Chapter Text
Akaashi had never - not once - doubted Bokuto.
From the very beginning at Fukurodani Academy, when Bokuto Koutarou first crashed into his life with wild silver hair and louder-than-life confidence, trust had come as naturally as breathing. They had been high school sweethearts in the most unassuming way: shared lunches in quiet corners of the gym, fingertips brushing beneath the net after practice, long evenings spent studying that dissolved into soft laughter and softer kisses.
Everyone knew Bokuto as the explosive ace of the Fukurodani Academy Volleyball Club - all thunderous spikes and dramatic mood swings. But Akaashi knew the quieter truths. He knew how Bokuto’s voice softened when he was unsure, how he worried about letting his team down, how he craved reassurance even when he pretended he didn’t. And Bokuto, for all his volume and bravado, knew Akaashi just as deeply - the subtle tightening of his shoulders when he was overwhelmed, the careful way he chose his words, the rare but dazzling warmth of his unguarded smile.
They had grown together. Not perfectly. Not without friction. But always, always loyal.
After graduation, life had stretched them thin in ways they’d never practiced for.
Bokuto had been scouted and eventually signed with MSBY Black Jackals, which meant moving to Osaka. The opportunity was everything he had worked for - professional courts, national broadcasts, packed arenas chanting his name. Akaashi had stood beside him at the train station the day Bokuto left, fingers laced tight, pride and ache tangling painfully in his chest.
Akaashi stayed in Tokyo.
He found a steady job with a publishing company - long hours in a quiet office, manuscripts stacked neatly on his desk, the soft hum of printers replacing the echo of volleyballs in a gym. It wasn’t the life he’d once imagined, but it was stable. Thoughtful. His. Tokyo suited him in a way Osaka never could.
The distance, though - that was something else entirely.
At first, it felt like a physical wound. The absence of Bokuto’s warmth beside him at night. The silence where laughter used to be. Time moved differently when you were counting days until the next visit.
But they adapted, the way they always had.
They scheduled video calls around practices and deadlines. Bokuto would prop his phone up in the team dorm kitchen, animatedly recounting every spike, every dramatic save, every argument with a teammate that dissolved into instant camaraderie. Sometimes he’d drag a laughing teammate into frame - sunburnt from training camps, loud and teasing. Bokuto looked happy. Exhausted, but glowing.
Akaashi found himself smiling at the screen more often than not.
He built a life in Tokyo, too. Coworkers who invited him out for late dinners after long editing sessions. A small café near his apartment where the barista remembered his order. A friend from university who dragged him to bookstores on weekends. It wasn’t loud or flashy, but it was warm in its own way.
They visited when they could.
Osaka weekends were filled with Bokuto’s world - team practices, post-game celebrations, inside jokes Akaashi only half understood but loved hearing anyway. Tokyo visits were quieter: shared grocery runs, evenings cooking together, Bokuto sprawled dramatically across Akaashi’s small couch complaining about the lack of space but refusing to move.
The distance was still hard. Sometimes Bokuto’s messages came hours late because of travel. Sometimes Akaashi fell asleep at his desk and missed a call. There were moments when exhaustion made tempers short, when miscommunications lingered a little too long.
But never - not once - did trust waver.
Because trust, for them, had never been about proximity. It had been built in early morning practices and late-night confessions, in the steady rhythm of setter and ace learning how to move in perfect sync. It lived in the way Bokuto always said, “I’ll call you after practice,” and did. In the way Akaashi always listened, even when he was tired. In the certainty that no matter how far Osaka was from Tokyo, they were still choosing each other.
They were different cities now. Different routines. Different circles of friends.
Of course, there was Hinata.
Bokuto had already known Shoyo Hinata from their high school days - the bright, relentless kid who had looked at him like he hung the moon. Their dynamic had never really changed. Bokuto slipped naturally into the role of loud, overdramatic older brother, ruffling Hinata’s hair, bragging about impossible cross shots, demanding praise. And Hinata, eyes shining, would fire right back with boundless energy and stubborn determination.
In Osaka, that dynamic only deepened. They pushed each other relentlessly during practice, racing for extra reps, turning conditioning drills into competitions. Bokuto would sling an arm around Hinata’s shoulders after training, sweaty and grinning. “You’re still my number one disciple, y’know.”
Hinata would snort. “I’m going to surpass you, Bokuto-san.”
It was easy. Familiar. Safe.
Then there was the captain - Shugo Meian.
If Bokuto was fireworks and Hinata was sunlight, Meian was steady ground. Solid. Unshakable. For the first time, Bokuto had found someone who could truly keep up with him in the weight room. Early mornings before official practice, they’d already be there, the clang of metal plates echoing through the gym.
Even Kuroo had never quite matched Bokuto’s intensity when it came to training. But Meian did.
With Meian, Bokuto didn’t need to perform. He didn’t need to be the loudest person in the room. They’d work in companionable silence sometimes, exchanging short comments about form or pacing. It grounded him in a way he hadn’t expected.
And then – unexpectedly - there was Kiyoomi Sakusa.
At first glance, they shouldn’t have worked at all.
Sakusa was reserved, meticulous, careful with his words and even more careful with his space. Bokuto was… not. Yet somehow, somewhere between intense practice rallies and post-game cool downs, something clicked.
Because with Sakusa, Bokuto didn’t always have to be loud.
There were evenings after grueling matches when the locker room would finally quiet down, and Bokuto would sit beside Sakusa without speaking. No exaggerated retellings. No dramatic flopping onto benches. Just breathing. Existing. Sakusa would make a dry comment under his breath, and Bokuto would huff a quiet laugh instead of a booming one.
It surprised people - the way Bokuto could be calm. Chill. Almost contemplative.
But Sakusa seemed to understand that side of him instinctively.
And then there was Atsumu Miya.
The one Akaashi heard about the most.
At first, it hadn’t been good. Not even close.
