inkpetrichor

[inkpetrichor]

I have so much to read for the summer exchange I'm literally vibrating this community is heaven HEAVEN I SAY

i love yall

[inkpetrichor]

Something Like Home | Kuroo Tetsurou x f!reader

paring. timeskip! kuroo x f! reader cw. long oneshot. exes. second chance. use of yn. drinking. cursing. nekoma being menaces (and matchmakers). a little angsty. lemme know if i missed anything<3 tldr. after years of studying abroad, you return to japan—older, wiser, and absolutely, definitely over your high school ex. probably. to celebrate, your old friend group plans a beach trip. sun, sea, and long-overdue rest. the only problem? he'll be there too. the boy you once called home. the one you let go over a phone call full of sobs and I love yous. the one you never really stopped thinking about. you tell yourself the past is behind you. that you're fine. that your heart won't betray you the second you see him again. but what if his never stopped beating for you either? wc. 7.6k an. written for @nekomasmngr for the summer fic exchange! i really hope you like it<3 i had a lot of fun writing it. i was afraid at first but then i ended up with so many words i'm so sorry. i blame blink 182 and insomnia for this.

Don't waste your time on me, you're already The voice inside my head (I miss you, miss you)

Your leg bounced nervously in the back seat as the smell of salt and summer drifted in through the open car windows. Akane howled with her head halfway out like a dog on the loose, the embodiment of someone who'd earned her break after crushing her finals.

"OKINAWA BABYYYYY!" she screamed into the wind.

"Okinawa babyyyy!" Lev echoed, his head joining hers outside.

"Levochka! Don't stick your head out like that—it's dangerous!" Alisa scolded from behind the wheel. But her smile betrayed the affection behind her tone.

She sighed contentedly, running a hand through her hair while the other stayed steady on the wheel.

"Okinawa, baby."

Everyone needed this.

You needed this.

Cause' it had only been two months since you returned to Japan after years of studying abroad, and your job—though related to your field and something you genuinely loved—was already killing you in that special way only Japanese work culture could.

With all of that, coordinating a time-off vacation with twelve other people who all had jobs, college, and life in general?

A nightmare. True nightmare. You felt so bad for whoever had to.

(It was Alisa, It was always Alisa.)

But some things aren't about convenience. These vacations were a need.

Everyone needed this.

You needed this.

And yet—there was a part of you that wanted to open the car door, tuck and roll onto the asphalt, and maybe break a bone or two just to escape the weight slowly pressing down on your chest.

"Y/N. You okay back there?"

Alisa's gentle voice pulled your gaze from the endless stretch of sea beyond the cliffs. You met her eyes in the rearview mirror as she rolled up her window to hear you better.

"I… I'm fine," you muttered.

"She's nervous to see him again," Akane purred, poking your cheek with a manicured finger.

You didn't answer. You didn't need to.

"Who? Kuroo-san?" Lev asked, chewing through a konbini sandwich like the flight to Okinawa never fed him.

He tilted his head and studied your face, which was glued to your thighs, and offered you an onigiri like a consolation prize and an emotional life raft.

"Well, he is too," he mentioned, gently. "Apparently, he was gonna back out of the trip with some 'I've got too much work' excuse—until Kenma told him you were coming."

Your head snapped up. Lev grinned at your wide eyes like a proud matchmaker and gently pushed the onigiri toward you. You took it from him with a quiet thank you.

"Aaand apparently he paced so much while packing at Kenma's place he nearly wore a hole in the floor."

"What are your sources, Haiba?" Akane asked, skeptical.

"The boys' group chat! Super reliable."

"Men aren't reliable," she fired back.

"Is that... really true?"

Your voice was small. Softer than you meant it to be. But the bickering stopped between them on its tracks.

Akane and Lev both blinked at you, as if surprised to hear you speak at all. That silence made you fidget again, eyes quickly flicking away, out the window, out into the sea again, where your sanctuary was.

"Not that I care," you added quickly. "It's been years. I'm over it. I really am."

Akane leaned back in her seat, slow and wordless. Lev mirrored her. They watched you for a beat or two, probably wondering if they should believe you.

