the smut she wrote...

You opened your mouth to speak, then closed it; your eyes had widened. “Oh,” you said, gently to not deter him.

His fingers lifted to smooth back tresses of silver and black, his own stare kept to the table as if ashamed.

“Kou, that’s alright.” You were smiling at him now as you rose from your seat, crossing to him. “That’s perfectly fine.”

He felt your hand on his arm, squeezing reassuringly. Bokuto’s mouth had thinned, his brow lowered. Your fingers touched his cheek, his chin.

“Please look at me,” you said, resting against the edge of the table in front of him.

Bokuto had never been one to deny you. He lifted his eyes, stopping when they found yours. You looked at him so adoringly, so tender in the way you touched him, Bokuto thought it a reverie.

“You’re not…you’re not weirded out or anything?” His voice nearly cracked like an adolescent; his knee continued shaking.

“No, no I’m not.”

He chuckled fretfully, though relieved. His arms curled around you without thought, holding you tight to him. From your standing position, and his sitting, Bokuto nearly reached your own height; your chin fell to the crook of his neck, your arms lifting from beneath his to settle on his back.

“Thank you,” he murmured into your hair.

You breathed out a laugh, “I’ll always support you—you know that.”

He let go, but his hands kept curled around your shoulders. An odd expression veiled his features, before quickly diminishing.

“Did something happen to cause this conversation?” you asked.

“No, I just…wanted you to know. I hate keeping things from you.”

-----

Bokuto left soon afterwards; you had classes in the morning, as did he. And when he returned home, he lowered himself onto the cloth-bound couch, propping his laptop on the ottoman. He began editing the video he had taken the night prior, of him humping his pillow desperately, pressing his cock into the fold he had created. Bokuto deleted eleven sections of recording where he had moaned your name in the haze of his lust.

He sighed, “Shit.”

-----

A month passed since he told you, and nothing had changed. No faint wariness tainted the time you spent together; no discomfiting conversations ensued. All was well and normal as it should be.

If only Bokuto would have checked the hour.

It was two in the afternoon on a Saturday. You had the spare key to his apartment, the result of his constant misplacing of his own, and you always knocked before entering, always made sure to tell Bokuto when you would be over. You had knocked three times now and he had yet to call out to you.

You shook your head, turning the brass key over and nudging open the door.

He’s likely in the bathroom, you thought, or taking a nap.

Bokuto was on the couch, on his knees, one hand holding the armrest tightly, the other around his cock. His eyes were shut, brows knitted, mouth open in a silent moan; his head was tipped down as he bucked lazily into his hand.

You stood in shock for a brief moment at the sight before you, of your closest friend panting and whining as he stroked himself.

“I—I’m so sorry,” you stumbled out, backing to the threshold of his apartment, your fingers fumbling for the knob.

Bokuto’s head tore upward, reddened cheeks burning deeper, gold eyes brimming with sheer panic. The adrenaline elicited the familiar feeling of the edge to an orgasm, and he tipped over terribly. He came with a choked moan that fell to a low keening, spilling onto the towel below. When his hips eased from their twitching, Bokuto tilted his head back, an arm propped on the top of the couch as he rubbed at his eyes.

“Fuck,” he whispered beneath his breath. “Fuck.”

You had pressed yourself as close to the wall as possible, your stare pinned to his kitchen, your feet, anywhere but at his direct vicinity. He was stammering his apologies, buttoning his pants and reaching for the black shirt he had thrown onto the floor.

“I thought you were coming over Sunday,” he said, regret thick on his tongue. He was grasping for words, beginning sentences before biting them off. Bokuto reached for his phone beside the TV, he had been holding a live session. And the comment section had imploded.

Looks like someone got caught. She sounds real pretty.

Get the girl to join.

You should fuck her good.

He ended the live, pocketing his phone with a wince.

“I can—” you began “—leave if you need me to. We can reschedule for another time.” You were offering him a genial smile, slight in its curvature, but you were uncomfortable, evidently so.