Atsumu had been harsh - brutally honest in the way only a top-tier setter could afford to be. He didn’t cushion his words. Didn’t stroke egos. When Bokuto missed, Atsumu called it out. When his timing was off, Atsumu snapped at him to fix it. No gentle reassurance. No careful handling like Akaashi had mastered over the years.
There had been more than a few late-night phone calls where Bokuto flopped dramatically onto his dorm bed and groaned into the receiver.
“He’s mean, Akaashi! Like, actually mean. He doesn’t build me up - he just points out everything I do wrong!”
Akaashi would listen quietly, offering measured responses. “He’s demanding because he wants precision, Bokuto-san.”
“Yeah, but he could say it nicer!”
The tension had built slowly. Sharp words during practice. Glares across the net. Teammates shifting uncomfortably when drills grew heated.
And then it exploded.
No one outside the team knew exactly what was said - but voices had risen. They’d gotten into each other’s faces, neither backing down. Pride clashing with pride. Ace versus setter. The gym had gone silent except for the echo of their shouting.
It had been bad enough that both of them were suspended from training for a week.
A full week.
The coaches and trainers hadn’t sugarcoated it. Get it together - or get replaced. The professional league had no patience for egos that couldn’t cooperate.
That week had been tense. Bokuto had called Akaashi more than usual - not to complain this time, but to process. To think. To admit, reluctantly, that maybe he hadn’t been entirely right.
When they returned to training, something had shifted.
They tried.
Really tried.
Atsumu adjusted his tone - not softer, exactly, but clearer. More constructive. Bokuto learned to separate criticism from personal attack. Learned to see Atsumu’s demands for what they were: belief. A setter didn’t push a hitter that hard unless he thought he could rise to it.
And once they found their rhythm?
It was electric.
They stayed late after practice refining quick sets and back-row attacks. Argued - but productively. Smirked at each other across the net when a particularly sharp play landed. Atsumu started tossing him balls that demanded absolute trust, and Bokuto began swinging without hesitation.
Somewhere along the way, antagonism turned into rivalry. Rivalry into partnership.
And partnership into something close to friendship.
Ironically, Atsumu became the teammate Bokuto spent the most time with. Film review sessions that stretched into casual dinners. Competitive banter that never quite turned cruel again. Long bus rides where Atsumu would complain about everything under the sun while Bokuto laughed beside him.
It had been unexpected.
But it worked.
When Akaashi listened to Bokuto talk now, there was no frustration in his voice when he mentioned Atsumu - only excitement. Respect. Something almost fond.
Bokuto had found his place in Osaka.
Akaashi never once mistook that for something threatening.
Because trust wasn’t fragile between them.
And no distance - no teammate - could undo that.
You can imagine, then, Akaashi’s surprise the first time he truly saw it.
Not heard about it over the phone.
Not filtered through Bokuto’s dramatic retellings.
But witnessed it with his own eyes.
It happened during one of Akaashi’s visits to Osaka - after a home game, when the team decided to go out together. The bar was loud, music vibrating through the floor, laughter spilling over sticky tables. Bokuto had been radiant all evening, flushed from the win, adrenaline still clinging to him like a second skin.
He stood between them.
One arm around Akaashi’s waist - warm, familiar, grounding.
The other slung casually over Atsumu’s shoulder.
Akaashi told himself it was nothing.
Bokuto was affectionate. Always had been. Touch came easily to him. Claps on backs, arms over shoulders, playful shoves. He had never been stingy with physical closeness. Akaashi had known that since high school.
But then he saw it.
A look.
It was brief - so brief Akaashi almost convinced himself he imagined it. Bokuto was laughing at something Atsumu said, head tipped back slightly, eyes half-lidded. And there it was. Something heated. Something sharp and bright and charged.
Something Akaashi had only ever seen directed at him.
Lust.
The word lodged like a stone in his throat.
He trusted Bokuto. He did. He knew – hoped - that there was no one else on Bokuto’s mind in that way. They had survived distance, survived loneliness, survived separate cities. This couldn’t be what it looked like.
But the seed had been planted.
Later that night, Akaashi excused himself to the restroom, splashing cool water over his wrists, telling his reflection to calm down. He was being ridiculous. Insecure. Petty.
When he returned, the sight that greeted him made his chest go tight.
Bokuto’s hand had moved.
It was no longer resting loosely on Atsumu’s shoulder. It had slid down—to his waist. Lower than the respectful, easy hold Bokuto kept on Akaashi. Fingers splayed dangerously close to the curve of Atsumu’s hip, brushing just above where denim dipped.
Too intimate.
Too familiar.
Atsumu wasn’t pulling away.
If anything, he leaned into it - subtle, but unmistakable.
Heat flared under Akaashi’s skin. Not just anger at Bokuto - though there was that too - but sharper, uglier anger aimed at Atsumu.
How dare he?
How dare he press so close to someone who was taken?
How dare he look so pleased about it?
And suddenly, it was everywhere.
Once you see something, you can’t unsee it.
Weeks passed. Months.
Akaashi began noticing the touches that had probably always been there - but now felt different. The way Atsumu would drift close during team meetings, hands sliding to Bokuto’s shoulders to knead at tense muscles while the trainer spoke. The way he’d lean in to murmur something into Bokuto’s ear, lips brushing too close to skin.
It was after a match, when everyone was flushed and buzzing from the win.
Bokuto was still in his jersey, towel slung around his neck, laughing at something Atsumu Miya had said. Akaashi stood only a few steps away.
Atsumu reached out like it was nothing - fingers catching in the damp fabric at Bokuto’s collar. Instead of letting go, he tugged him closer, close enough that their chests nearly brushed. He leaned in, lips near Bokuto’s ear, saying something low and teasing.
Bokuto’s laugh changed - softer, almost breathless.
Atsumu’s hand didn’t drop. It slid from the collar to Bokuto’s sternum, palm flattening there for a second too long before drifting down his abdomen in a mock congratulatory pat.
