your neck, sweat dripping down his temple. “you’re stayin’ on this cock ‘til i’m finished.”
the room filled with the lewd slap of skin, the wet drag of your bodies, the sound of his ragged moans. katsuki’s rhythm faltered, hips stuttering as he finally broke.
“fuck—gonna—shit—” he choked out, before his release hit, hot and thick, spilling deep inside you. he cursed louder, voice breaking as he held you down on him, grinding through every pulse of his orgasm.
when it was over, you collapsed onto his chest, both of you trembling, sweat-soaked, hearts pounding in sync. katsuki’s arms wrapped tight around you, protective even in exhaustion.
“don’t think this means you’re the boss now,” he muttered hoarsely into your hair, but the way his lips brushed soft against your temple betrayed him. “once i catch my fuckin’ breath, i’m takin’ you again.”
you smiled against his chest, already knowing he would.
summary: falling for your best friend bokuto koutaro was never part of the plan, and neither was oikawa’s stupid 18-step playbook that dragged you here in the first place. now, after jealousy, arguments, and confessions you can’t take back, everything feels too fragile to name. maybe you’ll make up, maybe you’ll fall apart — or maybe you’ll finally cross the line that’s been waiting all along.
warnings: 18+ (minors dni) explicit sexual content (bonus chapters), lazy morning sex, messy needy sex, reunion sex, rough backshots, reverse cowgirl, condom use, praise kink, oral (m & f), thigh-grabbing, ass-grabbing, grinding, heavy makeouts, biting/marking, messy kisses, breast play, fingering, desperate touching, overstimulation hints, dirty talk, lap sitting, jealousy undertones, protective Bokuto energy, sexual tension, heated arguments, angst-to-fluff pipeline, slice-of-life intimacy, public teasing, suggestive humor, boyfriend-coded chaos, alcohol mentions, domestic fluff, timeskip, proposal, pregnancy reveal, found family vibes
wc: I never keep count….
fun fact: 18 ways to win bokuto was actually an idea I had since 2020 and only now did I fully lay it out!! I hope you enjoyed as much as I loved writing it.
18 𝐖𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐓𝐎 𝐖𝐈𝐍 𝐁𝐎𝐊𝐔𝐓𝐎 :
1. Borrow his hoodie
2. Share food
3. Overnight calls
4. Sit way too close
5. Nap on him
6. Play with his hair
7. Wear something eye-catching
8. Whisper in his ear
9. Party games
10. Hold hands
11. Hypotheticals
12. Sit on his lap
13. Spend the night
14. Give a loaded compliment
15. Soft staring
16. Jealousy test
17. Confide something vulnerable
18. Confess & Kiss
𝐁𝐘 𝐎𝐈𝐊𝐀𝐖𝐀 (𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐰𝐚𝐳𝐮𝐦𝐢)
[ Rule sixteen , jealousy test: continuation. ]
By the time you and Makki pulled up outside Fukurodani’s gym, your palm was clammy in his. You could already hear the thuds of practice serves inside.
“This is weird,” Makki muttered under his breath, squeezing your hand for the crowd’s benefit. “But whatever, I’m committing. Let’s make Bokuto lose his mind.”
You swallowed. “I hate you.”
“No you don’t,” he teased, before lowering his voice. “Okay, I’m gonna kiss your cheek now.”
Your eyes widened. “What—”
“Relax.” He leaned in, pressed his lips to your cheek, lingering just enough to look romantic from a distance.
You squealed, mostly from the awkwardness, and giggled. “That was so bad. Never again.”
Makki snorted, pulling back. “Yeah, no offense, but never again.”
“He’s probably going to hate me now.”
“Or maybe,” Makki said, squeezing your shoulder, “it’ll finally force him to admit he likes you. Good luck.”
You whispered a thank you, then let go of his hand and walked into the gym.
The noise hit you instantly—teammates laughing, calling out, the sound of volleyballs being scooped up. But then someone shouted, “Is that your boyfriend outside?!”
Another voice chimed in. “He kissed you, right? He kissed her cheek! Y/n, who is that?”
“Where’d you meet him?”
The questions piled on, voices overlapping until your head spun. You opened your mouth, flustered. “He’s not— We’re not— It’s not like that—”
But the words fell flat, drowned out by the sudden silence that rolled across the court.
Because Bokuto had walked past you without so much as a glance, his expression unreadable, his usual warmth completely gone. He didn’t smile, didn’t joke, didn’t ruffle your hair like he always did. His voice was low, clipped, when he said:
“Practice is over.”
Everyone froze, confused murmurs breaking out.
Your stomach dropped.
Bokuto brushed past you, shoulder grazing yours, without looking back.
And for the first time since you started these rules, you wondered if Oikawa’s brilliant plan had finally gone too far.
The slam of the gym doors still echoed in your ears as you chased him into the dim corridor. Everyone else’s voices — the teasing questions, the chatter about the “mystery boyfriend”— they’d faded the second he left. Like the second he brushed past you, the whole world tilted wrong.
“Bokuto—” You nearly tripped, breath catching in your throat.
He didn’t slow. His shoulders were rigid, fists jammed into his pockets, every step heavy enough to make the floor vibrate. The air around him felt colder, darker, like someone had dimmed the lights just for him.
“Wait!” you called, desperation scraping your voice raw.
At last, his stride faltered. He froze mid-step, his back to you. The muscles under his shirt shifted, tense, wound tight as a spring about to snap.
Your fingers brushed his wrist, barely there. “Are you…” Your voice came out too soft, almost childlike. “Are you mad at me?”
For a moment, nothing. Then his head dipped, the smallest nod. His voice was gravel. “Yeah. I am.”
The words hit harder than you thought they could. Your heart stumbled. “But… why?”
He turned, and your stomach dropped. His eyes weren’t sharp with fury — no, that would’ve been easier. They were bruised, raw, wounded in a way that made your chest ache.
“Because—” His voice cracked on the word, and he cut himself off, grinding his teeth. He dragged a hand through his hair, gripping at the roots like he needed pain to force the truth out. “Because, Y/n, you were with him. Holding hands, letting him—” He broke off, disgust twisting his mouth. “Like you were his.”
The air thinned until breathing hurt.
Your mind flickered, unbidden, to three days ago: the feel of his arms suddenly around you, the strength in the way he’d spun you without warning, the stupidly soft press of his lips against your cheek. The roar of the crowd. The heat that had flushed your face for hours after. Everyone whispering like you two were already dating. And for a dizzy second, you had wondered what it would be like if they weren’t wrong.
Now? That warmth felt miles away.
“I don’t…” Bokuto’s words dragged you back. His chest rose too fast, uneven. “I don’t get you. One second you’re closer to me than anyone else, then the next—” He cut himself off, jaw clenched so tight you thought it might break. “Do you know what that felt like?” His voice cracked again, thin with something you couldn’t name. “You’re my best friend—”
“I’m not doing anything wrong,” you cut in, too sharp, too fast, because if you let him finish, your heart would split open.
His breath caught at the interruption.
You swallowed, forcing the words past the lump in your throat. “It’s not like we’re… together.” Your voice faltered, but you pushed on. “You said it yourself. We’re best friends. So why does it matter?”
For the first time, he looked away.
Your chest heaved. “I just—” You exhaled hard, twisting your hands into your sleeves like you could wring the ache out of them. “I wouldn’t feel this bad if I didn’t care, Bokuto. I wouldn’t be running after you down some stupid hallway if it was just… friendship.” Your voice shook. “And you—why are you acting like this, if it’s only friendship for you?”
The silence was brutal.
You could feel your heartbeat pounding in your ears, but beneath it was the phantom memory of his laughter, his grin when you won at Mario Kart, the heat of his body pressed against yours during the scary movie when he’d flinched. The weight of him in your bed, the sound of his voice drifting into sleep beside you. Best friends don’t do that.
His breath stuttered, shoulders rising and falling like he’d run a marathon. He couldn’t look at you. Not really. Not with that storm twisting in his eyes.
“That’s not how you treat a best friend,” you whispered, broken.
Something flickered across his face then — a flash of softness, almost pain, like your words had scraped at the truth he kept barricaded behind his ribs. But just as quickly, it was gone. He forced his mouth into a tight line, eyes shutting down, wall slamming into place.
“God, I don’t even know what I’m doing anymore.” You laughed bitterly, though it shook apart halfway. “I feel like I’m the only one being honest here.”
His fists clenched. “Don’t.” The word came out hoarse, ragged. He stepped back like he couldn’t stand the closeness. “Don’t say that. You don’t know what’s going on in my head.”
“Then tell me!” The plea ripped from you before you could stop it, your voice echoing sharp in the empty hall. “Tell me why you’re mad, why you can’t even look at me, why it feels like I just ruined everything!”
His throat bobbed, his lips parting. But nothing. Nothing came out. Just his breathing, jagged, uneven, like he was fighting something no one else could see.
The silence was a knife.
You blinked hard, the burn of unshed tears stinging your eyes. “Yeah,” you whispered, voice cracking. “That’s what I thought.”
For a second, his hand twitched, like he might reach for you. But he didn’t. He turned instead, his voice frayed and hollow. “I don’t know what I am to you, Y/n. I don’t know what you want from me. And I just… I just don’t know.”
And then he walked. Not storming, not running — just walking, steady, heavy, final. Each step echoing down the corridor like a door closing between you.
You stayed frozen where he’d left you, heart splintering, breath too shallow to catch. Because deep down you knew. You knew he wouldn’t act like this if he didn’t feel something. He wouldn’t be jealous, he wouldn’t be hurt, he wouldn’t be breaking in front of you if this was only friendship.
But he wouldn’t say it. And you couldn’t force him.
So you let him go. And the unsaid words burned hotter than the ones you’d managed to choke out.
[ Rule eighteen , confess & kiss. ]
Weeks pass.
That’s the first thing that shocks you—that it’s so easy to count them, to carve them into neat blocks of time when every day feels jagged and unfinished. You used to measure your life in Bokuto-shaped moments: how loud he was when you passed each other in the hall, how many new nicknames he could invent in one practice, how often he’d throw an arm around your shoulders like it was second nature.
But now? Now you measure your days in silence.
It’s not angry silence, not exactly. It’s the hollow kind. The kind that scrapes at your ribs when you sit on the bench at practice and he’s right there on the court but might as well be a hundred miles away.
The team notices.
“Koutaro, you good?” a first-year asks one day after Bokuto misses a spike and doesn’t even react.
He laughs it off too loudly, clapping the kid on the back and pretending it doesn’t sting.
They notice you, too. How you cheer, but your voice never rises as high as it used to. How you clap, but your hands never linger at your mouth, hiding a grin meant just for him.
Even Akaashi notices. Which is worse, because Akaashi never says anything unless it matters.
You last exactly one week before cornering him.
He’s folding practice jerseys in the equipment room, as precise and calm as always, when you blurt out, “I don’t want to do this anymore.”
He doesn’t even look up. “Do what?”
“This.” You wave your hands vaguely, like the word is too sharp to hold onto. “This whole… cheerleader thing. Being here.”