Bokuto watched you shift, he watched as you wove and unwove your fingers. He had made you uneasy, he thought, and he was upset at himself for this.

“No,” he said suddenly, a plea, “no, you don’t need to go, it’s okay.”

Bokuto and you had entered an unknown tract. The boundaries of a friendship were distinct, absolute; they had become muddled now.

It was quiet in his apartment, cleaved here and there by an interlude of Bokuto speaking—menial things, nonsensical things. He did not mind lapses of silence, but silence was to be content in the other’s presence. This silence was to be tense; and Bokuto did not like this silence.

He picked the towel from the couch, placing it in a washing machine. He cleaned his hands. He straightened the apartment, he kept busy as he spoke, a blush burned into his face.

“—and you should see the neighbors to the right,” he said, chuckling with tensed shoulders. “They have this dog they carry around in a stroller. It’s just a tiny little thing, I’m sure they tuck it in goodnight, too.”

“Kou,” you murmured, eyes following him as he occupied the living room, moved to the kitchen, then the hall, fixed his shoes by the door.

“They’re sweet people though, they really like Akaashi, always wanting to make conversation with him when he comes to visit.”

“Kou,” you said more distinctly.

“He asked me how you were doing just a few days ago—Akaashi, I mean—said he’s been wanting to call you, but his own classes have been piling work to his ears.”

“Koutarou.”

Bokuto stilled, his throat bobbing as he swallowed and looked to you. He was in the living room, adjusting the couch pillows again.

You had migrated to the kitchen table some time after Bokuto had washed and dried three plates that had not been dirty. His table was set low to the ground and you sat cross-legged on a pillion, your forearms braced upon the wood.

“Yes?” he asked, softly, eyes regarding you with worry. He was scared for what you would say.

You gestured to the seat opposite you, “Can you please sit down?”

“Yeah—yeah, of course.” He lowered himself before you, folding his hands in his lap. The red tincture remained on his cheeks and ears.

“Look, we don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to; we can pretend it never happened, if that’s what you want.” You paused, gauging the tensing muscle of Bokuto’s jaw, his conflicted expression, and continued. “I meant what I said before.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I should’ve…” His words flitted off. He should have done many things differently; he should have checked his phone; he should have been in his bedroom, instead. Bokuto apologized again, his knee had begun bouncing, “I’m sorry.”

You laughed beneath your breath, lightheartedly, to ease Bokuto, “Can I ask you something?” He did not hear how your voice wavered, did not see your hands shake; you were nervous, restless. Watching Bokuto reach his climax—face twisting in surprise, the uneven rise and fall of his chest—had brought about a warmth to your body, to between your legs. You had always thought him handsome, kind, willful and passionate. He was the boy who thanked you with innocent hugs, who fell fast asleep with a cheek pressed to your shoulder. The boy who asked his older sisters how to braid hair simply so he could braid yours.

But Bokuto had grown to be man, evident in his large stature and honed body, how he held his chin and entered a room.

You blanched at the sudden thought. If Bokuto noticed, he said nothing.

“Sure,” he nodded his head, shifting on the cushion. Bokuto sat hunched, expectant eyes awaiting you.

You blinked, returning your attention to him before you asked, “Why did you choose to get into the industry?”

It was an unanticipated question, but he answered, nonetheless. Bokuto explained that it had initially been a bad joke, the product of a night of heavy drinking; him and Kuroo bet one another on who could produce the most views from a single anonymous masturbation video. Bokuto had won. And he found himself wondering how else it could prove beneficial.

“Do you make them alone or with someone else?” you asked, and you did not know why you had. You immediately wanted to retract your words at the rise of Bokuto’s silver brows.

“Alone,” he said slowly, “I wouldn’t feel comfortable enough with someone I didn’t know.”

Your face warmed, you nodded in understanding.

You should fuck her good.

The comment tugged on Bokuto’s sleeve like an insistent hand. He rolled his shoulder back.