Everyone else was distracted - packing up, shouting across the court.
But Akaashi saw it.
Saw how near they stood.
How comfortable Atsumu was in his space.
How Bokuto didn’t step back.
At a different bar after another win, Atsumu had laughed and - without hesitation - placed a hand flat against Bokuto’s chest, fingers spreading over his pecs in exaggerated praise. Everyone around them had roared with laughter.
Akaashi had felt like he might be sick.
The room had tilted slightly, noise muffled by the rush of blood in his ears. Bokuto hadn’t stepped back. Hadn’t removed the hand. Hadn’t said, “Hey, don’t.”
He had just laughed.
Akaashi had never felt threatened before. Not in high school. Not by fans. Not by distance. Trust had always been solid, immovable.
But this was different.
This wasn’t admiration like Hinata’s.
It wasn’t steady camaraderie like Meian’s.
It wasn’t quiet understanding like Sakusa’s.
This was charged. Competitive. Physical.
And Bokuto wasn’t stopping it.
That was what hurt the most.
Not the touches.
Not even the looks.
But the fact that Bokuto - his Bokuto - didn’t seem to see the line blurring. Or maybe he saw it and didn’t mind standing right on top of it.
Akaashi hated the way jealousy curled inside him, sour and unfamiliar. Hated the way his thoughts spiraled late at night in his Tokyo apartment. Hated that every time Bokuto mentioned Atsumu now, there was a flicker of something tight in his chest.
He trusted Bokuto.
He did.
But trust had never been tested like this before.
Akaashi decided, very calmly, that he was done watching.
They were sitting outside a small café a few blocks from the arena in Osaka. Late afternoon light spilled across the pavement, warm and golden. Bokuto had insisted on getting drinks -some overly sweet chai latte with whipped cream that left foam clinging to his upper lip.
Akaashi sat across from him, cigarette between his fingers.
He only ever smoked in Tokyo.
It had started as a work thing - stepping outside with colleagues during long editing days, accepting one when someone offered. A way to pause. To breathe. Bokuto hated it. Said it would ruin his lungs, that it was stupid, that Akaashi didn’t need it.
Akaashi never did it around him.
Until recently.
The past few weeks, he’d started lighting up alone.
Bokuto had noticed. Of course he had. But he hadn’t pushed.
Smoke curled into the air between them.
“Do you want to fuck Atsumu?”
Bokuto choked.
Actually choked - jerking so violently he nearly spilled his chai straight onto his jeans. His eyes went wide, round as saucers. “What??”
Akaashi took another drag. Exhaled slowly.
“I asked,” he repeated evenly, “if you want to fuck Miya Atsumu.”
The silence that followed was almost comical.
Bokuto’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. “No - what the hell, Akaashi? Why would you even ask that?”
“Because neither you nor him seem capable of keeping your hands to yourselves.”
The words landed sharp and precise.
Bokuto blinked, color rising high on his cheeks. “No - oh god, I’m sorry, I… I don’t know. I guess I never noticed.”
Akaashi studied him over the rim of smoke. His boyfriend looked genuinely rattled - shoulders tense, fingers gripping his cup too tightly.
“I find it strange,” Akaashi continued quietly. “He knows we’re together. If he disrespects that, that’s on him. But you - ” his gaze sharpened, “ - you’re my boyfriend. I find it very strange how often you feel him up.”
Bokuto shook his head quickly. “No, I’m not - Kaashi, I swear - ”
Akaashi cut him off with a small tilt of his hand.
“I understand, though.”
Bokuto stilled.
“We’ve only ever known each other,” Akaashi went on, voice almost conversational. “Maybe you want to explore other possibilities.”
“Never!” Bokuto’s response was immediate, almost panicked. “Kaashi, I never – ever - want someone who isn’t you.”
Akaashi’s expression didn’t change.
“I think,” he said softly, “you’re lying to yourself.”
Bokuto froze.
“I know you love me,” Akaashi continued. “But you admire him. You’re competitive with him. There’s heat there.” His cigarette burned low between his fingers. “And I think part of you wants to fuck him.”
The word sat heavy between them.
Bokuto shifted in his chair, visibly uncomfortable. His knee bounced once under the table before he forced it still. “That’s not -”
“Wouldn’t it be nice?” Akaashi pressed, voice still maddeningly calm. “To put him in his place? To see that smug look disappear for once?”
Bokuto swallowed.
And there it was.
Not confession. Not agreement.
But something flickering behind his eyes - something complicated and unsettled and a little too slow to deny.
Akaashi saw it.
He always saw it.
Akaashi hadn’t planned on saying it.
It had slipped out in the quiet aftermath of that café conversation, in the heavy space where jealousy and pride and something far more complicated had tangled together.
“If you want it,” he had said finally, voice level. “You can.”
Bokuto had stared at him like he’d misheard.
“One time,” Akaashi clarified. “If you feel like you need to get it out of your system.” A pause. “I’ll be there.”
That was the rule.
Not behind his back.
Not in secret.
Not something that could fester in imagination.
If it was going to happen, Akaashi would see it. Control it. Understand it.
He hadn’t actually expected Bokuto to take him up on it so quickly.
But the next time Akaashi visited Osaka, the team went clubbing after a win.
Music thumped through the crowded space. Lights flashed. Sweat and perfume hung thick in the air. Akaashi stood near the bar, watching.
As usual, Atsumu Miya had one arm thrown around Bokuto’s shoulders, leaning in close to shout something over the music. They looked inseparable - laughing, bodies angled instinctively toward each other.
Then Atsumu drifted away, gravitating toward Shugo Meian, who was seated with a drink in hand. Atsumu planted himself there easily, both hands landing high on Meian’s knees as he leaned in to talk.
Akaashi blinked.
Wasn’t Meian married? With children?
Meian didn’t look bothered in the slightest. If anything, he looked amused.