You didn't notice the soft, knowing smile pulling at Alisa's lips as she turned back to the road.

It wasn't like you and Kuroo had ended things on bad terms. If anything, that was what made it worse.

You'd been together all through high school. Three full years of being each other's person. The couple everyone looked at and whispered 'endgame'.

Late-night calls even on school nights. Matching phone charms. Forehead kisses at train stations. The kind of love that makes you feel like the future is something you can hold in your hands.

Everyone thought that by the time you came back from your studies, you and Kuroo would be planning your wedding. Moving in. Settling down.

You thought so, too.

You'd tried the long-distance thing. And for a while, it worked.

You stayed up through time zones, made promises, sent photos. But school got harder. He got busier.

Eventually, the daily texts faded into silence. Missed calls. Exhausted apologies. Into 'Sorry, I've got a test tomorrow' texts or 'I might crash early, work was rough.'

At some point, when the dreading realization that you were starting to lose him dawned on you, you thought about pausing everything. Freezing your degree, flying back home, fixing it.

But when you brought it up, Kuroo shut it down.

Not harshly. Not unkindly. But with that same calm resolve that always made you want to scream.

He said he'd never forgive himself if you threw your dreams away for him. That he loved you too much to let you do that. That he was proud of you.

And somehow, that broke your heart more than anything.

When you finally broke it up, it was over a call that left both of you sobbing. You were the one who brought it up, who actually ended things. And Kuroo—sweet, steady Kuroo—didn't stop you.

He didn't beg. He didn't ask you to stay.

He just… let you go.

And even though your head knew why—even though you understood��your heart still carried the bruise of it.

Because if he'd just fought. If he'd just asked you to stay… maybe you would've.

Your brain had long since made peace with it. But your heart?

Your heart didn't agree.

Not on the cold nights where sleep didn't come. Not when you'd clutch your phone and whisper goodnight into nothing.

Not when you'd picture him walking home alone, and wonder if he still thought of you at crosswalks or coffee shops or old bookstore corners.

And especially not now, when you were staring at the sea as conversation picked back up in a rental car that suddenly felt too loud and too small and too full of memories.

The waves blurred in your vision. You blinked hard.

Yeah. Throwing yourself out and rolling onto the asphalt was sounding better by the minute.

When the rental car came to a stop in front of the small beachside inn you'd be staying at, Taketora was already waiting just outside, arms crossed and grinning like a dork.

The moment Akane stepped out, he opened his arms wide and caught her mid-jump as she launched into a squealing hug.

You smiled softly at the sight—something in your chest unclenching just a little.

You'd always loved how close they were. It made the world feel safe, like some things did stay the same since you'd left.

"You guys got here fast!" Taketora beamed. "Come on inside—the obaasan at the counter was so excited when she heard there were even more people staying over. Says they don't get many visitors around here. No idea why—this place is gorgeous."

"Is everyone else here already?" Lev asked as he popped the trunk and began unloading the bags. He waved off you and Alisa when you went to help. "Nope. You two are banned from lifting stuff. Vacation mode."

"They're at the beach," Tora said, slinging Akane's duffel bag over his shoulder. "Playing beach volleyball. Couldn't even wait five minutes to unwind. I was holding out for you guys, but I was starting to get twitchy."

"Typical," you murmured with a soft smile. "Volley addicts."

"Woah. Y/N—you look good!" Tora said, doing a dramatic double take once his brain caught up. "Haven't seen you since forever. That foreign air really did wonders for you!"

You felt your cheeks heat up, smiling despite yourself.

"Thanks, Tora. You haven't changed one bit."

"Oh, I don't know about that," he said with a wink. "Speaking of seeing again—there are a couple people who might pass out when they see you."

His smile faltered as Akane, standing behind him, widened her eyes and violently shook her head.

"Wait… she doesn't know he's here?" he asked in a very loud, very bad whisper.

"She knows," Akane hissed. "But just—"

"I'm right here, you know."

"Right, sorry," Tora muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "Okay, okay—how about we check in, drop your stuff, and head to the beach?"

The inn was small and cozy, with polished wooden floors and a faint smell of tatami and ocean breeze drifting through the halls. The woman at the counter bowed brightly and handed out keys with practiced cheer, chatting with Alisa about breakfast times and bath schedules.