That makes him look. His eyes flick up from the jersey, sharp as knives even though his face stays neutral. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m saying I quit.” The words scrape your throat, but you force them out. “It’s not the same anymore, Akaashi. I thought—I thought maybe he just needed space, but it’s like I don’t exist to him. And I can’t…” You shake your head, fingers twisting in your sleeves. “I can’t keep doing this to myself.”
For a second, he just studies you. Then, quietly: “Y/n.”
The sound of your name almost undoes you.
“I’m sorry,” you rush out, before he can say more. “Tell the others I said thanks. For everything. But I’m done.”
You leave before he can stop you.
Oikawa’s couch is where you land. Because of course it is.
Iwazumi’s sprawled on the floor beside it, arms crossed, already rolling his eyes before you even finish explaining.
“See what you did, Shittykawa?”
Oikawa scowls, stuffing a pillow into Iwa’s face. “Oh, please. Like I could’ve predicted the owl would be so ridiculously dense.”
You glare at him, though it doesn’t have much heat. “Not helping.”
“Actually, I’m being very helpful.” He sits up straighter, tossing his hair dramatically. “You followed the playbook, didn’t you? Eighteen steps, carefully designed by me, Tooru Oikawa, genius of romance. And what did you get? Radio silence.”
Iwazumi pulls the pillow off his face. “That’s because your plays are stupid.”
“They’re not stupid!” Oikawa insists. Then, to you: “He’s an idiot. That’s all. He clearly doesn’t know what he wants, and it’s not your fault for trying. It’s his fault for being as slow as Iwa-chan over here.”
Iwazumi’s ears go pink. “What.”
You sigh, sinking deeper into the couch cushions. “Maybe it is my fault. I should’ve just told him how I felt instead of trying to…” You trail off, gesturing helplessly. “Instead of making games out of it.”
“That’s not the point,” Oikawa says firmly. “The point is that you care. And trust me, he does too. He just hasn’t realized it yet.”
Iwazumi studies you, his voice quieter. “Have you even talked to him since?”
You shake your head. “No. And I’m not going to. He’s ignoring me. Practice was already awkward, so I… quit.”
Both of them go silent at that.
Then Oikawa leans forward, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Okay, no. This is actually stupid. I’m not getting it. You like him, he clearly likes you—he’s just too much of a coward to admit it.”
You narrow your eyes. “So what, you want me to force it out of him?”
“Yes.”
“That was rhetorical.” You roll your eyes, but your chest aches anyway.
Iwazumi cuts in, steady as stone. “You should talk to him.”
“He won’t listen,” you mutter. “Trust me. He’ll just… look away. Pretend it didn’t happen.”
Which is why, a few days later, you’re not surprised when Oikawa and Akaashi both mysteriously go missing before the summer festival.
You are, however, very surprised to run right into Bokuto.
He looks as startled as you feel.
For a moment, neither of you says anything. The air between you feels heavy with all the words you didn’t say these past few weeks.
“Uh.” He rubs the back of his neck, hair catching the lantern glow. “Weird. You here too?”
“Guess so.”
You don’t say Oikawa. You don’t say Akaashi. You don’t say we got set up, even though it’s obvious.
The crowd surges around you, warm and noisy, pressing the two of you closer.
And for the first time in weeks, you’re standing side by side again.
But everything feels different.
The crowd surges like a tide.
The summer festival sprawls across streets you both know well, but the lanterns strung overhead make it feel like another world entirely. Lantern light pools golden on the pavement, painting the air with warmth you don’t feel. Children run past, laughing with sparklers clutched in sticky hands, couples drift between booths with candied apples and paper fans.
You and Bokuto stand in the middle of it all like two actors who’ve forgotten their lines.
“Guess it’s crowded,” he says finally, his voice louder than it needs to be. It falls flat against the swell of festival chatter.
“Yeah,” you murmur.
For a heartbeat, silence again.
You used to walk with him everywhere—on autopilot, shoulder bumping shoulder, his voice filling the empty spaces. Now every step feels like a negotiation. Do you walk close? Do you leave a gap? He solves it by jamming his hands into his pockets and staring straight ahead, his usual bouncing energy muted.
The silence eats at you. You can feel your own heartbeat in your throat, heavy and uneven.
He tries again. “You… uh, eaten yet?”
“Not really.”
“Wanna… get something?”
It’s clumsy. He knows it, you know it, but you nod anyway because it’s easier than standing here like ghosts.
The first food stall smells like fried batter and sweet syrup. Normally, he’d be vibrating, pointing at every single thing on the menu with wide-eyed excitement until you dragged him along. Tonight, he only gestures vaguely at the skewers.
“I’ll get this,” he mutters.
You order too, more to fill the space than out of hunger.
When the vendor hands over the paper tray, your fingers brush his. It’s an accident—you both pull back immediately, like the touch burned. His ears go pink, but he doesn’t say anything.
You want to.
You want to say why can’t we touch anymore? When did it get like this?
Instead, you eat in silence. The food tastes like cardboard.
The next stall is brighter, kids crowding for masks painted like foxes and cats. You catch Bokuto staring at them longer than necessary, his brows pinched, and for a moment, you almost recognize him—the version who’d shove a ridiculous mask over his head and try to scare you.
But then he notices your gaze and looks away.
“Let’s, uh… keep going.”
You follow.
The silence grows unbearable.
You’ve never been afraid of quiet before—not with him. With him, quiet used to mean comfort. Your shoulder pressed to his as you both watched the court, the easy kind of silence that said you’re safe here.
Now it’s suffocating.
You try to break it. “So… how’s practice?”
“Good,” he says quickly. “Fine.”
And nothing else.
You bite the inside of your cheek.
It only gets worse when you pass a ring toss stall. A group of Fukurodani first-years are there, laughing as they fail to land any rings. One of them spots you both and calls, “Bokuto-san! L/n-san!”
Their faces light up at the sight of you together, like nothing has changed.
You force a smile, waving back.
Bokuto does too—but it’s stiff, a mask. He tugs you away before they can come closer.
You don’t miss the way his jaw tightens.
The walk stretches on. You drift past goldfish stalls, shooting games, the smell of grilled corn. Your shoulders ache from holding yourself so carefully apart from him.
Finally, he breaks.
“Why’d you come?”
The question catches you off guard. His eyes are fixed on the lanterns overhead, but his voice is sharp enough to cut.
“I—” You swallow. “I just… wanted to.”
He doesn’t believe you. You can see it in the set of his mouth.
You don’t tell him that you didn’t come for the festival. That Akaashi and Oikawa pulled strings you didn’t agree to, forced you here because they were sick of watching you both orbit misery.
Because if you said that, he’d only retreat further.
You stop at a yakisoba stall. The heat from the grill stings your cheeks, the smell thick in the air. Bokuto fumbles with his wallet, pays for both without looking at you, and hands over a plate.
It’s awkward. Too polite.
“Thanks,” you say softly.
He just nods.
You stand side by side, eating from separate trays, shoulders not touching though the space between you aches.
Finally, you can’t take it anymore. “Bokuto.”
He freezes mid-bite. Slowly lowers the chopsticks.
“What?”
“I hate this.” The words tumble out before you can stop them. “This… thing between us. Like we’re strangers.”
For a second, his face flickers—hurt, guilt, something else. But he forces a laugh, too bright, too brittle.
“C’mon, Y/n. We’re not strangers.”
“Then what are we?”
The question hangs in the air, heavier than the smoke from the grill. He doesn’t answer. Just looks away, throat bobbing.
You walk again. Past cotton candy stalls, past sparklers, past couples leaning into each other like the air belongs to them. Your chest feels hollow.
At one point, your hands brush again. This time neither of you pulls away immediately. But neither of you takes the leap, either.
It’s enough to make your stomach ache.
By the time the fireworks are about to start, you’re raw with silence.
The crowd funnels toward the riverbank, blankets spread across the grass, families settling in. Lanterns sway in the breeze, casting long shadows.
Bokuto stops beside an empty patch of grass.
“Here?” he asks.
You nod, though your throat feels too tight to speak.
You sit side by side, the distance between you a canyon.
The first firework explodes overhead—red, then gold, lighting the sky like something alive.
You don’t look at it.
You look at him.
And the words burn at the back of your throat, desperate to be said.
The fireworks continued to boom so loud to the point where the ground trembles. Gold bleeds across the sky, burning out into ash that falls invisible in the dark. The crowd cheers, but between you and him it’s quieter than it’s ever been.
Your knees pull close to your chest. His hands are fists in the grass.
You can’t take it anymore.
“Bokuto,” you whisper.
He flinches like the sound of his own name hurts. Slowly, he turns, eyes reflecting the fireworks like shards of glass.
“I really can’t do this anymore.”
His breath hitches. “Do… what?”
You gesture weakly between you, the canyon carved from silence and misunderstandings. “Pretending everything’s fine. Pretending I don’t—” You bite down, the words raw in your throat.
He watches you, eyes wide and wounded. “Y/n…”
You swallow hard. “There’s something I need to tell you. The truth. All of it.”
The words come spilling out, jagged and messy:
“How this started as a test. Oikawa wrote eighteen stupid rules for me—ways to make you fall for me. I didn’t even mean to at first, but then… I kept going. Sleepovers, compliments, all of it. Every step I took was me trying to tell you without actually saying it out loud.”
His mouth parts, disbelief written all over him.
You push on. “But somewhere along the way it stopped being a test for you to like me. It wasn’t about Oikawa’s dumb playbook anymore. It was just me, wanting you.”
The confession tastes like blood and salt on your tongue.
“I like you, Bokuto. More than a best friend. I have for a while now.”
The world narrows to his silence. To the crackle of sparklers and the thunder of fireworks you don’t see.
Finally, he breathes, “You… you did all that for me?”
His voice is rough, like he’s been shouting for hours.
You nod. Your pulse hammers so loud it drowns the crowd. “I didn’t mean to confuse you. I just… I didn’t know how else to tell you. And I thought—”
“That night,” he blurts, eyes sharp now. “The party. We played sven minutes in heaven.”
You blink. “What?”
“I remember.” He drags a hand through his hair, wild-eyed. “I didn’t before, but—I did eventually. We kissed, Y/n. I kissed you, and I didn’t stop thinking about it even when I forgot the details. That’s why it’s been eating me alive.”
Your chest tightens, air searing in your lungs.
“You kissed me?” Your voice cracks.
He shakes his head violently. “Well—we kissed each other. And it felt—” He cuts himself off, breath shuddering. “I didn’t know how to deal with it. I didn’t want to screw it up.”
A firework erupts overhead, bathing you both in gold. His hand twitches in the grass between you.
“Y/n,” he says, softer now, broken in a way you’ve never heard. “I like you too. More than a best friend. I just—I didn’t know how to say it. I thought if I held on too tight, I’d loose you.”
Something in you snaps.
You lean forward, grab the collar of his shirt, and kiss him.
It’s clumsy at first, more shock than skill. His lips are soft, hesitant, testing. He freezes for a heartbeat, and then he’s moving, responding, tilting his head until your mouths fit.
The taste of yakisoba and sugar still lingers on your tongues. His breath hitches against you.
Then the dam breaks.