Bokuto turned away from the dance floor and walked back toward Akaashi.
He leaned down, close enough that his breath brushed Akaashi’s ear.
“Maybe today?” he whispered.
Akaashi felt something cold and sharp settle in his stomach.
So he really does want it.
No hesitation. No buildup. The very next opportunity.
Akaashi held his gaze. “I told you,” he said quietly. “One time. Whenever you want.”
Bokuto nodded once - almost solemnly - before turning and heading back toward Atsumu.
Akaashi watched.
Bokuto slipped into the space beside Meian easily, one arm draping around the captain in a familiar, harmless way. That touch didn’t bother Akaashi. He’d seen it a thousand times.
But his other hand-
It slid to Atsumu’s back. Guided him, subtly but firmly, away from Meian and closer to himself. Laughing at something, like it was nothing. Casual.
Possessive.
One hand settled at the small of Atsumu’s back. The other rose, fingers threading briefly into blond hair as Bokuto leaned down to whisper something.
Atsumu stilled.
He leaned back just enough to create space, eyes searching Bokuto’s face.
Hope flared in Akaashi’s chest.
Maybe he’ll refuse.
Maybe it’s all been playful ego.
Maybe I overreacted.
He wanted that to be true more than anything.
For a split second, Atsumu’s expression was unreadable.
Then-
He laughed.
Not forced. Not awkward.
Full and bright, head tipping back in genuine delight. He nodded enthusiastically, hands coming up to grab at Bokuto’s sides before pulling him into a tight hug. He pressed a quick kiss to Bokuto’s cheek, loud and unapologetic even over the music.
Bokuto lit up.
Radiant.
Victorious.
He looked almost boyish as he turned, shoving Atsumu playfully in Akaashi’s direction. The blond stumbled forward half a step, still grinning.
Bokuto’s eyes found Akaashi’s across the flashing lights.
He beamed.
“Kaashi-kun,” Atsumu called, voice warm and excited, “I guess we’re havin’ a lotta fun tonight, huh?”
Before the taxi ride, the three of them had downed a round of shots at the club.
It helped.
The ride wasn’t as suffocatingly tense as it could have been. Bokuto and Atsumu Miya were still buzzing from the win, shoulders bumping in the backseat as they rehashed a particular rally for the third time. Atsumu insisted his set had been perfect; Bokuto argued his spike had made it legendary. Their laughter filled the car.
Akaashi chimed in occasionally, steady and composed, as if this were any other night.
As if he hadn’t set something irreversible in motion.
When they arrived at Bokuto’s apartment, the alcohol haze thinned just enough for clarity to creep in.
The hallway felt too familiar.
The elevator ride up felt too long.
And the second the door unlocked and swung open, regret hit Akaashi hard and sudden.
Why hadn’t he thought this through better?
Why hadn’t they gone to a hotel - some neutral, anonymous space?
Instead, they were here.
In the apartment he and Bokuto shared when Akaashi visited. The couch they’d fallen asleep on together. The kitchen where Bokuto burned pancakes. The bed-
Atsumu stepped inside like he belonged.
No hesitation. No awkward pause at the threshold. He toed off his shoes casually, glancing around with easy familiarity.
Because he was familiar.
He’d probably been here more often than Akaashi lately.
The realization stung.
Akaashi swallowed it down. He wouldn’t say anything. He wouldn’t be childish about territory. It didn’t matter where this happened.
It was going to happen.
Still, once the door clicked shut behind them, a small silence settled. Not heavy - just uncertain. Shoes came off. Jackets were hung. No music. No crowd. Just the hum of the apartment.
Even Bokuto looked like he hadn’t entirely thought this through. His shoulders were slightly tense, eyes flicking between them.
So Atsumu moved first.
He stepped forward - but not toward Bokuto.
Toward Akaashi.
It caught him off guard.
Atsumu closed the distance in two smooth strides, hands coming up to cup Akaashi’s face without hesitation. Warm palms. Firm grip.
And then he kissed him.
Not tentative. Not polite.
It was bold - mouth pressing insistently, tongue sliding in without asking. It was confident, almost challenging. Like he was testing something. Claiming space.
Akaashi barely had time to react before he felt another presence step close.
A hand curled gently under his chin, guiding his face away.
Bokuto.
Their lips met next.
The difference was staggering.
Where Atsumu’s kiss had been sharp and provocative, Bokuto’s was warm. Soft. Full of familiarity. It lingered only briefly, but it carried years of shared history in that short contact - care, reassurance, love.
Then he pulled back.
Too soon.
His attention shifted.
Atsumu was watching him, mouth curved in a knowing grin.
Something changed in Bokuto’s expression.
His hand came up - this time not gentle - and gripped Atsumu’s jaw, fingers firm against skin. There was strength in the motion as he drew him forward.
Their mouths collided.
Immediate.
Hungry.
All the tension from weeks of circling each other ignited at once. Atsumu made a low sound against Bokuto’s lips, hands sliding to his back, gripping through the fabric of his shirt.
It wasn’t soft.
It wasn’t careful.
It was heat finally given permission.
The pair in front of him broke apart, gasping, chests heaving. Atsumu’s grin was wicked, eyes dark with mischief. “So… how do you want it? How are we gonna do this?” he murmured, breath hitching, voice low and teasing.
Bokuto’s gaze flicked to Akaashi, pleading silently for guidance, wide-eyed like a child unsure of what he was allowed to do.
Akaashi’s voice was firm but strained. “Bokuto… will fuck you. I’ll watch.”
Bokuto’s grin widened, devilish and amused. “Huh. A little voyeur, are you, Akaashi? I was promised a threesome, but… I guess that’ll do. Let’s go.”
Atsumu was first, striding to the bedroom with deliberate confidence, his movements fluid and sultry. He peeled off his shirt - so tight it had molded to his chest and shoulders that it left nothing to the imaginationand tossed it aside with a careless flick.