You went ahead, climbing the stairs and getting to your room. On your bed, your bag's zipper caught for a second on something inside, and when you tugged it loose, your fingers brushed against a cold, familiar feeling.

You knew exactly what it was before you looked at it.

Tucked in the corner of your luggage,—where it had lived for the last four years—was the old enamel pin Kuroo had given you in second year.

It was stupid—a cartoon cat in a graduation cap—but he'd handed it to you after an exam and said it was your 'academic protection spirit'.

"You're gonna go places, y'know?" "What if I don't?” "Then I'll drag you there myself."

You should've taken it out years ago. Should've let it go when you let him go.

But there it was.

Your thumb traced the chipped paint automatically, like it might still bring you luck—or maybe just a little courage.

"Hey," Alisa's voice snapped you back. She stood at the frame of your room's door, a hand on her hip and a warm, curious look on her face.

"You good?"

You shoved the pin back in the bag and zipped it up quickly. "Yeah. Let's go."

The sun was beginning to dip lower in the sky, casting golden light across the beach where four familiar silhouettes danced in harmony across the sand.

Fukunaga and Yaku on one side. Kuroo and Kenma on the other.

The game was intense. Yaku was barking orders like a general. Fukunaga, as silent as ever, slammed a serve over the net like it owed him money. Kuroo dove for it—just barely managing to send it flying back—his hair the sweaty, chaotic mess as it was always.

Kenma sighed, clearly tired of sweating outside in the burning sun, and still managing to ace a surprise drop shot that made Yaku trip face-first into the sand.

"They really can't help themselves, huh," Akane muttered beside you and walked toward the group.

You hung back a second longer. Watching him.

It had been years.

But that—that was still Kuroo.

Still chasing the ball like it mattered more than gravity, eyes sharp and alive, hair a mess of wind and salt and sun. Still calling out to Kenma like no time had passed, like they were seventeen again—like their rhythm hadn't dulled with age or distance.

And it knocked the air out of you.

Because no matter how many years had gone by—no matter how many goodbyes or missed birthdays or moments you'd swallowed like pills—you realized the heartbreaking truth that you'd never fallen out of love with this.

With him.

With the boy who had memorized your favorite songs and made you study with color-coded chemistry flashcards.

The boy who once sat outside your house for two hours because he didn't want to end an argument over text. The boy who called volleyball his first love but always, always saved a place for you in his future.

Still that boy.

Still your boy.

And it hurt.

The rest of the group had already begun to rush to you guys—Lev yelling greetings, Taketora dragging Akane into the shallows, Shibayama waving frantically when he spotted you.

"Y/N!!!" Inuoka cried, spotting you. He dropped the volleyball he was bouncing on his forearms like it meant nothing and ran over, arms open wide. You barely had time to laugh before he crushed you in a sandy, sun-warmed hug.

"God, we missed you," he said into your hair. "Seriously. I didn't think you'd ever come back."

"Of course I came back," you said, breathless with joy. "I missed you guys."

Lev threw his arms around both of you, nearly knocking Inuoka to the ground.

"We're all here again! It's like high school—but hotter!"

More greetings came. Kai ruffled your hair. Kenma gave you a nod and the faintest smile from the court. Someone handed you a cold soda. Akane was already floating in the sea, yelling for you to come join.

You didn't notice Kuroo looking.

But he did notice you.

Mid-play, mid-pivot, he turned toward the sound of your laugh—and then—

SMACK.

A volleyball collided directly with his face.

"AGH—Fukunaga!!"

Fukunaga stood calmly on the opposite side of the net, not even pretending to be sorry.

"…Give that head a good shake," he mumbled. "Put your thoughts back in order."

Yaku gave him a thumbs-up.

Everyone burst into laughter.

Kuroo, red in the face��from impact and embarrassment—, picked up the ball and muttered something under his breath as he approached.

He met your eyes.

And then he smiled.

Not a smirk. Not a playful tease. Just a soft, quiet thing—like the ghost of a memory.

"…Hey," he said.

"Hey," you breathed.