The kiss deepens, hot and desperate, his hand cupping the back of your neck like he’s terrified you’ll vanish. Your lips part, and the world dissolves in sensation: the rough scrape of his teeth grazing yours, the low groan caught in his throat, the shiver that runs down your spine when his thumb brushes your jaw.
Fireworks explode above, drowning the sound of your gasped breaths.
He kisses you like a man starved. Like he’s been waiting for years and is terrified this is the only chance he’ll ever get. Your fingers knot in his hair, tugging him closer, until your chests press flush, heat radiating through every point of contact.
The smell of smoke, fried food, and summer air swirls around you, but all you can taste is him.
When you finally break apart, foreheads pressed together, you’re both breathless, gasping against each other’s lips. His chest heaves like he’s just played five sets straight.
“Holy shit,” he whispers, voice shaking. “That was—you—”
You laugh, giddy and wrecked. “Yeah. Same.”
Another firework cracks above, showering the world in red. He leans in again, kisses you softer this time, almost reverent, like he wants to memorize you in every color of the sky.
For once, the silence between you isn’t suffocating.
It’s full.
It’s everything.
END
A/N- FINALLY FINISHED OMDD I will do bonus scenes (partially because I don’t want it to come to an end ߹𖥦߹) which includes some elements of smut + other scenes!!
𝐁𝐎𝐍𝐔𝐒 𝐒𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐒:
1. Graduation
2. I Love You
3. Date Night (smut)
4. Moving In (partial smut)
5. Early Morning (partial smut)
6. First Doubt
7. Reunion (smut)
8. Always & Forever
[ Bonus one , graduation. ]
It had only been a few weeks since you and Bokuto started dating, and you still couldn’t quite believe it. Sometimes, when he pulled you in close, you had to pinch yourself — like maybe you’d wake up and it would all still just be a dream. But it wasn’t. This was real. He was yours.
Those weeks felt like a blur of soft kisses tucked into stolen corners of the school hallway, his ridiculously sweaty hand always finding yours on the way to practice, late-night calls that turned into sleepovers where you’d fall asleep to the steady rhythm of his breathing. Bokuto was everything you’d thought he’d be as a boyfriend: playful, relentless in affection, and so open with his happiness that it made your own heart ache.
When you finally told people, the reactions were… dramatic, to say the least.
Oikawa’s voice went up several octaves, practically shrieking over the phone. “FINALLY! My genius plan worked! Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for this day? I practically wrote history, Y/n, you can thank me—” until Iwaizumi’s “shut up, Shittykawa” cut him off. Iwaizumi, of course, had been calmer, though the grin on his face said everything. “Congrats. Took you guys long enough.”
The Fukurodani team, on the other hand, erupted into chaos the second Bokuto blurted it out during practice.
“NO WAY!” Konoha yelled, gripping Onaga’s shoulders like he’d just witnessed a miracle. “I knew it! I knew it from day one—”
“You didn’t know anything,” Washio interrupted, though he was smiling too.
Akaashi didn’t say much, just met your eyes and gave a soft, knowing smile — like he’d seen this coming a mile away.
It had been perfect.
But perfect things had a way of moving too quickly.
No matter how much you wanted to slow it down, graduation came faster than anyone wanted. The air in the gym felt heavier with every practice, every serve echoing against the walls with the weight of lasts. The last rally. The last time Bokuto would scream in victory in his high school gym. The last time you’d stand at the edge of the court, cheering so loudly your throat hurt.
On the day itself, the atmosphere was bittersweet.
The third-years — you included — lined up for the farewell. The first and second-years tried to act normal, but you could see it: the way Washio’s jaw set tighter than usual, the way Akaashi’s fingers twisted against his clipboard, the way Onaga blinked too many times to fight back tears.
And then there was Bokuto.
He was trying — oh, he was trying so hard to keep his usual brightness. He laughed too loud, ruffled everyone’s hair, cracked jokes like always. But you saw the way his smile faltered whenever he looked around the gym. You knew him too well; you knew his energy was masking the ache in his chest.
When it came time to pass down the captain’s role, Bokuto stood in the center, holding the armband with a trembling hand.
“Washio,” he said, voice catching, though he still smiled, “I trust you. More than anyone. You’re steady, and you’ve got this. You’ll take care of them, right?”
Washio nodded firmly. “Of course.”
That was it. Bokuto handed the invisible band over, and the weight of it all seemed to finally crash on him.
He turned to his teammates, and for once, his voice wasn’t booming with bravado but thick with sincerity. “You guys… you’re my family. This team made me who I am. Don’t forget that you’re strong. Even when I’m not here to yell about it.”
There were sniffles. Even Akaashi’s usual composure cracked when Bokuto wrapped him in a hug so tight his feet nearly left the floor.
By the time the goodbyes were done, your chest hurt from holding back tears.
And then, just like that, it was over. The gym was emptying out, echoing with the ghosts of all the noise and chaos it had once held.
Bokuto reached for your hand as you walked out together. His palm was warm, grounding, even as the cool evening air brushed your skin.
“Y/n,” he said softly, his voice a little hoarse from everything he’d just said and felt.
You glanced at him, and he smiled — not his usual blinding grin, but something softer, steadier. “It’s sad… but I’m glad I’m walking out of here with you.”
Your throat tightened, but you squeezed his hand back. “Me too.”
It wasn’t an ending. Not for you two. As the gym doors closed behind you, it felt like the beginning of something bigger, brighter — a future you were stepping into together.
[ Bonus two , I love you. ]
It was now only a few weeks since graduation, but the world already felt different. The team scattered into new routines, new futures, new uncertainties. And Bokuto Koutaro — your loud, golden, chaotic best friend-turned-boyfriend — had been quiet.
Not bad quiet, just… heavy.
You noticed it in the way he slumped into his desk chair when you came over that evening, the way he fiddled with the string of his hoodie instead of bouncing to tell you about his day. His parents had congratulated him, you’d hugged him, Akaashi had clapped him on the back with a rare, soft smile. But Bokuto still hadn’t celebrated properly.
You climbed onto his bed, cross-legged, and watched him from across the room. He looked like he was trying to hold the whole sky in his chest.
“You should be happy,” you finally said, voice light, teasing. “Big scary MSBY Owl, right? Captain of… well, something eventually. You made it, Bokuto.”
His head snapped up — eyes wide, almost guilty. “I am happy!” He said it too fast, too loud, like if he said it with his usual volume it would be true. Then his shoulders deflated, and he spun slowly in his chair to face you. “I just… I dunno, Y/n. It’s weird.”
You patted your lap, a silent command. He hesitated, then dragged himself over, collapsing onto the bed until you guided him into sitting between your thighs, his head dropping against your shoulder.
Your hands instinctively found his hair, carding through soft strands until his breath evened out. He always melted like that under your touch.
“What’s weird?” you asked gently.
He was quiet for a moment. Then, muffled against your shirt: “I’ll be traveling a lot.”
You smiled into his hair. “Yeah, that’s kinda the point of being a pro athlete.”
“I don’t ever wanna lose you.” His voice cracked, raw and boyish, nothing like the confident ace who commanded stadiums. His arms slid tight around your waist, pulling you flush. “I don’t even know if I wanna do it, Y/n. Not if it means—”
You pushed him back just enough to see his face. His eyes were shining, wide and terrified, like he was already watching you slip away.
“Bokuto,” you said firmly. “Don’t you dare think about not doing this. It would hurt me more if you gave up your dream just because of me. Do you know how proud I am of you? You can’t throw that away.”
He bit his lip, searching your face. “But promise me. Nothing will happen to us. Please.”
Your chest squeezed so tight it almost hurt. You cupped his face, thumbs brushing away the fear gathering in his expression. “Nothing will happen to us.”
His breath hitched. “Promise?”
“Promise.”
And then, like the words broke free without his permission, he whispered it against your palm: “I love you.”
It wasn’t loud, wasn’t shouted to the ceiling like most things Bokuto did. It was trembling and desperate, as if the confession itself was a lifeline he’d been clinging to for months.
You blinked at him, heart stuttering. And then you smiled, so wide your cheeks hurt.
“I love you too,” you breathed.
The relief in his face was almost painful — like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. He surged forward, kissing you once, twice, soft and shaky, before breaking. Then it was all heat, hands gripping your waist, your own fingers tangling in his hair, kissing him back until you couldn’t tell where his breath ended and yours began.
The world tilted when he pulled you fully onto his lap, straddling him. He laughed against your mouth — that unsteady, dizzy laugh he only made when he was overwhelmed.
You kissed it away.
His hands slid under your shirt but didn’t push further, just held, just touched — grounding himself in the promise that you were here, and he wasn’t losing you. Each kiss deepened, slow then hungry, until both of you were panting, foreheads pressed together, your laughter trembling with leftover tears.
When you finally pulled back, lips swollen, you whispered, “See? Nothing’s going to happen to us.”
And Bokuto, eyes shining brighter than you’d ever seen, nodded. “Never. Not as long as I’ve got you.”
[ Bonus three , date night. ]
It had been months since the fireworks. Months since the night your lips pressed against Bokuto’s beneath the burst of light and smoke, months since the world narrowed into him — warm, loud, and trembling in your arms.
And somehow, you still couldn’t believe it.
Bokuto Koutaro was your boyfriend.
The word felt giddy and unreal every time it slipped through your head.
Boyfriend.
Like it wasn’t the same boy who used to yell across the gym to show you his new spike form, or whine for energy juice during practice, or drape his hoodie over your shoulders without thinking. No — this was Bokuto, but softer.
Yours.
He’d turned out to be surprisingly romantic in ways you never expected. He would walk you to practice, insist on carrying your bag even when you argued he’d already been weight training that morning, and he’d always buy you those little melon breads you liked at the corner shop. Flowers, too. He wasn’t smooth about it, not really — he usually thrust the bouquet at you like a volleyball, cheeks pink and hair sticking up in uneven tufts. But the sincerity in his wide smile made your chest ache every time.
There were kisses, of course. So many kisses — slower ones when he dropped you off at home, sleepy ones when you fell asleep at his place. Endless sleepovers where his warmth wrapped around you like a blanket, and you whispered into his chest until you both drifted off.
It was everything you wanted.
And yet, for all that sweetness, the two of you hadn’t crossed that line yet. Not because the desire wasn’t there — you felt it, buzzing beneath your skin, humming in every long kiss that lingered too close to something more. But neither of you pushed. Maybe because Bokuto didn’t want to pressure you. Maybe because you were both too wrapped up in the happiness of simply being together.
Still, there were nights when you lay awake in his bed, your legs tangled together, wondering what it would be like to take that final step.
You didn’t have to think too hard about it today, though.
Because right now, Bokuto was lying beside you in your room, half-sprawled across your bed while a half-forgotten movie played on your laptop. His hair was messy, his T-shirt a little too loose, and his arm rested beneath your head like it belonged there. Which it kind of did.
You thought he was dozing until he suddenly piped up.
“Let’s go on a cute date today.”
You blinked, turning toward him. “What? Where’d that come from?”
Bokuto grinned, turning his head so close your noses nearly bumped. “I wanna take my pretty girl out. Proper date. Just us.”