Akaashi followed reluctantly, his stomach twisting. Every step felt heavy, every glance at Atsumu’s body a knife twisting in his restraint. Atsumu threw himself onto the bed, legs slightly parted, trousers low, teasingly exposing his V-line and the taut planes of his abs. His grin was playful, challenging, and utterly captivating, eyes glittering as they locked onto Bokuto.
Akaashi sank into his reading chair, trying to anchor himself, the one corner Bokuto had always set aside for him now a fragile barrier between observation and temptation. Bokuto’s eyes met his briefly as he entered, searching for reassurance. Akaashi gave a tight-lipped smile, forcing calmness. Please don’t. Don’t do this. He’s a fucking asshole, and I don’t want this. Can’t you see that?
Bokuto ignored the unspoken plea, striding to Atsumu with confident ease. He hovered over him, hands brushing Atsumu’s knees before sliding slowly over the sides of his hips, lingering over his chest with open admiration. “Fuck, Atsumu… you’re so captivating,” he murmured, voice low, heated.
Bokuto murmured, and Akaashi’s brows shot up. He’d never heard Bokuto describe anyone that way before. The word hung in the room, heavy with admiration and something more—something flirtatious and dangerous.
Atsumu responded with a smirk, leaning back just enough to let Bokuto lean in closer, the subtle game of proximity making Akaashi’s chest tighten.
Atsumu’s grin widened, sultry and teasing, teeth catching the light. He leaned into Bokuto, lips parted slightly, chest rising and falling with shallow, deliberate breaths. His hands roamed Bokuto’s body, tracing the curve of his neck, across the firm chest, down the defined abs, before settling at the waistband of his trousers. With a slow, deliberate motion, he tugged the zipper down, letting his fingers linger teasingly.
Bokuto let out a deep, rough moan, the sound vibrating through the air, and Atsumu was immediately there to capture it with his mouth, pressing closer, teasing, testing.
Pulling back slightly, Atsumu smirked. “Fuck… you’re thick. Just how I imagined.”
Akaashi’s chest tightened, a mix of heat, jealousy, and fear curling in his stomach. His fingers dug into the armrest of his chair, knuckles whitening. He wanted to look away, to escape, but he couldn’t. Every teasing glance, every sultry movement, set his nerves on fire.
Atsumu’s voice cut through the tension, sharp and commanding. “Off. Take your trousers off.”
Akaashi’s throat went dry, his pulse rattling in his ears. He swallowed hard, a storm of desire and restraint warring inside him.
Both on the bed took their trousers off. Atsumu pushed his underwear down as well, his length springing free, already slick with anticipation at the tip.
Bokuto swiped a tongue over his lower lip, his gaze dark and heavy. His eyes burned with a hunger that felt almost dangerous as he stared at the man before him—the man who definitely wasn't his boyfriend.
Bokuto paused, his hand traveling lower until his fingers brushed the heat between Atsumu’s thighs. His touch stuttered as he discovered the slick, firm base of a plug nestled there.
"Well, what do we have here?" Bokuto murmured, his voice dropping an octave.
Atsumu’s grin was sharp and unrepentant. "Was hopin' someone would take me home tonight. Didn't think it’d be you, but I’m sure glad it is."
In that moment, the world narrowed down to just the two of them. Atsumu's focus was absolute—it was you, not them. He had completely flushed the memory of Akaashi, still sitting in his chair.
Bokuto’s fingers curled around the base of the plug, giving it a slow, teasing tug that pulled a jagged moan from Atsumu’s throat. While his hand worked the toy, his tongue traced the length of Atsumu’s shaft, tasting the salt and heat.
With a wet pop, Bokuto pulled the plug free. The air hit the slick, sensitive skin, but before Atsumu could even catch his breath, Bokuto replaced the silicone with two fingers, coated in the residual lube. Atsumu arched his back, his fingers digging into the sheets as Bokuto leaned in, taking Atsumu’s cock into his mouth.
It was a rare sight. Bokuto loved to eat Akaashi out, losing himself in the intimacy of it, but he rarely went down on him. Seeing him so eager to give this to Atsumu felt like a physical blow to Akaashi’s chest.
"It’s enough," Atsumu gasped, his head lolling back. "Just fuck me."
Bokuto pulled away, eyes glazed with heat as he moved to shed his own underwear. But as his skin met the air, he froze, a sudden flash of panic breaking his trance. "Wait... we don't have condoms."
Atsumu stilled, his voice dropping an octave. "What do you mean?"
"Akaashi and I... we don't fuck with condoms," Bokuto admitted, his voice trailing off.
Both of them turned their heads, their gazes landing on Akaashi where he sat in the chair. It was a silent, heavy question—an unspoken plea for permission to cross the final boundary. But for Akaashi, that was the line.
"Not raw," Akaashi said, his voice cold and steady. "If you don't have protection, you'll have to find another way to pleasure yourself."
Bokuto’s shoulders slumped, a visible wave of disappointment washing over his face. That expression - that look of being denied a toy - irked Akaashi to his core.
Atsumu sighed, rolling over and reaching for his discarded trousers. He fumbled with his wallet, finally fishing out a square foil packet and holding it up. "This’ll do."
Akaashi felt a surge of white-hot anger. Had Atsumu really just tried to get raw-fucked by his boyfriend? Was he that desperate, or just that reckless?
"Okay, great!" Bokuto beamed, his mood doing a complete 180 as he kicked his underwear aside.
Atsumu’s eyes widened as Bokuto stood over him, fully exposed. "Oh fuck," Atsumu muttered, his gaze traveling up. "You’re packed. Wait... lemme have a taste of this first."
Before Bokuto could even respond, Atsumu lunged forward, his mouth sliding over Bokuto’s cock with practiced ease. He took him deep, his throat working rhythmically. Akaashi watched from his chair, a sickening knot forming in his stomach. He couldn't believe the effortless way Atsumu took all of him - a feat that usually took Akaashi time and patience -was being done with such casual, hungry flair.