-----

Bokuto called in an order for lunch to be brought to his apartment and the two of you ate together. The tension had long since stippled away.

“I forgot to tell you about this one guy I saw at the gym,” he said excitedly, speaking around a full mouth.

You pricked your food onto the fork and crooked a brow, “Oh?”

“Yeah, he had been benching some heavy weights and it must’ve been too much. I looked over and he was near purple trying to get the bar off of him—ran over there as fast as I could and helped him out.” Bokuto was smiling widely, dimples pressed in proud at the edges, “Then he got pissed at me and said I ruined his rep.”

You stifled a bark of a laugh.

Bokuto shook his head, chuckling, “The guy threatened to have me kicked out permanently for harassment.”

“Harassment?” you repeated.

He hummed, drinking from his plastic cup.

“You should’ve just punched him at that point.”

Bokuto balked, suppressing a grin, “That’s terrible, I would never do that.”

“What’s the point of all that time spent working your body if you can’t even defend yourself?” You pointed the end of your fork toward him, shaking it like a chastising finger.

The corner of his lips tilted upward. Bokuto moved quickly. You did not anticipate him to rise from the table and cross to you; you did not expect him to lift you so easily from the ground. He picked you up by the waist and you yelped in surprise as he settled you over his shoulder. Your fork fell to the table, Bokuto shook beneath you with laughter.

“Kou!” You fisted at his shirt, wrinkling the blue fabric. One of his hands laid heavy at the small of your back, the other he placed at your thighs. “You ass.”

It was futile to writhe in his hold. You grasped tightly to his shirt, lifting it as you scowled.

“I won’t drop you,” he said, walking to the hall. “Promise.”

“Where are we going?” you asked exasperatedly, his steps jostling you.

“I wanna show you something.”

“Show me what, Koutarou?”

He smiled, “You’ll see.”

Bokuto continued down the hall, his shoulder warm beneath your abdomen, and brought you to his bedroom. You narrowed your eyes in question but said nothing. He let your body slip back, hands bracketing your waist to place you on the ground; your own held his shoulders for support. He grinned down at you and turned away.

“What—” you did not finish your sentence as Bokuto plucked something small from the lounge chair beside his closet, biting at the inside of his cheek elatedly.

“Look what I have,” he crooned in delight. Bokuto held a plush toy in his hands, its stitching frayed, colors faded.

Your eyes widened. It was an old gift from Bokuto, one he had earned from a rusted prize machine for you. You had thought it lost.

“My mom found it in some boxes she was cleaning out. I guess she mistook it for toys I had been getting rid of in middle school and put it in storage when you forgot it at my house that one time.”

“God,” you took the toy he offered out to you, turning it over, “I thought I’d never see this thing again.” A breathless laugh.

Bokuto would give you every object in the world to see the amused expression you bore again and again.

You’re so lovely, he thinks, I would give you everything if you asked it.

He returned your smile, stepping forward to play with the furred ears of the plush.

-----

Bokuto was panting, whining brokenly into his pillow. He did not record himself tonight, this was solely for him. His fingers held the base of his cock tightly, hips pressing as far as his hand would allow before pulling back.

He had walked you out of his building and to your car when you needed to return home. And then you had gestured for him to bend down. Scalding warmth marred his cheeks and ears and throat in the form of a blush as you took his face in your hands and pressed a chaste kiss to his forehead.

“Be good,” you had joked, patting the side of his face before entering your car and driving out of the lot.

He would be good for you. He felt so good because of you. Bokuto stifled a whimper.

His hand twitched, cock bobbing at the memory. It was a simple kiss, platonic in its brevity; Bokuto should not have come so undone by it. He did not think of what your lips would feel like elsewhere but his forehead, it had been too innocent of a kiss. It had been the kiss you share between laughter, in tired sleep, drudging mornings. In a hello and a goodbye.

Bokuto moaned, peering down at his hand, the head of his cock that slipped through. He had not been this aroused in so long; he wanted to enjoy this.