Heat rushed to your cheeks, and you couldn’t help but laugh. “Really? What’s the occasion?”
His grin widened until it stretched nearly off his face. “You. You’re the occasion.”
You smacked his chest with a pillow, trying to cover the way your heart melted into a puddle. “Cheesy.”
“Not cheesy if I mean it,” he shot back, voice warm with something softer than his usual loudness.
Before you could respond, your phone buzzed loudly on the nightstand. Bokuto craned his neck like a curious owl, reading the caller ID.
“Oikawa? Tell him I said hi!”
You groaned, swiping the phone before Bokuto could grab it. “I’ll be right back,” you muttered, slipping off the bed. Bokuto gave you an exaggerated thumbs-up before sprawling dramatically across your pillows.
You answered the call as you stepped into the hall. “Hey.”
“Y/n-chan!” Oikawa’s voice nearly blew out your eardrum, loud and dripping with over-the-top sweetness. “It’s been ages! I was starting to think you forgot about your childhood best friend, now that you’ve got a boyfriend and all—”
You rolled your eyes, though your lips tugged into a smile. “I didn’t forget you. Don’t be dramatic.”
There was a muffled grunt in the background, and then another voice cut in. “She didn’t forget you, Shittykawa. Stop whining.”
“Iwa-chan!” Oikawa squeaked. “Don’t ruin my moment.”
You laughed, leaning against the wall. “So, you two are together again? I should’ve guessed.”
“Obviously,” Iwaizumi said. “He begged me to join the call. What’ve you been up to?”
“Nothing much. Just—” You hesitated, then smiled to yourself. “Actually, Bokuto’s taking me out on a date tonight.”
Oikawa gasped so loudly you winced. “Cute! Adorable! Fantastic! …But I was asking about the juicy stuff.”
Your face flamed instantly. “The—what?”
“You know.” His voice dropped into a conspiratorial purr. “The spicy details. Don’t tell me you two haven’t—”
“Oikawa!”
Iwa groaned in the background. “You’re disgusting. Stop prying into her love life.”
But Oikawa was relentless. “Wait. Wait. Don’t tell me. You’ve been dating for months. You’ve done all the cute couple stuff. And you’re telling me you still haven’t—”
Your silence was answer enough.
Oikawa shrieked. “ARE YOU KIDDING ME? It’s been months! Do I need to get on a flight from Brazil just to fix your sex life??”
You nearly dropped the phone. “Oikawa, shut up! It’s none of your business!”
“Iwa-chan, back me up here,” Oikawa whined.
“No way,” Iwa said flatly. “This is between her and Bokuto. Don’t drag me into your crap.”
“Unbelievable,” Oikawa huffed, ignoring him. “Tonight. It’s happening. I refuse to let my best friend stay a virgin forever when she’s dating a guy who looks like that. Here’s what you’re going to do—”
“Oikawa!”
But he was already rattling off a plan — half-serious, half-ridiculous — that made your face burn hotter with every word. Seduce him, he said. Dress a little cuter than usual. Lean in. Don’t chicken out.
By the time you finally managed to hang up, you were mortified.
Still, his words lingered in your head as you padded back into your room. Bokuto sat up the second you entered, hair sticking up in a dozen new directions, a goofy smile on his lips.
“Everything okay?” he asked.
You nodded quickly, trying to ignore the heat crawling up your neck. “Yeah. Just Oikawa being… Oikawa.”
Bokuto patted the space beside him. “Come here.”
You climbed back onto the bed, curling against him as if nothing had changed. His arm draped over your shoulder, casual and familiar.
But your thoughts weren’t casual at all. They were racing, tangled up in Oikawa’s meddling words and the warm weight of Bokuto’s arm around you.
He noticed the way you bit your lip, because of course he did.
“What’s with that face?” he teased, poking your cheek.
“Nothing,” you mumbled, too quickly.
He tilted his head, unconvinced, but let it slide with a hum. Then, casually, almost like it was nothing, he said—
“I booked us something nice for later, we’ll need to pack a few things.”
You blinked. “…For what?”
Bokuto grinned, eyes sparkling with mischief. “It’s a surprise.”
Your heart stuttered, and Oikawa’s voice echoed in your mind: Tonight. It’s happening.
You weren’t sure if you wanted to kill him… or thank him.
Bokuto had practically dragged you into the lobby, his hand warm and solid around yours, his grin wide enough to split his face. He marched up to the front desk like he owned the place, puffing out his chest as though announcing something to the world.
“Reservation for Bokuto Koutaro!” he said loudly, then added, proudly, “And my girlfriend.”
You nearly choked on air. The receptionist blinked but handed over the keycards, and you hid your face in your sleeve as Bokuto beamed like he’d just won nationals.
The elevator ride was no less chaotic. Bokuto was humming some offbeat rhythm, bouncing on his heels, his fingers tapping restlessly against your knuckles. When the doors opened, he nearly barreled you into the hallway before fumbling the keycard into the slot.
The door swung open, and he froze. “WOAH.”
The suite was massive. A king-sized bed stood at the center like a throne, its crisp white linens already conquered by a battlefield of snacks Bokuto must’ve hauled in earlier: chocolate-dipped strawberries, a tower of popcorn, sodas, candy, chips spilling from bags. A wall-to-wall window looked out over the city, glittering with lights. To the side, the largest flat-screen TV you’d ever seen glowed like a movie theater screen.
“Look at this place!” Bokuto shouted, his voice echoing against the high ceiling. He ran across the room and belly-flopped onto the bed, making the snacks jump. “Y/n, c’mere, it’s like we’re celebrities.”
You shut the door, laughing despite yourself. “You’re going to break the bed before we even sleep in it.”
“Worth it!” He flipped onto his back, hair wild, cheeks flushed from excitement. Then he bolted upright and dashed to the dresser. “OH! They have hotel clothes!” He held up the folded loungewear like it was treasure.
“Bokuto—”
“Let’s change, baby!” He was already kicking off his shirt, tossing it carelessly across the room. “We gotta do this properly!”
You shook your head, but your heart thudded harder when you pulled out the outfit you’d packed: the delicate lingerie Oikawa had insisted on, now hidden beneath an oversized shirt. You slipped it on in the bathroom, nerves twisting through your stomach, and tried not to think about the way your hands were shaking.
When you came back out, Bokuto was sprawled shirtless in baggy shorts, already dimming the lights so the room was wrapped in soft darkness. The TV flickered, painting him in silver and blue.
His head popped up when he saw you. His grin softened into something warmer, something that curled in your chest. “Perfect. Get over here.” He patted the bed like he was coaxing a cat, snacks spread everywhere around him.
You climbed onto the mattress, the oversized shirt hiding your secret. Bokuto immediately slung an arm around your shoulders, pulling you flush against his chest.
The screen glowed, the city twinkled outside, the air smelled faintly of strawberries and chocolate. Bokuto squeezed your hip absentmindedly as he chattered about what movie to start, and you couldn’t stop thinking about Oikawa’s words echoing in your head
Bokuto had the lights low, the movie long forgotten, his arm tucked around you as if he could never sit without touching you somehow. You shifted to face him, and his grin faltered into something softer, something that tugged at you until you leaned in and kissed him.
He sighed into it, smiling against your mouth before deepening the kiss. One soft press turned into two, then into heat—his hand cupping your jaw, his lips moving faster, hungrier, until your shirt was caught between his fingers and you were half straddling him. He pulled you into his lap without hesitation, a groan slipping out when your weight settled against him.
You kissed him harder, every brush of your lips against his making your body burn. Bokuto kissed back like he always did—hot, desperate, overwhelming—but then, just like every other time, he slowed, pulling back, breathing hard against your cheek as if forcing himself to stop.
But this time you didn’t want to stop.
You chased his mouth, kissed him again, then down his jaw, his neck, his cheek. His laugh was soft, almost breathless, as his hands lingered helplessly at your hips. “My love,” he chuckled, voice hoarse, “what’s up with you?”
You didn’t answer. Instead, you caught his hand, kissed along his fingers, watched his eyes widen before you trailed lower, pressing your lips to his chest, then down the lines of his abs. His laughter caught, stuttered into silence as you kissed your way to the sharp cut of his waist, your lips brushing just above the waistband of his shorts.
“Y/n…” His voice was tight, warning and wanting all at once. He reached down, tilting your chin up with trembling fingers. His golden eyes were wide, his mouth parted, expression almost shy despite the heat between you. “Uh… you don’t have to—”
You grinned against his skin and bit his hand playfully, a teasing nip before you kissed lower, tracing the sharp V-line that dipped into his shorts. He sucked in a sharp breath as you tugged at the drawstring, slowly working the fabric down to reveal the outline of his boxers.
“I want to,” you whispered, your voice trembling with nerves but steady with intent.
Bokuto swallowed, his throat bobbing. “I didn’t bring you to a hotel because I wanted you to do this,” he murmured, voice rough, as if he needed you to know it.
“I know.” Your lips brushed his waistband again, your hand pressing to the warmth beneath. You looked up at him through your lashes, a smile tugging at your mouth. “But I want to. So please?”
He stared at you, chest rising and falling, his hair sticking up even wilder than usual. For once, Bokuto Koutarou didn’t have words. He only sighed, face flushed deep pink, and nodded. “…Okay.”
His shorts slipped lower under your hands, and when you tugged his boxers down, you froze, your breath catching. He was already semi-hard, heavy in your hand, flushed a deeper shade at the tip. You pressed a tentative kiss there, and his entire body jerked.
“Holy shit,” he groaned, his voice cracking as his head tipped back against the headboard. His hands clenched the sheets, but his eyes never left you, wide and almost disbelieving. “You—Y/n—” His words stuttered into a moan as you kissed again, your lips lingering, testing, learning.
You were nervous, fumbling at first, but every reaction from him was a guide: the way his hips twitched when you circled your tongue around the swollen head, the low curse he breathed when you wrapped your lips tighter around him, the broken groan when you took him deeper bit by bit.
Bokuto’s hands shook where they hovered above you, like he wanted to touch but couldn’t bear to stop you. His chest rose hard and fast, his abs tightening under your palms. “You’re—fuck—you’re gonna kill me,” he gasped, voice cracking into laughter and moans all tangled together.
And still, he couldn’t take his eyes off you.
Your lips lingered against the flushed crown of his cock, warm and soft, and Bokuto swore his entire body lit up like a struck match. The sound he made was nothing short of broken—half-moan, half-gasp—his head thunking back against the headboard as his fists balled in the sheets.
“Y/n—” His voice cracked, breathless and high, as if saying your name alone could anchor him. “Fuck, that feels—” He cut himself off with another groan when you parted your lips and kissed him again, this time wetter, firmer, your tongue darting out in a nervous flick.
The taste was faintly salty, sharp and heady on your tongue, and the weight of him in your hand only made your pulse quicken. He was heavy, hot, pulsing with every faint twitch of blood rushing through him. It was intimidating—he was intimidating—but the way Bokuto was looking at you made it impossible to stop.
His golden eyes, wide and blown, were fixed on you as if he couldn’t bear to blink. His chest heaved, each inhale shaky, every exhale a muttered curse of disbelief. “You’re… oh my god, you’re actually…” He trailed off, his words strangled as you opened your mouth wider, your lips wrapping cautiously around him.