The wet, rhythmic sounds of the blowjob filled the room, a sharp contrast to the suffocating silence hanging over Akaashi. Atsumu was relentless, his hands gripping Bokuto’s thighs, pulling him closer until there was no space left between them. Bokuto’s head fell back, his throat working as he let out a low, guttural growl - a sound that vibrated through the floorboards and straight into Akaashi’s chest.
When Atsumu finally pulled away, his lips were slick and his eyes were dark with a predatory heat. He didn't wait for an invitation. He rolled onto his stomach, pushing his hips up and glancing back over his shoulder with a challenging smirk.
"Don't make me wait, Bo," Atsumu hissed, the words a jagged dare.
Bokuto didn't hesitate. He grabbed the condom from the bed, snapping it on with trembling, hurried fingers before lunging forward.
As he rolled the latex down, he let out a sharp, strained breath, his brows knitting together. "Fuck, this thing is tight," he grunted, his voice already sounding deeper, more jagged. He adjusted it with a rough tug, the material strained to its absolute limit against his size.
The room was thick with the scent of cheap latex and the heavy, musky salt of sweat. Bokuto didn’t just move behind Atsumu; he loomed over him, a predator finally dropping the act. He hooked his fingers into Atsumu’s hips, the pressure bruising as he yanked him back. Without a single word of warning, Bokuto drove into him - a brutal, bottoming-out thrust that forced a jagged, high-pitched scream from Atsumu’s throat.
Akaashi sat paralyzed in the chair, his knuckles white as he watched his world tilt on its axis. He knew Bokuto’s body like a prayer - every soft sigh, every reverent touch. With Akaashi, Bokuto was careful, treating him like something that might break if held too tightly. But with Atsumu, Bokuto was a demolition crew.
The sound of a hand slamming against flesh cracked through the room like a gunshot. Bokuto slapped him again and again, leaving violent, blooming red handprints across Atsumu’s pale, twitching backside. He reached forward, fist curling into Atsumu’s blonde hair, and shoved his face deep into the mattress until his desperate moans were muffled into wet, rhythmic grunts.
"Look at you," Bokuto growled, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that sent a chill down Akaashi's spine. He jerked Atsumu’s head back by the roots of his hair, forcing his spine to arch into a punishing, agonizing curve. "Such a pathetic, greedy little mess. You’ve been begging for this all night, haven't you? Just waiting for someone to finally ruin you."
Atsumu didn’t just take it; he thrived in the filth. He let out a breathless, broken laugh that sounded more like a sob of relief. He twisted his neck, seeking out Bokuto’s mouth in a messy, tongue-heavy kiss that tasted of sweat and desperation. "Yeah," Atsumu gasped, his eyes blown out and shining with a terrifying, manic joy. "Give it to me, Bo."
Bokuto’s face was a mask of primal, unhinged intensity. He poured a stream of filthy insults and breathless, worshipful compliments into Atsumu’s ear - calling him a "perfect, used-up slut" in one breath and "the best thing I've ever felt" in the next. Atsumu swallowed every word like a starving man, his body snapping back against every heavy, raw lunge Bokuto delivered.
From the shadows, Akaashi felt a sickening, white-hot realization settle in his gut. They looked magnificent. Bathed in the dim, amber light, their muscles rippled in tandem - two Greek gods locked in a violent, beautiful struggle of skin and sinew.
Akaashi looked down at his own hands - lean, pale, and trembling. He was the quiet harbor, a calm sea that Bokuto had always sailed carefully. Atsumu was the storm. Atsumu was wide, tanned, and loud, his physique built for the kind of impact Akaashi could never withstand. While Akaashi prided himself on his stoic, unreadable mask, Atsumu was a raw nerve; every grin, every moan, and every spark of hunger was written plainly on his handsome, arrogant face.
Atsumu was pretty - a different kind of pretty. He was gorgeous, golden, and a complete fucking asshole. And in that moment, as he watched Atsumu take every inch of his boyfriend with such practiced, hungry ease, Akaashi realized he didn't just feel replaced. He hated him. He hated every tanned inch of him, every blonde hair, and every guttural sound that came out of his mouth.
The rhythm in the room reached a frantic, skin-slapping crescendo, Bokuto’s breath hitching into a ragged growl as he buried his face in the crook of Atsumu’s sweat-slicked neck. Atsumu was incoherent, his fingers clawing at the headboard, his back arched so high it looked ready to snap. With one final, devastating surge, Bokuto buckled against him, his entire frame shuddering as he emptied himself into the man who wasn't his.
The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the sound of their synchronized, desperate gasps for air.
Bokuto took a trembling breath and slowly began to pull back, his muscles twitching with exhaustion. But as he withdrew, the wet, tacky sound of friction didn't sound right. He looked down, his eyes widening in the dim light. The latex was shredded, a jagged ring of plastic clinging to the base of his shaft, while the rest remained lost inside Atsumu.
"Oh," Bokuto breathed, the word hanging pathetically in the air. "It... it broke."
Atsumu let out a long, shaky exhale, collapsing forward onto his stomach. He didn't look upset; he looked smug, a slow, lazy grin spreading across his face as he felt the warmth of the spill Bokuto had just left behind. He looked like he’d won a prize he wasn't supposed to have. "Thank god I can't get pregnant, huh?"
Akaashi felt the snap inside his own mind before he even realized he was moving. The "line" he had drawn - the one boundary he thought held some scrap of sanctity for his relationship - hadn't just been crossed; it had been disintegrated. The sight of Bokuto’s spent, confused expression and Atsumu’s golden, satisfied glow was more than he could stomach.
Without a word, Akaashi stood up. The chair scraped loudly against the floor, a harsh, discordant note in the middle of their afterglow.