There was a beat. Just the two of you in the sun-drenched sand, years stretching and collapsing between you.

"You look good," he said, voice barely audible over the waves.

"So do you."

More silence. But not empty.

Everyone was pretending not to watch. The group had scattered—some suddenly very interested in seashells, others way too invested in building sandcastles.

But no one said anything. Not yet.

You and Kuroo just stood there. Soft. Civil. Gentle.

Like maybe the next thing you said would shatter the peace, or put it back together.

Either way, it was your heart in danger.

The rest of the afternoon blurred in warmth and noise—games of chicken in the shallows, Fukunaga building the world's ugliest sand sculpture of Coach Nekomata, Kenma reluctantly joining a water balloon ambush. Kuroo stayed near, but not too near—just close enough that you caught each other's glances now and then. Just enough to feel like something had shifted.

And then, as the sun dipped low, someone suggested a bonfire.

By the time you were all back on the beach, the sky was turning to ink, and the fire crackled low in a sand pit, flickering gold against the navy blue of the early night. Someone pulled out a Bluetooth speaker, and old playlists filtered softly into the salty breeze—half-forgotten songs from high school, the kind you only remembered the lyrics to after the second verse.

You sat curled up on a beach blanket, legs tucked beneath you, the warmth of the fire licking at your shins. The sky above was ink-dark, stars beginning to blink through the fading dusk, and laughter buzzed all around like embers riding the wind.

Someone had managed to buy way too much alcohol for the trip, and no one was entirely sober—not wasted, but buzzed just enough to be honest, giggly, and maybe a little sentimental.

"I swear the sea air gets you drunk faster," Yaku said, already flushed and swaying as he poured another splash of umeshu into his plastic cup. "It's science."

"It's hydration, actually," Kenma said, barely lifting his head from where he was lying flat on a towel. "Or lack of it."

Lev was mid-rant about how much taller he'd gotten since high school ("I grew! You guys just forgot how tall I already was!!") while Akane and Alisa giggled into their ciders, making faces as they passed around a half-eaten bag of konbini snacks.

You felt it in your chest—the kind of full, quiet happiness that only came when you were surrounded by the people who once made your youth feel like magic.

Then—

"Hey," came a familiar voice beside you, low and a little raspy from the ocean breeze.

Kuroo.

He crouched beside you and handed over a red solo cup.

You blinked at it.

"You still drink this, right?" he asked casually, like it was nothing. Like this drink didn't need preparation—and three different ingredients to make—. Like he hadn't just remembered a detail about you from four years ago without even trying and making time to make your favorite drink.

"...Yeah," you said, fingers brushing his as you took the cup. "Thanks."

He sat down next to you��not too close, but close enough that the side of his leg grazed yours when he shifted.

It was so familiar it hurt.

"Do you guys remember the Nekoma school festival?" Taketora said loudly, clapping once as if to summon everyone's attention. "When Lev tripped on a lantern and set his pants on fire?"

"Hey! That was Kenma's fault!" Lev said, scandalized.

Kenma, eyes closed: "Nope."

"I told you they were real candles!" Yaku cried, snorting into his drink.

The laughter rose and fell like waves—stories tumbling over one another, each one more embarrassing than the last. Someone played a clip from an old volleyball match they found buried in a group chat. Fukunaga mimed a dramatic dive that had the group roaring.

It was warm. It was chaotic. It was perfect.

And then—just as everyone was catching their breath, nursing their drinks and grinning like fools—

One of the boys (you weren't sure who—maybe Kai, maybe Inuoka, already a little too far gone on sake) raised his can and slurred out:

"Man, I really thought Y/N and Kuroo were gonna be endgame."

Silence.

Just for a beat.

Not sharp, not awkward—but full. Weighted. Like the fire sucked all the oxygen from the circle for a split second.

Your breath caught.

Kuroo's fingers twitched beside yours.

You didn't look at each other.

Instead, your eyes dropped to the sand. He turned to stare into the fire.

Your heart thudded painfully behind your ribs. Because for a moment—for that one moment—you felt it again. That invisible thread between you. Tugging.

Still there.

Still taut.

Still holding.