-----

“Well, shit,” Kuroo swiped a thumb beneath the point of his nose. “So, she knows.”

“Yeah,” Bokuto said quietly, “she knows.”

They sat beside one another on an old bench, the park trees crowding above with bare limbs, the cold nipping their hands and faces.

Kuroo’s brows pinched at his friend’s tone, “Did something else happen?”

He frowned, lips pressing tight. Bokuto peered around the empty park, “She—” he looked over his shoulder “—she walked in on me…” and glanced pointedly to the ground.

Kuroo tilted his head, eyes widening, and clicked his tongue. “Oh, you can’t be serious.”

Bokuto did not speak. He drank from his hot coffee instead.

“You’re serious. Oh my god, you’re serious?” He shifted to better see Bokuto, “How the hell did that even happen?”

Bokuto shook his head, sniffling from the chill, “I forgot when she was coming over, mixed up the days. I’m so stupid, I felt terrible after it happened. She’d been so nice about it when I first told her—she didn’t care—and I put her in such a fucking uncomfortable position.” He exhaled deeply, lungs filling with guilt, “I’m a bad friend.”

“No, you’re not.” Lifting a hand, Kuroo placed it on Bokuto’s shoulder in consolation, “You’re not a bad friend. It was an accident, Bo. And she’s one of the most understanding people I’ve ever met; she would never hold something like that against you.”

“I—I came the second I saw her in my apartment…” Bokuto was shaking his knee, scrubbing haplessly at his face. He refused to look at Kuroo. He was so embarrassed, so fucking ashamed. It was an unnecessary detail, but this was the first that Bokuto had discussed the incident beyond you.

Kuroo lapsed into a quiet pause. He opened his mouth, pondered his words, closed it again. He eventually settled on: “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Bokuto mumbled.

“That’s…” Kuroo began, then lifted his head. “Right in front of her?” he asked, as if he could not believe it.

Bokuto pinned him with a withering expression that said, Yes, now please stop asking.

“Okay,” said Kuroo carefully. “Okay, and how was she afterward?”

“She offered to leave; I asked her to stay. I couldn’t bear the thought of her going without some sort of explanation.”

“And did she? Stay, I mean.”

“Yeah, she stayed and I bought us lunch. It was her, actually, that sat me down to talk. I was so damn nervous, thought I was gonna throw up. But…she was fine, I was fine. We got over it and ate and spent time together.”

Kuroo nodded, sipped in thought from his own cup. They were silent for a moment before he said, “Are you in love with her?”

Bokuto fumbled terribly, whirling on Kuroo with a slackened jaw. “What?” he asked.

“Just a question,” Kuroo shrugged, crossing one ankle over the other in front of him. “I’ve seen the way you look at her, you know, even when we were younger. You care about her, that’s obvious enough, but you get so caught up in your head when you’re with her.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he grumbled.

“If Akaashi or I had walked in on you, it would’ve been a shock—sure—but so what? It wouldn’t have been an issue and we both would go about our days. However, her walking in on you shouldn’t be such a damn big deal. She’s just a friend,” Kuroo leveled an amused grin toward him, “right, Bo?”

-----

It was eleven in the evening when you received a text from Kuroo.

Heard you found out, he said.

Yeah, he told me about a month ago, you replied.

I’m betting he was too embarrassed to give you the username he posts the videos under.

You stilled, typing back with reluctance. No, he didn’t.

You want it?

A flush warmed your body, your very blood. You could nearly hear the taunt of Kuroo’s words. No, you said.

Liar.

A minute passed, then two; you believed that had been the end of the conversation, until he sent a link.

He could be toying with you. He could be pandering for a way to get a rise out of you.

He holds live sessions every Saturday, sometimes in the middle of the week, too, if he’s feeling up to it. Just take a look for yourself, said Kuroo

The warmth burned now. And how do you know this? you asked.

I don’t watch his shit, if that’s what you’re thinking. He tells me.

You eyed the link, wary. A ruse or not, it felt wrong to even consider watching Bokuto in such a vulnerable position. So, you did not consider it, you turned off your phone and picked up a book.