The sound that left him then was shameless, guttural—like the last shred of his composure snapping in half. “Holy shit, baby,” he groaned, hand shooting out instinctively before he froze, hovering above your hair like he was terrified to push you. “Can I—? Please—”
You hummed, the vibration making him jolt, and guided his hand to your hair yourself. His fingers threaded through carefully, reverently, holding but not forcing, stroking your scalp as if you’d break beneath his touch.
Your mouth slid lower, slow and experimental, until he hit the back of your throat and you gagged, pulling back instantly with a watery gasp. But Bokuto’s hand was there, not restraining but steadying, his other hand reaching down to cup your cheek. His thumb brushed over your lips, wet and swollen from stretching around him. His gaze softened, even as his body trembled with need.
“Hey, hey—don’t push it,” he whispered, though his voice was still wrecked, raw with restraint. “You’re already—fuck, you’re making me feel so good. You don’t even know.”
But you wanted to know. You wanted to know exactly how to make him lose his mind. So you tried again. Slower this time. You took him deeper bit by bit, swirling your tongue, hollowing your cheeks, listening for every sound that spilled out of him like music.
And Bokuto was so vocal.
Every shift of your mouth had him panting, every flick of your tongue had him groaning your name. “Yes—just like that—oh god, you’re perfect,” he choked, his hand tightening in your hair, not pushing but guiding, matching the rhythm you were learning. “My pretty girl—fuck—you’re unreal—”
Your confidence grew with each reaction, each stuttered moan and strangled laugh, until you were bobbing your head in a steady rhythm. The slick, obscene sounds filled the darkened room, mixing with his gasps and your own muffled breaths. Saliva slicked your lips and dripped down your chin, and he couldn’t stop staring at you—on your knees, hair messy, eyes watery but blazing with determination.
“Y/n,” he whined—actually whined—as his hips twitched, betraying him with shallow thrusts. He yanked his hand back instantly, horrified at himself. “Shit, I didn’t mean—”
But you caught his wrist, kissed the vein at the base of his palm, and went back down on him with a deliberate slowness that made his eyes roll back. His restraint cracked, splintering into shuddering groans. “Don’t—don’t do that to me, baby, I’m gonna—”
He couldn’t help it anymore. His hand threaded back into your hair, this time with firmer intent, guiding the pace but never shoving. Just enough to meet you, to move with you, until you were both lost in the sloppy, wet rhythm. His thighs trembled under your palms as you steadied yourself against him, and his voice broke again and again—praise, curses, moans spilling freely.
“God, you’re so good—so fucking good—I can’t—fuck, I can’t hold it—” His hips stuttered, thrusting shallowly into your mouth now that you’d allowed it, each one sloppy, desperate. His eyes locked on yours through the messy strands of hair, wild and vulnerable, like he’d never wanted anything more than you right here, right now.
Your jaw ached, your throat burned, but the sight of Bokuto—flushed red, chest heaving, golden eyes glazed and frantic—made every second worth it. You sucked harder, swirling your tongue, and that was all it took.
His entire body jerked, a strangled cry ripping out of his throat as his hips pressed forward, spilling hot and heavy onto your tongue. He moaned your name like a prayer, like a plea, his hand gripping your hair tight as his climax tore through him.
You swallowed as best you could, though some of it spilled messily down your chin, dripping onto your shirt. You pulled back slowly, lips sliding off him with a wet pop, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand as you looked up at him.
Bokuto’s chest was heaving, his hair plastered to his forehead, sweat shining on his collarbones. He stared at you like you’d just upended his entire universe. And then he laughed—a breathless, incredulous sound, his hand cupping your cheek again.
“You,” he rasped, voice still shaking, “are actually going to kill me.”
You had barely pulled your mouth off him, lips shiny and cheeks flushed, when Bokuto leaned forward and grabbed you—not rough, but urgent, like he couldn’t let you stay on the floor another second. He pulled you onto his lap in one smooth motion, chest still rising hard and fast under yours.
“Baby,” he whispered, and his voice cracked on the word, his forehead pressing against yours. His golden eyes were wide, soft and disbelieving, like he couldn’t process that you’d just done that for him. “You’re insane. You’re perfect. You—fuck—”
His praise dissolved into a groan as you shifted on his lap. You felt it instantly—the twitch under you, the unmistakable hardness pressing against your thigh even though he’d just finished.
You pulled back slightly, wide-eyed. “Already?”
Bokuto laughed, breathless and sheepish, running a shaky hand through his sweat-mussed hair. “I—uh—yeah. I can’t help it. Look at you.” His eyes roved over your face, down to your swollen lips, your damp chin, and then—slowly—lower. His hand trembled as it traced the hem of your oversized shirt. “Can I…?”
You nodded, your chest already tight with nerves
He pulled it up and over your head—then froze.
The shirt slipped from Bokuto’s fingers, but his breath slipped from his lungs. You sat there in his lap, lace framing your body like some fever dream, and the only thing separating you was the steady, heavy press of his cock against you—even harder now, flushed and thick where it rested against the heat of your panties.
“Fuck…” His voice cracked. His hands—big, trembling—skated up your thighs, pausing just shy of your hips like he was afraid you’d disappear if he touched too hard. “You’re sitting here—looking like this—on me? You’re insane. I don’t deserve you.”
You leaned down and kissed him, slow and deep, until his disbelief melted into need. His mouth parted under yours, his tongue sweeping against yours as though he couldn’t get enough, and you gasped when he ground up into you, the wet lace between your thighs barely softening the drag of his length.
He broke the kiss with a shaky laugh, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. “I’m already so close just from that—what the hell are you doing to me?”
You smiled against his hair, sliding your fingers into the messy strands. “Driving you crazy.”
“Mission accomplished.” His voice was low, hoarse, almost reverent.
One hand cupped your breast, thumb flicking over the lace-covered peak until your back arched. He groaned at the sight, slipping beneath the cup with no patience for barriers. The heat of his palm against your bare skin made you whimper.
“God, you’re perfect,” he whispered before ducking his head. His mouth wrapped around your nipple, sucking gently, then harder when your hips jerked against him. His teeth grazed, tongue swirling, pulling broken sounds from your throat while his other hand gripped your waist, keeping you steady as you writhed.
Every time you shifted, his cock slid against your soaked panties, smearing your slick down his length. You couldn’t stop rocking into him, couldn’t stop the tiny gasps each time the head nudged against your clit through the fabric.
“Bokuto—” Your voice cracked, pleading.
He lifted his head, lips glistening, eyes wild. “I’ve got you,” he promised, kissing you again, tasting the whimper still trembling on your tongue. His fingers drifted lower, skimming the waistband of your panties. “Can I?”
You nodded fast, too breathless for words.
He hooked his fingers under the lace and slid down, groaning when his hand met nothing but wet heat. “Fuck, you’re soaked.” His thumb found your clit like instinct, circling softly until your nails dug into his shoulders. “And all this—just from me?”
“Always you,” you gasped, bucking into his touch.
That pulled a curse from his throat, his cock twitching hard against you. He teased you with shallow strokes at first, fingers brushing your entrance but not pressing in, like he was testing how much you could take.
You whined, rolling your hips desperately. “Koutaro, please.”
He chuckled, kissing you again to swallow the sound, before finally sliding a finger inside you. The stretch had you clinging to him instantly, moaning into his mouth as he worked you open slowly, gently, like you were the most fragile thing he’d ever held.
“That’s it,” he praised, voice rough with awe. “Good girl, taking me so well.”
Your whole body jolted at the praise, your walls tightening around him.
He froze, then smirked against your neck. “Ohh. You like that, huh?”
Your face burned, but you couldn’t deny it—not when your body gave you away with every pulse.
He added a second finger, curling them just right until sparks shot up your spine. “Then I’ll say it again. You’re perfect. You’re gorgeous. You’re mine.”
His fingers curled inside you just right, brushing over that spot that made you see stars, and you clutched at his shoulders like they were the only thing keeping you tethered to the earth. His name kept spilling from your lips, broken, desperate—“Kou, please, please—”
He groaned, the sound deep in his chest. His thumb never stopped circling your clit, slow but relentless, and each tiny motion made your thighs tremble where they caged his hips. You were unraveling fast, every muscle straining tight, sweat making the lace cling to your skin.
“That’s it,” he coaxed, kissing the corner of your mouth, your jaw, your ear. “Let it happen, baby. You’re so close. You’re so fucking pretty like this.”
Your walls clenched around his fingers hard enough to make him curse, but just as your vision started to blur—right on the edge—he stopped.
“Wha—?” Your protest cracked on a whimper.
Bokuto’s forehead pressed to yours, breath ragged. His fingers slipped free, wet with your arousal, and he hooked them into the waistband of your panties. He tugged them to the side, baring you completely against the thick, leaking press of his cock.
“Can I?” His voice was wrecked, almost shaking with restraint. “Tell me you want this too. Tell me now, or I stop.”
You cupped his face, forcing him to meet your eyes even through your blush. “I want you, Kou. I’ve always wanted you.”
Something in him snapped.
He let out a choked laugh, half-disbelieving, before lining himself up. The blunt head nudged at your entrance, sliding easily against how wet you were, and both of you moaned at the contact.
The blunt head nudged at your entrance, sliding easily against how wet you were, and both of you moaned at the contact.
He pressed in slowly, almost too slow, his jaw clenched and his hand gripping your hip hard enough to tremble. Your nails dug into his shoulders as the stretch hit—hot, tight, so much more than his fingers—and you buried your face in his neck with a gasp.
“Kou—”
“I know, baby. I know.” His voice cracked like he was barely holding himself together. He kissed your temple, your hair, anywhere his lips could reach while his other hand rubbed soothing circles on your back. “God, you feel… you’re perfect. So warm, so tight. Just… just breathe, yeah? I’ve got you.”
You exhaled shakily, forcing yourself to relax, and he pushed deeper. Inch by inch until he was fully seated inside you, panting hard against your ear. His cock twitched deep in your heat, and his whole body shuddered.
“Holy shit.” His laugh was wrecked, breathless. “I’m not—I don’t think I’ve ever felt anything like this. You’re… fuck, you’re mine.”
The words made you clench around him, and he groaned so loud it rattled through his chest into yours.
He didn’t move at first. He just held you there, one hand splayed over your spine to keep you flush against him, the other gripping your thigh as though anchoring himself. His lips brushed your cheek, your jaw, whispering between shaky breaths: “You’re so beautiful. My pretty girl. I’m gonna take such good care of you.”
When you finally shifted your hips experimentally, the both of you gasped. His forehead dropped to your shoulder, teeth grazing your skin as he muttered a broken, “Don’t—fuck—don’t do that unless you want me to lose it.”
But you wanted him to.
You rolled again, this time slower, and he hissed, dragging his hips up to meet yours. The friction sparked through you like lightning, and suddenly you couldn’t stop. Your thighs tightened around his hips, pulling him closer, deeper, and he found his rhythm—smooth thrusts that grew steadier, stronger, until every push had you choking on a cry.