"…Who the hell let this guy drink?" Yaku said suddenly, breaking the silence with expert timing. "Cut him off before he starts listing everyone's high school crushes."

Everyone erupted into laughter.

Taketora leaned back with a wheeze. "No, wait, now I wanna hear them!"

"Lev was in love with the kiosk lady," Fukunaga muttered behind his plastic cup.

"I WAS NOT—"

The moment passed. The laughter filled it in, like seawater over a footprint. You laughed too. You smiled and sipped your drink and let the heat of the fire chase the chill from your skin.

But your heart?

Still reaching across the space between you and him. Quietly. Longingly.

And when you finally glanced at Kuroo again from the corner of your eye—you caught him already looking.

He didn't say anything. Just gave you that same soft, half-smile from earlier.

It lingered like the taste of soju on your tongue.

Like something you could almost name.

That night, you couldn't sleep.

The inn had gone quiet hours ago. Only the sound of cicadas in the bushes and the steady rhythm of waves rolling against the shore filled the silence now.

Wrapped in the hotel's thin robe, you sat curled on the small balcony outside your room, knees pulled to your chest, fingers absently running over the rim of a mostly empty glass of water. The ocean shimmered under the moonlight, dark and endless, humming its song just for you.

You hadn't realized how much you missed this sound. This place. Japan. This part of you that had once been happy—young, stupid, and in love.

The sea air still made your hair tangle the same way. The salt still clung to your skin.

You took a deep breath.

It should've been easier. Coming back. Seeing him again.

But nothing about this was easy.

Every smile hurt. Every memory dragged behind it the echo of a goodbye you hadn't wanted to say.

You tipped your head back and let the wind brush your face, your eyes burning. You weren't even sure why.

A quiet slide of a door broke the moment.

You froze.

Footsteps padded lightly onto the balcony next door—connected by a small divider.

Kuroo stepped around the edge, hoodie pulled on over his sleep shirt, hair a soft, sleepy mess.

He looked at you like he'd half-expected you to be there.

"…You always were kind of an insomniac," he said.

Your heart squeezed.

Another thing he remembered.

You smiled faintly, turning back to the ocean. "So were you. Especially during exam weeks."

"I had to match your texting energy somehow," he said, leaning his forearms against the railing beside you. "Someone had to answer all your 3AM crisis texts."

You huffed a soft laugh. "I remember that. You used to call me even when I said I didn't want to talk."

"I knew you didn't mean it," he said, quietly.

The air between you settled into something tentative. Comfortable, and yet not. Like slipping back into an old coat that didn't quite fit the same anymore.

"So," he said, after a pause. "How's… life? Work, family, all that."

You told him the basics. Where you were living now. The vague outline of your job. You didn't mention how lonely it got. Or how often you still reached for your phone, thinking about messaging him, before stopping yourself.

He told you about Kenma's company, about his job at the JVA, coaching gigs he took on the side, about how Yaku had given him a houseplant that he kept killing and reviving like a weird ritual.

There was a lull where a particularly strong wave crashed against the rocks. And then—

"So… are you seeing anyone?"

He tried to say it casually. Like he was just curious. Like it didn't matter.

You stared at him.

"You think you're being subtle, but you're not."

He winced. "...Worth a shot."

You turned back to the ocean, resting your chin on your knees.

"No," you said finally. "I'm not seeing anyone."

He was quiet for a moment too long.

You felt the shift. That hope. That little inch forward.

And it made something in you ache.

Because part of you wanted to let it happen. To fall into him again. To close the gap and feel like you never left.

But another part—deeper, colder—held you back.

Because what if it happened again?

What if he let go again?

You couldn't hope for something that might vanish when things got hard.

And so you cut the moment off.

Abrupt. Not angry. Just… protective.

"I should get some sleep," you said, rising to your feet and brushing off your robe.

Kuroo blinked, clearly caught off guard. "Yeah. Of course."

"Goodnight, Tetsurou."

He didn't try to stop you. He just nodded, looking down at the water like it might give him something to hold on to.

"Goodnight, Y/N."

You stepped inside and slid the glass door shut behind you.