It had not been enough to distract you. You kept reimagining that day you found Bokuto on his couch as if the thoughts were becoming intrusive. His body, his hands, the way he moved—

You rubbed harshly at your temples, growing irritated. He was your friend, he was such a sweetheart, and a gentleman through and through.

Someone is getting off to the thought of him, the sight of him, another thought latched itself as it laughed with delight. How do you feel about that?

I feel that it’s none of my business, you seethed.

No, you don’t. You’re jealous.

You rose from your bed and showered.

When you returned, dripping in rivulets of water, frustrated, you took up your phone. Half an hour, you had spent bathing yourself. Half an hour, and Bokuto was likely done with his live session.

You should look, the thought returned, he wouldn’t even know. What’s the harm? Satiate your curiosity, and you won’t ever need to be curious again.

It’s wrong, you said.

And, yet, you’ve seen it before.

Your phone was heavy in your hand, weighted with a lead you could not see. Yes, you had already seen him reach an orgasm by accident; he had even wanted to tell you of his side occupation; but he had not invited you to watch.

It did not matter if you loved him, if you thought of how he held you, how he might take your hand—how he might fuck you. This was not for your viewing.

-----

A few more months appeared and scurried away. Your relationship with Bokuto remained normal, if not a bit cautious. He was more careful with his touch; his tight embraces became short and sweet hugs from the side; his thigh did not brush yours when you sat beside one another; his hands did not play idly with your hair or fingers or clothing.

He was the most familiar, but familiarities were beginning to change once more.

“Kou,” you said, peering over at him as he stood by his closet.

He hummed in acknowledgment, lifting a gold patterned tie and a black patterned tie up to his throat.

“Has something been bothering you?” you asked.

Bokuto found your stare in the mirror before him, pausing, “Well, I am having some trouble trying to choose which tie would look best.”

You rose from your seat on his bed and crossed to him, picking the gold patterned tie from his hands. “This one,” you said with a small smile. “But I meant as of late. You’ve been…off.” His hands were moving the tie, manipulating the fabric to create a meticulous knot; you watched this instead of meeting his eyes.

Bokuto swallowed thickly, “Have I?

“Yes,” you said, “just a bit.” You adjusted the lapels of his suit jacket, following the sleeve until you reached his hand. He automatically lifted it for you, and you admired the intricacies of the watch on his wrist. “This is beautiful.”

“Thank you,” he said, but the words were as delicate as a breath. You were holding his hand in yours, thumbing the sleeve upward to admire the silver band. It was near torturous watching you in silence, standing ever so still, because he wanted you to continue. He did not want you to stop.

Your hand was so small in comparison to his, in comparison to him. And you were so heartbreakingly pretty; adorned in a dress that he wanted to slip from your body, carefully done hair that he wanted to thread his fingers through, makeup that he wanted to near ruin.

Bokuto took in a trembling breath and hoped you would not notice. He had asked you a week ago if you would like to accompany him to a friend’s birthday dinner, and you had said yes.

But with the way you looked tonight, he might just keep you home and to himself.

-----

In hindsight, he should not have worried about the dinner. It went well, and everyone adored you; he offered to pay for your meal, to which you declined, and he in turn took your card and held out his own to the waiter with the most endearing of smiles.

He should have worried for what came after.

You sat by his side on the couch, cheek pressed tiredly to his shoulder, your heels placed at his front door, your dress hanging in his closet. It was late when the two of you returned from the dinner; Bokuto had insisted you stay the night.

Don’t want anything to happen to you, he had said. Truly, he was torturing himself at this point, but it was a pain he had begun to crave. To have you within an arm’s reach; to have you nestled at his side on the couch; to have you wearing his clothes to sleep in; and to not do anything at all. Like a game of wills.

“Tired, huh?” he asked you, bumping your leg with his own. The TV droned on, its light shifting across the planes of his and your faces.