The sound of skin against skin filled the room, tangled with his shameless moans. Bokuto didn’t hold back, didn’t bite them down—he gave them all to you, each noise proof of how undone you made him.
“Feels so good,” he groaned, kissing your shoulder before tilting his head back, golden eyes blown wide. “You’re—fuck, you’re squeezing me so tight, baby. Like you were made for me. You were, weren’t you? Just mine.”
“Yes,” you gasped, nails scraping down his chest. “All yours.”
That cracked something in him. His thrusts grew harder, deeper, angled just right until sparks exploded behind your eyes. You clawed at him, desperate, your moans rising into shameless cries as heat coiled tighter and tighter low in your stomach.
“Kou—” Your voice broke on his name, pleading.
“I’ve got you,” he panted, thumb finding your clit again, circling fast and messy as his hips snapped up into yours. “Come on, baby. Cum for me. Wanna feel you, need to feel you—please.”
His begging undid you. You shattered around him, crying out as waves of pleasure tore through you, walls pulsing hard around his cock. Bokuto cursed loud, almost desperate, thrusting through your release until his own hit.
He buried himself deep, moaning your name like it was the only word left in his vocabulary, and spilled hot inside you. His body locked tight, muscles trembling, before he finally collapsed forward, catching himself with shaking arms so he wouldn’t crush you.
For a moment, the world was nothing but harsh breaths, pounding hearts, and the dizzy aftershocks still rolling through you both. He pressed his sweaty forehead to yours, eyes half-lidded, a dazed grin spreading across his flushed face.
“You just… ruined me,” he said, voice hoarse but filled with awe. “Like—I don’t think I’ll ever recover. Holy shit.”
You laughed weakly, brushing damp hair from his forehead. “That’s kind of the point.”
He kissed you then, slow and messy, full of everything words couldn’t hold. When he finally pulled back, his smile softened, eyes glowing even through exhaustion.
“I love you,” he whispered, like a secret meant only for you.
And the way he held you after, still inside you, made you believe him in every trembling breath, every lingering kiss, every heartbeat.
[ Bonus four , moving in. ]
The smell of fresh paint still lingered faintly in the air, clinging to the cream-colored walls of your new living room. The floors were littered with cardboard boxes, some neatly labeled and stacked, others half-open with clothes or books spilling out. A mattress lay bare on the floor upstairs, waiting for the bed frame that would arrive in a week, and the fridge hummed almost too loudly in the kitchen because it was still mostly empty except for bottled water and leftover takeout.
It was yours.
The house wasn’t fancy—two bedrooms, a cozy kitchen, just enough of a yard out back for Bokuto to set up a makeshift net when he wanted to practice—but it was more than you’d ever dreamed. You’d signed the papers together a few weeks ago, both of you too giddy to stop smiling, and now here you were: unpacking your lives into this new space, building a home.
Bokuto was sprawled on the couch you’d just wrestled through the front door, his hair messier than usual, a streak of dust smudged across his cheek. He had one of your throw pillows tucked under his arm like he already owned it, grinning like a kid at Christmas as he turned his head to look at you.
“Baaaabe,” he drawled, his voice warm with exhaustion but still buzzing with excitement. “We live here. Together. Like… this is our place now.”
You laughed, dropping onto the couch beside him and stretching your legs out, toes brushing against one of the unopened boxes. “Yeah, we do. Feels surreal, doesn’t it?”
“Totally surreal,” he agreed, sliding closer until his arm was looped around your shoulders. “Like, I’m gonna wake up and think I’m back in my room or something. But then you’ll be there. And then I’ll remember—nope. This is real life. Our home.”
Your heart squeezed. You’d both come so far since those chaotic high school days. He had MSBY now—flights, games, grueling practices that sometimes kept him away longer than either of you liked. You had a job you actually loved, one that paid well enough to make this house possible. It wasn’t always easy, but you’d made it work. Together.
Bokuto pressed a kiss to your temple before leaning back against the couch with a sigh. “You know what’s missing, though?”
You turned to look at him. “What?”
“Christening the house,” he said immediately, eyes glinting with mischief.
You blinked, laughing nervously. “Christening? Like… breaking a bottle of champagne on the front door?”
He shook his head furiously, hair flopping. “Nooo, not like that. I mean—you know.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially, though it was only the two of you. “Like us. Making it official.”
Your cheeks warmed instantly. “Kou.”
“What?” His grin widened, playful and unashamed. “It’s tradition!” He tugged you into his lap like it was the easiest thing in the world, your knees bracketing his thighs. “C’mon, baby. First night in our own place… feels like fate, doesn’t it?”
You wanted to roll your eyes, but the way his hands slid instinctively over your waist, fingers splaying against your back like he couldn’t believe you were real, made your pulse skip. You’d been together long enough to know that when Bokuto got like this—reckless, giddy, overflowing with love—it was impossible to say no.
You smirked a little, pretending to think. “So this is your way of saying you don’t want to unpack anymore boxes, huh?”
He gasped dramatically. “Unpacking can wait. This is way more important.” His tone dropped suddenly, sincerity softening the edges of his grin. “I wanna make a memory here with you. Just us. First of many.”
Your throat tightened at that, because damn it, he always knew how to get to you.
You leaned in and kissed him—soft at first, then lingering. Bokuto hummed, hands tightening on your waist, his lips parting beneath yours until the kiss deepened, heat sparking between you as easily as it always did. He tasted faintly of the cola he’d downed earlier, sweet and sharp against your tongue.
“Kou…” you murmured when his mouth trailed to your jaw, then your neck, warm breath fanning against your skin.
“Mm?” He didn’t stop, pressing open-mouthed kisses down to your collarbone.
“Maybe you’re right. Maybe… we should christen it.”
The groan he let out was half relief, half pure hunger. “Fuck, don’t tease me like that.”
Before you could respond, he was already shifting, standing up with you in his arms like you weighed nothing, carrying you through the half-unpacked house to where the mattress lay upstairs. The sight almost made you laugh—the room was still bare, walls echoing slightly, your mattress sitting on the floor without sheets. But Bokuto set you down gently like it was a throne, and suddenly it didn’t feel empty at all.
It felt like the start of something.
He kissed you again, harder this time, one hand cupping your jaw while the other slid down your side, squeezing your hip. You tugged at his shirt until he pulled it over his head and tossed it aside, revealing the broad chest and abs you’d once only admired from afar. You never got used to how warm his skin was, how solid he felt beneath your hands.
“Kou,” you whispered when he pressed you back onto the mattress, his body hovering over yours.
“Yeah, baby?” His golden eyes burned down at you, already dilated with want.
“Don’t hold back tonight.”
The sound he made in response was almost feral, low in his throat. His mouth crashed onto yours again, his kiss hot and needy, as his hands roamed everywhere—palming your breast through your shirt, dragging down your shorts with impatient fingers, stroking the curve of your thigh like he couldn’t decide what he wanted to touch first.
When he finally slipped his hand between your legs, pressing against the damp heat through your panties, you gasped into his mouth.
“Already wet for me,” he murmured, pride thick in his voice. “God, you’re perfect.”
You arched into his touch, already trembling, as he kissed his way down your chest. His mouth found your nipple through the thin fabric, sucking lightly until you whimpered, tugging his hair in desperate encouragement. He grinned against you, always so damn smug when he got you like this.
Your hands fumbled for his sweatpants, shoving them down until he kicked them off, leaving him in nothing but his boxers and the bulge straining hard against them. The sight made your breath hitch.
“Kou…”
“Don’t worry, baby,” he said, voice rough with need as he reached for the drawer of the nightstand you’d at least managed to set up. He pulled out a condom, ripped the wrapper with his teeth, and rolled it on smoothly despite how much his hands were shaking. “I got you.”
Then he was back over you, pressing his forehead to yours as he lined himself up, the thick head of his cock sliding against your soaked entrance.
“Ready?” he asked, voice breaking slightly.
“Yes.”
He pushed in slowly, stretching you inch by inch until you were gasping, clutching at his shoulders. The burn was intense, but so was the pleasure, and Bokuto was kissing you through it, whispering praise against your lips.
“You feel so good. So tight. Taking me so well, baby…”
When he was fully seated inside you, both of you breathless, he groaned deep in his chest. “Fuck. Every time feels like the first.”
Then he pulled back and thrust forward, hard enough to make the mattress squeak against the floor. Your moan filled the empty room, echoing off the bare walls.
Bokuto smirked against your neck, thrusting again, harder this time. “Guess the neighbors are gonna know we moved in, huh?”
You could only moan in response, already clinging to him as the rhythm built, your new home christened in the most Bokuto way possible—loud, messy, and unforgettable.
[ Bonus five , early morning. ]
You woke up to the press of him inside you.
Not the slow slide of foreplay, not the deliberate buildup of teasing kisses and whispered pleas—just the thick, familiar stretch of Bokuto already buried in you, his big hand clutching the curve of your thigh to keep you open for him.
Your breath stuttered awake with a soft gasp, eyes flying open only to be met with sunlight spilling across the pale walls of your bedroom. The sheets were tangled around your waists, your leg hooked over his hip as he held it higher, opening you wider so he could thrust lazily into you from behind.
“Kou—” Your voice cracked, sleep-rough and breathless all at once.
“Mm, morning,” he mumbled against your shoulder, lips brushing your skin with every slurred word. His hair was wild, sticking up worse than usual, his chest pressed flush against your back as he rutted into you with the kind of half-conscious rhythm that said he’d woken up hard and refused to waste time.
The pace wasn’t frantic—it was messy, needy, the kind of lazy grind that had you melting into the sheets instead of bracing against them. He wasn’t chasing finesse; he was chasing warmth, chasing the way your cunt squeezed around him every time his cock dragged against that sweet spot.
“Kou,” you tried again, whining as his thumb traced lazy circles over your clit. “You didn’t even—ah—wake me up first.”
He groaned, forehead dropping against your neck. “Couldn’t. You were so warm… felt too good not to.”
The words should’ve sounded shameless, but coming from him—half-asleep, desperate—it just made your whole body shiver. He gave another slow thrust, his cock dragging deep, and you clenched down around him, earning a broken curse muffled against your skin.
“Shit, baby… already squeezing me that tight? You’re gonna kill me first thing in the morning.”
You reached back blindly, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer until he grunted. His mouth found yours in a sloppy kiss, teeth clashing, tongues messy with the way neither of you had the energy to make it neat. It was all heat and need, the taste of morning breath and pure want.
The room smelled like sex and sweat, faintly tinged with the lavender detergent you’d used on the sheets just last week. The bed frame creaked softly every time his hips rolled into you, a slow, steady rhythm that made the sound obscene.
“More,” you whispered, and he groaned like the word itself was a prayer.
His arm looped tighter around your thigh, pulling it up until your knee brushed the mattress, leaving you open and exposed for every deep grind of his cock. You cried out, clutching at the sheets, head tilting back against his shoulder.
“That’s it,” he panted, voice husky with sleep and lust. “Taking me so good, baby. My perfect girl. Fuck, you feel incredible like this.”