"Akaashi?" Bokuto’s voice was small, filled with a sudden, dawning guilt that came far too late.
Akaashi didn't look back. He couldn't. If he looked at Atsumu’s tanned skin or the way Bokuto’s hand was still resting on Atsumu’s hip, he thought he might actually get sick.
"I'm getting a drink," Akaashi said, his voice terrifyingly level - the kind of calm that preceded a natural disaster.
He walked out of the room, the door clicking shut behind him with a finality that echoed through the hallway. He made his way to the kitchen, the linoleum cold under his feet, and stared at the refrigerator. His chest felt tight, his throat burning with the hatred he’d just discovered.
The minutes ticked by in the kitchen, each one a jagged edge. Akaashi stood in the harsh, fluorescent glow of the overhead light, his hands trembling as he poured himself a glass of wine. The liquid sloshed against the glass, deep and blood-red.
Then, he heard it.
Through the thin walls, a long, low moan drifted from the bedroom - Atsumu’s voice, unmistakable and irritatingly melodic. Akaashi’s grip tightened on the stem of his glass. It was more than just the betrayal now; it was the sheer absurdity of it. He knew Bokuto’s body better than anyone; he knew that while Bokuto had the stamina of a professional athlete, he usually needed time to recover. He wasn't a machine. He couldn't just go back-to-back for multiple rounds without a break.
Yet, the sounds coming from down the hall suggested otherwise. The bed frame creaked rhythmically, accompanied by the wet, heavy sound of skin hitting skin. It was an insult to everything Akaashi knew about his boyfriend. It was as if Atsumu had unlocked some hidden reserve of energy in Bokuto - a primal second wind that Akaashi had never been able to tap into.
Annoyance, sharp and bitter, finally outweighed his desire to hide. He needed to see it. He needed to confirm the depth of the nightmare.
Akaashi walked back down the hall, the wine glass steady in his hand, and pushed the door open.
The sight that met him was one he knew would be burned into his retinas forever. Bokuto was propped up against the headboard, his chest heaving, his eyes wide and glazed with a dark, mindless hunger. And there, straddling him, was Atsumu.
Atsumu was bouncing on Bokuto’s cock with a frantic, desperate energy, his tanned back slick with sweat and his blonde hair damp against his forehead. He was thrown back, his throat bared to the ceiling as he rode Bokuto with a rhythmic, punishing intensity. Every time he came down, the sound was wet and heavy, a visceral reminder of the broken barrier between them.
Atsumu looked over his shoulder as Akaashi entered, a half-lidded, triumphant look in his eyes. He didn't stop. He didn't even slow down. He just leaned back further, digging his heels into the mattress to drive himself deeper onto Bokuto, making sure Akaashi saw exactly how much of his boyfriend he was taking.
Akaashi didn't stick around to witness the finish. He couldn't. He retreated to the living room, the wine glass forgotten on a side table as he sank into the sofa. The sounds followed him even there - the frantic thud of the headboard, the jagged, high-pitched cries from Atsumu, and the deep, guttural barks of Bokuto’s release.
When silence finally fell, it was only temporary. Within minutes, the heavy silence was replaced by a different sound: the soft, wet noise of mouths meeting. They were kissing. Not a quick, apologetic peck, but a slow, lingering session that sounded far too intimate for a "distraction."
The sound made Akaashi’s skin crawl.
He stood up, his movements mechanical, and walked out onto the balcony. The night air was biting, but he welcomed the chill. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and flicked a lighter. He didn't smoke often - only when the world felt like it was tilting too far off its axis.
One cigarette burned down to the filter. Then a second. By the time he was lighting the fifth, his lungs felt heavy and his fingers were numb from the cold. He was just clicking the lighter for the seventh when the sliding door creaked open behind him.
Bokuto stepped out, looking soft and disheveled. His hair was a mess, his skin was still flushed from the heat, and his eyes were heavy with a post-coital sleepiness. He looked like the man Akaashi loved, which only made the situation feel more surreal.
Bokuto’s hand twitched, his expression shifting from sleepy confusion to a visible, serrated nervousness. He could feel the frost radiating off Akaashi, a cold so biting it made the winter air feel warm by comparison. He opened his mouth, closed it, and shifted his weight, the silence on the balcony stretching until it was unbearable.
Akaashi didn't look at him. He took a long, slow drag of his seventh cigarette, the smoke curling around his face like a shroud.
"Where is he?" Akaashi’s voice was a flat line.
Bokuto swallowed hard, his voice small. "He’s… he’s sleeping. In the bedroom."
Akaashi’s shoulders finally shook. A single, hot tear traced a path down his pale cheek, shimmering in the moonlight before he jerked his head away. When he spoke again, the stoic mask didn't just crack - it shattered. His voice broke, high and jagged with a pain he could no longer suppress.
"I want him gone, Kotaro. I want him out of this house. Now."
Bokuto winced as if he’d been struck. He stepped closer, reaching out tentatively, but his hands hovered in the air, unsure. "Yes… yes, I know, but… Keiji, I can’t just throw him out. Not like this."
Akaashi spun around, his eyes red-rimmed and fierce, burning with a light that made Bokuto flinch. "Why not?"
Bokuto looked down at his feet, his posture slumping as he moved with a profound sense of discomfort. "It’s… it’s not very polite, is it? To just kick someone to the curb in the middle of the night after…"
"Polite?" Akaashi repeated the word like it was poison in his mouth. He let out a harsh, hysterical laugh that died in his throat. "Polite? What the fuck, Bokuto? Are you actually serious right now?"
"Babe… please, don’t…" Bokuto’s eyes went wide, panic finally setting in as he saw the sheer fury in Akaashi’s gaze. He reached out, trying to catch Akaashi’s hand, his fingers brushing against the cold skin. "I just… I can’t throw him out after that. It feels wrong."