You sighed, “Yeah.” He was so warm, the give of his muscles so soft beneath your cheek like a lull.

He propped his chin atop your head, peering around his apartment—remembering that day. Bokuto had thought he saw hesitance in your expression when you returned from changing clothes and he had patted the space beside him on the couch, before he hurried to assure you that he had cleaned it months prior.

The cleanliness had not been your cause for uncertainty. It was the sole fact that your body flushed at the memory of what, precisely, Bokuto had done on the couch.

“You should go to sleep,” he finally murmured, nudging once at your temple with his nose to wake you further. “Take my bed, I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“Kou,” you said flatly, voice addled with dreariness, “this is your apartment. I’m not gonna take your entire bed.”

He hummed, as if amused. “Yeah, you are.” Without thought, he rose from the couch and dragged you upwards, leaning down to curl an arm beneath your knees and behind your shoulders.

A surprised call of his name escaped you, and Bokuto brought you to his bedroom. It was all so painfully similar to that day that felt so long ago and, yet, felt like only yesterday. Two lamps on either side of his bed illuminated the room from when you had flicked them on earlier to slip out of your dress and into a shirt of his that nearly hung at your knees. You bounced gently when he settled you on the bed. And Bokuto placed his hands by either side of your head, suspending himself above you lazily.

He smiled crookedly, teasingly, and you pushed at his face, scoffing.

“You’re terrible,” you laughed, and he laughed with you.

He was such a glutton for you. If only you knew. Maybe he would tell you. Maybe he never would.

Bokuto pulled away, but you caught the bottom of his dress shirt, still tucked into black slacks that he had yet to change out of.

“Wait,” you said suddenly, quietly. He stilled, halfway unfurled from above you.

His brows rose, “Hm?”

“You never…” you began. “You never answered my question, from before we left.” At the confused tilt of his chin, you continued. “I asked if there was something wrong, that you had seemed distant.”

“Oh,” he amended. And he remembered; he had avoided the question because he already had his answer. But Bokuto hated lying to you, so he simply had not said anything. He straightened and you sat up, legs bent at the edge of his bed.

“Kou?”

He inhaled, as if he meant to speak. Bokuto had become so hyper-aware of you after that embarrassing incident that every little touch, every brush and smile and whisper from you had sent him into a desperate frenzy. He had been on edge, cautious, ever careful. But now he touched you with abandon, like a man on the brink of death grasping for his fill of greed before he keeled over. Bokuto could not fathom the idea of you reciprocating his affections; it was a fool’s dream.

Your eyes searched his.

“I…” And here he was, swallowing his sentences as he had been before.

You shifted, sheets rustling, head tipped back to look up properly at him.

“I don’t know how to act around you sometimes,” he said, and he was not quite sure he should have. He continued nonetheless, “You make me nervous.” Bokuto spoke as if it were a confession, an imploring sin.

You blinked, “It’s just me, Kou. It's always just been me.”

“That’s not what I mean,” he whispered, smiling as if sad. He ran a hand down his face, glancing away; a nervous habit that you recognized.

You reached out for him again, rising to stand in front of him.

“Goodnight,” he said, and it was genuine and kind and he did not know if he could look at you without falling to his knees and asking for anything you would be willing to give him.

“No,” you grabbed his wrist, tugging gently, “no, don’t do that.”

And he stayed. How could he ever deny you?

“Tell me what’s wrong,” you said.

God, you were a sight to behold. Peering up at him, wearing his shirt. He nearly groaned. And by some stupid whim, he spilled his heart for you.

“I’m in love with you,” he breathed. It was as if everything simply ceased; to exist, to move, what did it matter when he had finally uttered the words that had bled his thoughts for years?

Your lips parted, eyes widening; your chest rose as you inhaled. Bokuto looked like a beat dog before you, tail between his legs and a darting stare.

“Oh, Koutarou,” you whispered as your hand lifted to cup the curvature of his cheek.

And how you spoke, he thought you were being pitiful. But your thumb stroked his skin, your fingers lowered until they reached his chin, his lips. His breath hitched; his throat bobbed painfully.