His praise was constant, broken between messy kisses against your shoulder and jaw, spilling out of him like he couldn’t hold it in. You knew by now that Bokuto didn’t just fuck with his body—he fucked with his whole heart, every word tumbling out unfiltered.
And you loved it.
Your orgasm built slow, drawn out by the lazy drag of his cock and the steady circles of his thumb. Every time you thought you were close, his pace would stutter, messy and uneven, making you chase it even harder. It was torture and bliss all wrapped in one.
“Kou, please,” you begged, hips rocking back into him. “I need—ah—need to come.”
“Then come,” he rasped, kissing the corner of your mouth as his thrusts deepened, sloppy and hungry now. “Don’t hold back, baby. Wanna feel you all over me.”
That was all it took.
Your body arched, the orgasm ripping through you with a broken cry, thighs trembling as your walls clamped down around him. Bokuto groaned so loud it rattled through your bones, his hips snapping harder, chasing his own release with reckless need.
He buried his face in your neck, muffling a string of curses and praise as he spilled into the condom, his cock jerking inside you while his whole body shook. His grip on your thigh loosened slowly, letting you collapse back against the sheets, both of you gasping and trembling in the aftermath.
For a long moment, the room was filled only with the sound of your breathing, heavy and uneven. Sunlight warmed your skin, making the sheen of sweat glisten across your bodies.
Then Bokuto laughed breathlessly, pressing a sloppy kiss to your temple. “Good morning.”
You rolled your eyes, though you couldn’t fight the smile tugging at your lips. “You’re impossible.”
“Impossible and yours.” He grinned, tugging the blanket back over you both before pulling you closer into his chest. His cock slipped free with a wet sound, and he winced faintly before disposing of the condom in the trash by the bed. When he flopped back down, he dragged you with him, tucking you firmly under his chin.
“Hungry?” he asked after a few minutes, still breathless but already grinning.
“Starving,” you admitted, your stomach giving a small growl to prove your point.
He perked up instantly, eyes lighting with the same excitement he had before every game. “Breakfast in bed. Don’t move—I’ll do it.”
You groaned. “Kou, you’re gonna burn something.”
“I won’t! …Probably.” He kissed your forehead, already leaping out of bed with his sweatpants hanging low on his hips. “Stay right there, pretty girl. You’ll see.”
And somehow, you did. You stayed curled under the sheets, listening to the chaotic clatter of pans and the hum of the coffee machine. Twenty-five minutes later, Bokuto returned, proudly balancing a tray stacked with pancakes, scrambled eggs, and way too much syrup.
“Ta-da!” he announced, nearly tripping on the way to the bed but recovering at the last second. He set the tray between you, beaming as he flopped back down beside you. “Our first breakfast in bed in our new house.”
Your chest swelled at that—the simplicity of it, the sweetness. You leaned over and kissed him softly, tasting syrup on his lips already.
“Perfect,” you whispered.
And it was.
[ Bonus six , first doubt. ]
The house was too quiet.
You hadn’t noticed it before—how much Bokuto filled every inch of the space just by existing. His laugh echoing through the kitchen while he burned toast, his heavy footsteps on the stairs, even the way he’d hum tunelessly when he showered. All those little things you used to roll your eyes at had become the background music of your days. Now, without him, the silence pressed in on you like a weight.
It had only been two weeks since he left for his away games. Two weeks wasn’t forever. But it felt like it.
You tried to keep busy. Work, friends, reorganizing the living room shelves for the third time even though they were fine. But no matter what you did, your gaze kept drifting to your phone, waiting for the screen to light up with his name.
When it finally buzzed that evening, you scrambled for it like a lifeline.
“Hey, baby,” Bokuto’s voice crackled through the speaker, warm but tired. In the background, you could hear faint chatter, laughter—his teammates, probably, in whatever hotel lounge they were holed up in.
Your heart squeezed. “Kou. Finally. I’ve missed you.”
“I missed you too,” he said immediately, but his voice was muffled, like he was covering the mic. “Hold on, let me just—” You heard a door click shut, then silence except for his breathing. “Okay. Sorry. What’s up?”
You curled into the couch cushions, clutching the phone tighter. “Nothing’s up. I just… wanted to hear your voice. It’s so quiet here without you.”
He chuckled softly, but it was thin around the edges. “Yeah? I bet it’s weird not having me leaving socks everywhere.”
“It’s more than that,” you whispered.
There was a pause. You could almost picture him frowning, rubbing the back of his neck the way he always did when he didn’t know what to say.
“I know it’s hard,” he said finally. “But it’s only temporary. Just a couple more weeks and I’ll be back.”
You bit your lip. The words should have been comforting, but instead they stung. “You say that like it’s nothing. Kou, I hate this. I hate going to bed without you. I hate waking up to an empty house. I feel like… like I’m living in this space that we built together, but half of it is missing.”
“Baby, don’t—” His sigh was heavy, frustration bleeding through. “I’m trying, okay? I call when I can. Practices are brutal, games are nonstop, and by the time I get back to the hotel, I’m dead on my feet. I’m giving it everything out here.”
Something sharp twisted in your chest. “I’m not asking you to give everything to me, Kou. I’m just asking for something. A real conversation, not just five minutes before you crash. Do you even want to be on this call right now, or is it just another thing on your list?”
“Of course I want to be on this call!” His voice rose, and for a second, it was like he was right there in the room, loud and overwhelming. But then it cracked, softer. “You think I don’t miss you? You think I’m not lying awake at night wishing I was next to you instead of in some shitty hotel room?”
Tears pricked your eyes before you could stop them. “Then why does it feel like volleyball comes first? Always?”
The silence on the other end was deafening.
When Bokuto finally spoke, his voice was low, raw. “Because volleyball is what I have to do. For me, yeah—but for us too. Every paycheck, every match, every bit of this grind—it’s so I can build something better for us. So we can stay in that house we love. So you don’t ever have to worry.”
Your throat closed up. “Kou…”
“I hate this too,” he cut in, voice breaking. “I hate being away from you. I hate hearing you cry and knowing I can’t touch you, can’t hold you. You think I don’t feel that same ache? Baby, it’s killing me.”
You pressed the heel of your hand to your eyes, trying to steady your breathing. “Then what are we supposed to do? Just… wait it out?”
Another pause. Then softer, gentler, his tone shifting like the fight had drained out of him. “We do what we’ve always done. We push through. We trust each other. And we remember this isn’t forever.”
You swallowed hard, the knot in your chest loosening just enough to let his words in.
“I’m coming home soon,” he promised, so quiet it almost sounded like a vow. “Sooner than you think. Just hold on for me a little longer, okay?”
Your voice shook, but you forced the words out. “Okay.”
There was a beat of silence, and then he whispered, almost pleading, “Don’t give up on me.”
“I could never.”
The line stayed open for a while after that, neither of you speaking. Just breathing together, clinging to the fragile thread that still connected you across miles of distance.
The doubt wasn’t gone, not really. The ache was still there. But so was the love. And for now, that was enough.
[ Bonus seven , reunion. ]
The sound of the lock clicking made your head snap up from the kitchen. You’d been halfway through stacking clean mugs into the cabinet, your playlist humming softly in the background, when you heard it: the sound of the front door opening. For a second, you thought you imagined it—your brain had been playing tricks on you for weeks, craving the familiar sound of his heavy footsteps, the jangle of his keys, the way his voice filled every corner of the house.
But then—
“Honeeeey, I’m hoooome!”
His voice boomed from the entryway, playful and dramatic, dripping with the kind of over-the-top silliness only Bokuto could pull off.
Your heart stopped. Then it sprinted.
Dropping the mug onto the counter with a clink, you spun toward the doorway. He was really there—framed in the golden afternoon light, duffle bag slung over one shoulder, hair wild from travel, grinning like he’d just scored match point. His sweatshirt looked rumpled, his shoes scuffed from airport chaos, but to you? He looked like the most beautiful sight you’d ever seen.
“Kou!”
The laugh that bubbled out of you was half relief, half disbelief, as your whole body moved before your brain caught up. You bolted across the kitchen, rounded the corner, and threw yourself at him. Bokuto barely had time to drop his bag before you leapt, arms wrapping around his neck and legs locking around his waist.
“Oof—baby!” His laughter rumbled in his chest, but his arms caught you instantly, strong and steady. He crushed you against him like he’d been waiting forever, burying his face in your shoulder as he spun you slightly. “You came flying at me like a volleyball!”
“Shut up,” you laughed through the tears prickling at your eyes, peppering kisses across his cheek, his jaw, the bridge of his nose. “You’re actually here—you’re home.”
“‘Honey, I’m home,’” he repeated with mock pride, deepening his voice like some old-timey sitcom dad. “Always wanted to say that. Nailed it, right?”
You laughed harder, the sound muffled as you kissed him again, everywhere your lips could reach. He smelled faintly like airplane air and the travel-sized cologne you’d tucked into his bag, but underneath it all was him—warm, familiar, grounding.
“Kou,” you whispered against his skin, voice breaking. “I missed you so much.”
“I missed you more,” he said instantly, pulling back just far enough to look at you. His golden eyes were shining, a little glossy despite the grin still tugging at his mouth. “Fuck, baby, you have no idea.”
You did. Because you’d felt it too—the ache of the empty house, the way the bed felt wrong without his weight beside you, the silence that seemed heavier than noise ever could be. But right now? None of that mattered. Because he was here, holding you like he’d never let go again.
“Wait, wait—” He suddenly shifted, adjusting his grip on you with that casual strength of his. “As much as I wanna keep you wrapped around me forever, I should probably, y’know… actually get inside before we knock the door off its hinges.”
Reluctantly, you let him set you down, your feet touching the hardwood again. But the warmth of his hands lingered as he trailed them down your sides, big palms curving over your hips before landing—predictably—on your ass.
“God, I missed this,” he groaned dramatically, giving a squeeze that made you squeak. “Perfect. Still mine.”
Your face heated instantly. “Kou!”
“What?” His grin turned shameless, eyes glinting. “You think I wasn’t dreaming about your ass every night on the road?” He gave another squeeze for emphasis, leaning down to murmur in your ear, “Booty guy for life, baby. You know that.”
You shoved his shoulder lightly, though your giggle betrayed you. “You’re impossible.”
“And you love it.” He winked, finally releasing you long enough to stoop and grab his duffle. Slinging it onto one arm like it weighed nothing, he hefted his rolling suitcase in the other hand. The casual flex of his biceps made your stomach flip—seriously, had they gotten bigger while he was away? He looked unfairly good, even travel-tired and jet-lagged.
He toed off his sneakers by the door and stepped fully inside, gaze sweeping over the living room. The throw pillows were arranged just how he liked them, the shelves dusted, his goofy framed photo of you two on the beach still perched proudly on the mantle.
“Damn, baby,” he said softly, awe in his tone. “You kept it in good shape. Better than when I left, honestly.”
“Of course I did.” You leaned against the wall, arms crossed but smiling. “It’s our home. I wanted it to feel good when you came back.”
He set his bags down with a thud and turned back to you, expression softening. Then, with zero warning, he scooped you up again—this time spinning you full circle, your laughter echoing through the room.
“KO!” you squealed, clinging to his shoulders.