Akaashi ripped his hand away as if Bokuto’s touch burned. He stepped into Bokuto’s space, his chest heaving, the fumes of seven cigarettes and a glass of wine fueling a fire that had been building for hours.
"What the fuck was that, Bokuto? Tell me!" Akaashi’s voice rose, trembling with the weight of everything he’d witnessed. "You fucked him raw. You broke the one rule, the one thing that was ours. And then you did it again. The second I walked out of the room, you stayed on him. What the fuck was that?"
Bokuto went dead silent, his large shoulders hunching as if he were trying to disappear into himself. He couldn't meet Akaashi’s eyes; instead, he stared at the wooden slats of the balcony floor, his hands gripping the railing until his knuckles turned white.
"I... I don't know," Bokuto whispered, his voice thick and strained. "I was just... I was in the moment, Keiji. Everything was just happening so fast and I didn't-"
"You never once acknowledged me," Akaashi interrupted, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. He stepped closer, the smell of smoke clinging to him. "I was sitting right there, and it was like I was a piece of furniture. You didn't look at me. You didn't check on me. You just lost yourself in him."
Akaashi’s lip curled in a way that looked foreign on his usually composed face. "Is that what you want? Do you really like sluts like him? Do you need someone to scream and take it like that to feel like a man?"
Bokuto’s head snapped up, his eyes wide and wounded, shaking his head frantically. "No! No, Keiji, it’s not like that! You know I love you. It’s just..." He faltered, his shadow stretching long and distorted under the balcony light. "I mean... you were the one who said we could. You said we could bring him in. You gave the green light."
"But not like that!" Akaashi screamed, the sound raw and desperate, finally losing the last of his grip. "Not without a condom! Not with you treating him like he’s the only person in the world while I’m three feet away! There’s a difference between a shared experience and being replaced in my own bedroom!"
Bokuto flinched as if the words were physical blows. "I didn't mean to replace you," he whimpered, "The condom broke and I just... I couldn't stop. He felt so... he was so… Keiji, I… I just got caught up."
The sliding door creaked, and there he was. Atsumu stood in the frame, leaning against the glass with a casual, feline grace that made Akaashi’s blood boil. He was dressed, though his hair was still a bird’s nest and his skin bore the unmistakable, flushed glow of a man who had been thoroughly satisfied.
"I’ll go now," Atsumu said, his voice husky and devoid of the shame Bokuto was currently drowning in. He looked at the two of them - Akaashi’s tear-streaked fury and Bokuto’s crumpled posture - with the detached interest of someone watching a movie.
Bokuto jumped, the sudden appearance of his "guest" giving him a desperate out from the conversation he couldn't handle. "Wait! It's freezing out," Bokuto blurted, his voice frantic with the need to be helpful, to be polite. "Let me... let me give you a jacket. Stay here."
Bokuto vanished into the apartment toward the walk-in closet, leaving the balcony door hanging open.
The silence that followed was heavy, punctuated only by the distant sound of hangers clinking in the other room. Akaashi didn't move. He stood with the cigarette dying between his fingers, his gaze fixed on the city.
Atsumu stepped fully onto the balcony, closing the distance until he was standing just a foot away. He didn't look guilty. In fact, he looked like he was savoring the victory. He reached out, his movements slow and deliberate, and leaned against the railing next to Akaashi.
"Y'know," Atsumu murmured, his golden eyes flicking over to Akaashi’s profile. "I didn't think he had that in 'im. Usually, guys like that - the big, sweet ones - they’re too scared to actually let go."
He took a slow, deep breath of the cold air, a smirk playing on his lips.
Akaashi finally turned his head, his eyes cold enough to shatter bone. He looked at the man who had just systematically dismantled his relationship in a single night.
"Get out," Akaashi whispered, the words vibrating with a hatred so pure it felt like a physical weight.
Atsumu just chuckled, completely unfazed. "I'm goin', I'm goin'."
Bokuto emerged from the bedroom, clutching one of his thickest, oversized hoodies. He walked past Akaashi without a word, his eyes downcast, and led Atsumu toward the front door.
Akaashi stood in the doorway of the living room, a ghost in his own home, watching the exchange. Atsumu took the hoodie and pulled it over his head. The sight made Akaashi’s stomach turn. When Akaashi wore Bokuto’s clothes, he was swallowed by them - the sleeves hung past his fingertips, the hem reaching his mid-thigh, a constant reminder of how much bigger and broader Bokuto was. But on Atsumu, it was different.
The hoodie fit him with a "perfect" oversized slouch. It clung to his broad shoulders and tanned neck, making him look effortlessly, infuriatingly cute. It was a visual confirmation of what Akaashi had feared all night: they were cut from the same cloth. They were built for each other in a way that made Akaashi feel small and fragile.
Atsumu turned to Bokuto, a soft, lingering smile on his face. "Was nice, Bo," he murmured, his voice honey-thick.
He didn't just leave. He leaned in, closing the space to press a sweet, lingering kiss to Bokuto’s lips. It wasn't the frantic, dirty kiss from the bedroom; it was something far more dangerous. It was intimate. It was a goodbye that promised a return. And Bokuto, trapped in his own guilt and confusion, didn't push him away. He let it happen. He stood there and took it, his hands hovering at his sides.
Atsumu pulled back, his golden eyes flicking toward the hallway where Akaashi stood. He offered a mocking, two-finger wave - a final "fuck you" disguised as a gesture of politeness - and stepped out into the night.
The click of the front door locking felt like the sound of a guillotine falling.
The silence that rushed back into the apartment was deafening. The scent of Atsumu - sweat, sex, and now Bokuto’s laundry detergent - seemed to linger in every corner. Bokuto remained by the door for a long moment, his forehead pressed against the wood, his shoulders shaking with the weight of the air in the room.
Slowly, he turned around. He looked at Akaashi, who was still standing there, pale and trembling, the smoke of seven cigarettes still clinging to his skin.
"Keiji," Bokuto whispered, his voice cracking.