“Please look at me,” you said. And he did, his jaw tensing at your touch. You smiled, placed your other hand on his chest. You were near on your toes trying to reach him.

He folded his hand over the one you had placed along his face, leaning into it, closing his eyes for a brief moment. When he opened them, they found yours.

You always thought his eyes were a paradox. Golden irises that belonged to the forest’s underbrush, atop a leaf-laden bough, beneath the black of water—irises that belonged to a predator. And he was anything but; he was so tragically sweet and gracious. And he loved you.

He took your hand, brought the tips of your fingers to his lips and kissed them softly. Bokuto believed he had spelt the beginning of an end for himself; he did not realize your touches were not out of sympathetic pity.

But you very nearly whimpered at the gesture. He had scarcely kissed you.

“Kou,” you murmured. “Kou, please.” You did not know what you were asking for. Anything, you thought, I would take anything.

“Goodnight,” he said again. “I’m sorry if—”

He was cut off by your grabbing of his face, your eyes shuttering in confusion. “What are you doing?” you asked.

Bokuto noticed it then: your flushed cheeks, your breathless voice, the uneven rising of your chest. You were a mirror of himself, how he felt.

Oh.

How could he be so foolish?

He reached for you, your hands fell to his abdomen, and his framed your face. Bokuto was so close now, he rested his forehead against yours.

“Need to hear you say it,” he murmured, and he spoke like a man desperate. He moved his lips to your cheek, the line of your jaw, beneath your ear. He caught the scent of that perfume you always wore and sighed.

Your fingers curled into his dress shirt, your thoughts already hazing over at the barest of his ministrations. “I love you,” you said, “always have.”

And when he kissed you, when he pressed his lips to yours, it was so gentle, so light. Bokuto was warm and he let a hand fall to the small of your back; he was pleased when you arched into him, pressed further against him.

You both breathed heavily when the kiss broke.

And then you said his name. And something snapped.

Bokuto lifted you, set you on the bed with reverence, placed himself above you. He was pressing kisses to your lips, your throat, fisting the shirt you wore —his shirt—and splaying his fingers across your hip. You looked so small beneath him, vulnerable in the pleasured twist of your face. This time, he did groan; he groaned against your pulse point at the column of your neck.

Everything seemed to burn. You pressed your thighs together at the ache that had begun to form. And it hurt in the best way.

He peered down at your thighs, understood why they curled to be close to your body. He felt himself strain at his dress pants.

Bokuto kissed you a little longer, hands trembling in restraint where they found your waist, arms, stomach and hip. Your fingers had wound themselves into the fabric below his collar and remained there; he realized then that you were nervous—as nervous as he had been before.

He pulled away. “Hey,” he said softly.

“Hi,” you whispered on a breath.

The tips of his fingers, calloused from his time playing volleyball in the past, smoothed strands of your hair, tucked it behind your ear. “Are you doing okay?”

Your want was a palpable thing, taken form in kiss-swollen lips; each beat of blood sent a throb to your cunt. It was near incapacitating how turned on you. And you could feel yourself getting wet, dampening your underwear.

You nodded at his question and Bokuto gave you a reprieving smile. Before his kisses lowered to your collarbone, between your breasts, your stomach. “Good,” he said between kisses, “good.”

Your breathing stuttered when he stopped below your navel, you still wore his shirt. It was almost lewd how you locked eyes as he lifted himself, held your knees on either side, a question in his expression.

If you asked, he would stop this all right now. If you asked, he would press his mouth to your cunt and make you cum on his tongue. He would love to do the latter; he would love to do it over and over and over until you were writhing away, tugging at his hair because you could not take anymore.

And then you nodded shyly again, and he spread your legs easily, settled flat on his bed. He wrapped his arms around the plush of your thighs, tugging you down. You might have squeaked at the sudden pull, but it subsided to a gasp at the feel of his warm mouth simply hovering.