“I can’t help it!” he said, voice giddy, as he slowed the spin but didn’t set you down right away. “One month and a couple days without you felt like five years. I gotta make up for lost time.”
When he finally stopped, he didn’t let go. Instead, he kissed you—slow at first, like he wanted to savor the moment, then deeper, hungrier, like he’d been starving.
You melted into it, fingers threading into his messy hair, heart pounding so hard you thought it might burst. Every bit of distance, every lonely night, every aching moment without him seemed to dissolve with that kiss.
When you finally pulled back for air, your foreheads pressed together, you whispered, “You’re really home.”
He smiled against your lips, voice rough with emotion. “Yeah, baby. I’m really home.”
His grip on your ass tightened, and he groaned into your mouth like he’d been holding that sound back for weeks. Your back hit the nearest wall with a dull thump, but neither of you cared—his lips were all over yours, hot and frantic, teeth catching your lower lip until you gasped, giving him the chance to lick into your mouth. He tasted different, faintly of airplane coffee and mint gum, but under it was him—your Bokuto, all heat and need.
“Kou,” you whimpered, tugging at his shirt, nails dragging down his back hard enough to make him hiss.
He laughed, breathless against your lips. “God, I missed the way you say my name.” Another squeeze of your ass, rougher this time, making you gasp. “I missed you. You have no idea how bad I wanted to kiss you every single day I was away.”
Your legs cinched tighter around his waist, grinding down against the hard length straining through his sweats. He groaned, forehead pressed to yours, golden eyes blown wide. “Fuck, baby… don’t do that unless you want me to lose it right here.”
“Then lose it,” you whispered, tugging at his hair.
That broke him.
He carried you down the hall without ever breaking the kiss, bumping into the wall once, both of you laughing breathlessly between sloppy kisses. By the time he dropped you onto the bed, his sweats were hanging dangerously low on his hips, his abs flexing as he leaned over you.
“Take it off,” you begged, tugging at his shirt.
“You first,” he teased, voice low and hungry. His big hands slid under your top, calluses rough against your soft skin as he peeled it upward. You arched your back to help him, and the sound that left him when your bra came into view was practically a growl. “Fuck… prettier than I remembered.”
He pressed hot, open-mouthed kisses down your chest, nosing at the swell of your breasts before sucking one nipple into his mouth, his hand kneading the other. You gasped, head falling back, legs shifting restlessly as arousal pooled hot between your thighs.
“Missed these,” he mumbled against your skin, nipping gently before kissing lower, toward your stomach. “Missed all of you.”
Your shorts and panties didn’t stand a chance—he hooked his thumbs in and tugged them down in one swift move, leaving you bare and trembling beneath him. His eyes darkened, the grin on his face feral.
“Baby… you’re dripping. Did you really miss me this much?” He dragged two fingers through your slick folds, groaning low in his throat. “God, you’re soaking.”
“Kou, please,” you gasped, hips jerking against his touch.
He smirked, but his restraint was shot. He yanked his sweats and boxers down in one go, his cock springing free, thick and flushed, already leaking for you. He tore open the condom wrapper with shaking hands, rolling it on quick and messy before bracing himself over you.
Instead of pushing you down, his broad chest pressed flush to your back, his thighs bracketing yours as he pulled you onto his lap.
“Kou—” you gasped, already trembling when his hands skimmed over your waist, down to your thighs, guiding you to straddle him.
“Like this,” he murmured against your ear, voice thick, raw. He kissed your temple, your cheek, then sank his teeth into your shoulder gently. “Wanna see you arch for me. Wanna feel you take it all right here.”
Your breath hitched as he nudged the thick head of his cock against your soaked entrance. His hands gripped your hips tight, guiding you down slowly—inch by inch, the stretch burned hot, your walls clenching helplessly around him.
“Fuck,” Bokuto groaned, throwing his head back, eyes squeezing shut as you sank all the way down until your ass pressed against his thighs. “You’re so fucking tight. Sitting so pretty on my cock, baby—god, I missed this.”
You whimpered, your hands grabbing at his knees behind you for balance, arching your back instinctively. His groan rumbled low in his chest, vibrating against you as he slid his arms around your waist, locking you to him.
“Move for me,” he whispered, almost desperate.
You lifted slowly, the drag of him pulling out of you making your whole body tremble, then dropped back down with a wet slap that echoed in the bare bedroom. Bokuto’s teeth sank into your shoulder harder, his groan muffled against your skin.
“That’s it—fuck, just like that.” His hands gripped your hips, helping you find a rhythm, guiding you to bounce on his cock. “You’re amazing. So fucking amazing, baby.”
Your moans filled the room, each bounce sharper, wetter, louder. The sound of your bodies slamming together mixed with Bokuto’s broken praises, his breath hot against your neck.
“Ride me—fuck, yeah—take all of me.” His voice cracked with each thrust upward, hips slamming into you from below. “You’re perfect. My perfect girl. Fuck, I love you.”
His chest was slick against your back, sweat dripping down his temple as he pressed sloppy kisses along your neck, biting at the sensitive spot beneath your ear. His thrusts grew harder, meeting each of your movements until the rhythm turned frantic, messy.
“Kou—” you sobbed, back arching as he filled you so deep you swore you could feel him in your stomach.
He groaned, hips stuttering when your walls clenched tight around him. One of his hands slid lower, between your thighs, fingers finding your clit and circling fast, sloppy, desperate.
“Cum for me,” he begged, his forehead pressing to your damp shoulder. “Please, baby—wanna feel you cum on me. Wanna feel you lose it.”
Your body obeyed before your mind could catch up. The orgasm ripped through you, a violent, blinding wave that had you crying out, clenching around him so tight he cursed loudly. Your thighs shook as you collapsed back against his chest, panting, trembling.
He slammed into you one last time, burying himself deep as his groan tore out of his chest. You felt the condom fill with his release, his entire body shuddering against yours, arms wrapping you up like he was afraid you’d slip away.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of your shared panting, the creak of the mattress beneath you, his lips brushing lazy kisses along your damp shoulder.
Then he laughed weakly, voice hoarse. “Fuck. I really missed you.”
You managed a breathless laugh, too, leaning your head back on his shoulder. “Yeah… I noticed.”
His hand squeezed your ass again, possessive and soft at the same time, while his other hand cradled your thigh. He pressed a sloppy kiss to your temple, still buried inside you, like he never wanted to let go.
[ Bonus eight , always & forever. ]
The evening was quiet in that way that only came after years of learning how to live together. The dishes were drying on the rack, the faint scent of stir-fry still clinging to the air. The TV hummed low in the background, muted because neither of you were really paying attention. Bokuto was sprawled out on the couch with his head in your lap, hair tickling your stomach as he scrolled lazily through his phone. You absentmindedly combed your fingers through his messy locks, humming a tune you didn’t realize you knew.
It was simple. It was ordinary. And it was perfect.
But your heart was racing, because you had something to say. Something you’d been holding onto for days now, the weight of it delicious and terrifying.
And you didn’t realize—he was feeling the exact same way.
Bokuto shifted suddenly, tossing his phone aside like it had never mattered. He sat up in one motion, so quick you almost yelped. His golden eyes darted toward you, uncharacteristically nervous, and his hands fidgeted against his knees.
You blinked. “Kou? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing!” His voice cracked, and he coughed, trying to recover. “I mean—uh. Everything’s… good. Really good. Like, so good.”
You tilted your head, suspicious. He only got like this when he was holding something in. “Koutarou.”
He groaned, dragging a hand down his face, then shot up off the couch and started pacing. “Okay, so, I wasn’t gonna do this now—I had this whole thing planned in my head with candles or, like, maybe I’d take you out to dinner and do it all fancy. But, baby, I can’t. I can’t hold it in anymore.”
Your breath caught, your stomach flipping, because you knew.
He turned back to you, hair even messier from running his hand through it, eyes wide and nervous and glowing with something that made your throat tight. He dropped down on one knee right there, between the coffee table and the couch, your old rug creasing under his weight.
Your hand flew to your mouth.
“Y/n,” he said, voice unsteady but overflowing with love, “you’re my best friend. My biggest fan. My home. You’ve been with me through every win and every loss—on the court and in life—and you never stopped believing in me, even when I didn’t believe in myself. I don’t wanna do forever without you.”
He pulled a small box from his pocket, fumbling with it, and when he opened it the ring sparkled in the soft lamplight. His hands were shaking. His smile was wide and terrified.
“Will you marry me?”
You barely heard him, because your heart was thundering and your eyes were already filling with tears. And you were laughing—half-sobbing, half-hysterical—because this was insane, because you had been about to say your thing too.
“Kou,” you choked out, pressing your hands over his, the ring box trembling between you. “Wait—wait, I have to tell you something too.”
He blinked, panicked. “What? No, no, you can’t—don’t say no, babe, please, I can’t take it—”
You shook your head furiously, tears spilling over as you laughed. “No! God, no, Kou. Yes. A million times yes.”
His face split into the brightest grin you’d ever seen, relief and joy flooding him at once. He let out a loud, unsteady laugh, squeezing your hands so tightly you thought he might never let go.
“But—” you added quickly, voice wobbling, “I wanted to tell you something first. Because… Kou, I’m pregnant.”
For a moment, it was like the world stopped. Bokuto froze, eyes wide, his mouth dropping open. The box slipped from his fingers onto the couch, the ring tumbling harmlessly onto the cushions.
“P—pregnant?” he echoed, voice cracking like he’d just hit puberty all over again.
You bit your lip, nodding, heart hammering. “Yeah. I—I just found out. I was waiting for the right time to tell you.”
He stared at you. One second. Two. Three.
And then—
“HO—LY SHIT!” His voice boomed through the room, so loud you startled before dissolving into laughter. He leapt to his feet, scooping you up into his arms and spinning you in wild, dizzy circles until you squealed. “I’M GONNA BE A DAD?! You’re—baby, oh my god, you’re having my kid?”
“Yes!” you laughed, clutching his shoulders as tears streamed down your face. “Yes, Kou!”
He set you down only to fall to his knees again, pressing frantic kisses over your stomach, his big hands cupping your sides as if to shield you. He was crying now too, his laugh breaking apart into shaky, choked sobs. “I can’t believe it. I can’t—fuck, I don’t deserve you. You’re giving me a family.”
Your fingers tangled in his hair as he looked up at you, eyes shining, cheeks wet. “So that’s a yes?” you teased, voice trembling.
“Baby,” he said, clutching your hand again, still kneeling at your feet, “it’s the biggest fucking yes of my life. Yes to you. Yes to us. Yes to our baby. Always and forever.”
You pulled him up into a kiss, both of you laughing and crying at once. He tasted like salt and hope and a future you hadn’t even dared to dream.
When he slid the ring onto your finger, your hands were shaking too much for it to be graceful, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except the way he looked at you—like you’d hung the stars, like you’d given him everything he’d ever wanted and more.
And when he whispered against your lips, voice raw and reverent—“My soon-to-be wife. My love. My family.”—you knew this was it.
Always. Forever.
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all images are not mine, this isn’t how the characters act/or are intended to act. This is just my personal idea on how they would act.