You shifted your legs on instinct and Bokuto tightened his hold.

“Kou,” you keened, and you sounded so desperate to your own ears when he placed a brief kiss at your clit, over your underwear; too light to provide friction, but heavy enough to leave you squirming.

It was astonishing the way Bokuto had been so subdued when he confessed. He was far from it now, molding your body to him, pulling little whimpers from you at the kisses on the inside of your thighs. He wanted more. He wanted to hear so much more.

Bokuto ran a knuckle up your slit, feeling you through the cotton. He could see the damp spot of your underwear, could feel it; his hips canted against the sheets and he pressed his knuckle further on your clit. You moaned softly, smothering it with the palm of your hand. And he grinned up at you, feral in the way his canines showed.

You did not notice he had lifted up from your cunt before he was right above you.

“Are you sure?” he asked and you knew this would likely be the last unless you asked him to stop.

“Yes,” you said, “please.” You were surprised he heard you at all.

Bokuto gave you a sweet kiss on your cheek. It was such a naïve kiss in comparison to what he wanted to do to you. He did not give you time to breathe before he laid his tongue flat against your cunt, focusing on your clit; he seemed intent on pushing you to an orgasm simply over your underwear, as if he had something to prove.

The whimper that slipped from you was a broken one. He licked at you, tightened his hold on your thighs, the force of his muscle pressing into the fat of your legs. His shirt had pooled at your waist with how he tugged you down, unaware of his own strength in a lusted haze. You grasped for anything; his sheets, his pillows, his soft hair. This sensation of his tongue lapping and grazing was something entirely new to you—you were not going to last long.

But that was what he wanted.

A certain dig of your heel against his back had him biting lightly at the inside of your thigh, a gesture that might have said, “Be patient.” You gasped, regardless, lifting your head to find he was not waiting to look up at you. He was far too busy playing with your cunt, rocking his clothed cock in time with his mouth to provide himself some form of relief against the bed.

You might have been embarrassed, you might have been chagrined at the sight of Bokuto between your legs, if not for how fucking good he made you feel. This was your closest friend, this was the boy you grew up alongside.

Your thoughts fled the moment Bokuto pressed his tongue right there and you made a whine that had you blushing red. And then he moaned against your clit, sucking harshly on it. You managed to keen his name before Bokuto understood you were close. Your legs strained at his hold, your back arching, mouth falling open as the beginnings of your orgasm began to lash at your body.

He found your wandering hand that reached for him and slid his own into it. Bokuto squeezed warmly, glancing up to find you.

“Come on,” he said, “I’ve got you.”

Your eyes widened, and then you were trembling terribly, reaching the precipice of your orgasm, breathing out whines and pants and gentle moans that you tried to contain. Bokuto only moved his tongue harder and you near shouted at the change.

His hand remained in yours as he let you ride out the remnants of your ecstasy on his deft fingers, instead, moving to hover over you once more.

“I know,” he murmured by your ear, nudging you to look down with him at his hand that worked your twitching cunt, “I know, pretty girl.”

You could not form words, you could scarcely speak but for the sounds Bokuto strung from you. And when he shifted to your side, fingers drawing light patterns over your clit, you shivered at the overstimulation that prickled and numbed. Your weak hand tapped at his wrist and Bokuto finally pulled away.

“Just like that,” he whispered, as if in awe.

Your head lowered to his chest, legs moving to lift but finding they could not. You were shaking in the after-effects of your climax and Bokuto had not even touched your bare clit.

He cradled your face, brought your body closer to his. Bokuto’s cock was still hard and straining, but he paid it little mind. You looked down with a heavy-lidded gaze and Bokuto followed your stare.

“Don’t worry about me,” he said, “I’ll…take care of it later.”

You were breathing hard, panting shallowly at his collarbone, the pristine white shirt that covered it. You noticed he was equally as flushed, as affected by you as you were of him.

“Will you stay with me?” you breathed out. Bokuto understood what you meant and found that your words held two meanings—of which he would agree to both.