And even though your bed was soft, and your eyes were heavy, and the ocean kept singing outside—

You didn't sleep.

And neither did he.

The next morning, the sun was already high when you wandered into the common room, hair damp from a quick shower, hands curled around a cup of lukewarm tea. The kind of tea that didn't really help, just gave your fingers something to hold.

The exhaustion clung to you like salt air—gritty and hard to shake. Heavy behind your eyes, settling into your bones.

Akane caught sight of you first. She blinked once, then narrowed her eyes.

"Oof."

"What?"

"You look like you got hit by a truck," she said, patting the spot beside her on the couch.

"A truck made of thoughts," Fukunaga muttered from her other side, not even looking up from his coffee.

You flopped down with a groan.

"Hungover?" Akane asked.

"Kinda," you mumbled, resting your cheek against the back cushion.

"Well, you should've seen Lev. He practically had to be dragged down to the beach for another volleyball match. Honestly, are these people real?"

"Real addicts is what they are," you muttered, eyes closed, but not asleep.

"Even Kuroo looked half-dead this morning," Akane added. "I think he got even less sleep than you."

That made your stomach do something weird.

But you didn't ask.

The sun was already high when you finally made it down to the shore. Yaku was mid-argument with Lev over some questionable line call, and Kenma sat in the sand with a water bottle balanced on his head, looking approximately this close to quitting again. Everyone's hangover from the night before was starting to show.

But Kuroo wasn't on the court.

Your eyes scanned the beach once before landing on him—half-buried in a towel, lying in the sand a few meters away from the game, one arm slung lazily over his eyes like he'd passed out mid-thought.

Not playing.

Just there.

Asleep. Or something close to it.

You watched his chest rise and fall slowly with the breeze, the curve of his lips slack with exhaustion. He looked peaceful. Yet exhausted.

And somehow that made your chest ache.

You sat down a little ways away from the chaos, letting the sun warm your legs. As the match resumed, your eyes followed the ball lazily across the net—until a shadow fell across you.

"Lie down for a bit, honey," Alisa whispered, crouching beside you. Her fingers combed gently through your hair. "You look like you need it."

The sleepless night had left you hollowed out, and the sun felt too soft to resist. So you laid back on the towel, curled under the heat, and let your lashes flutter closed.

"I'll just rest my eyes a little," you mumbled, barely aware of your own voice.

The breeze was warm. The sound of the waves rolled steady and soft. For the first time in a long time, your mind was quiet.

But your dreams wouldn't let you keep it that way for long. Their whisper hit. As usual. Close.

It was less of a dream and more of a memory.

It was spring again.

You were standing behind the school gym where cherry blossom petals had collected in the gutter like pink snow. You'd gone out there after your last class, needing air, needing quiet.

He'd followed you.

It wasn't unusual. You and Kuroo had a rhythm, a closeness that lived somewhere between casual teasing and something more. You'd been friends since the beginning of first year. Study partners. Late walks home, teasing texts type of friends.

The type who knew each other's favorite vending machine snacks and finished each other's complaints about teachers.

But lately, something had changed.

There'd been tension—an awkward silence too heavy to joke through, a lingering look that lasted just a second too long.

You leaned back against the wall, feeling the warm bricks behind your shoulder. He stood a few feet away, scuffing his shoe against the dirt.

"I don't think I can do this anymore," he said suddenly.

Your head turned sharply. "Do what?"

He hesitated. Bit his cheek. Rubbed the back of his neck like he was stalling for time he didn't have.

"This," he said again, voice softer now. "Us. Being… friends."

The words landed like a punch to the chest.

"Oh." You blinked. "Okay."

His eyes widened, and his ears pinked. "No!—I mean—wait, not like that." He stepped forward quickly, shaking his head. "I didn't mean I don't want to be around you. I meant—shit—I meant…"

You stared, throat suddenly dry.

"I feel like a fraud," he admitted, and it came out in a rush. "Because I never wanted to be just your friend. Not even at the start."

You froze.

"I tried." He rubbed the back of his neck, looking away, then back again. "I really tried to be. I told myself it was enough. That hanging out like this and walking you home and listening to you talk about your day would be enough. But it's not."

His eyes flicked to yours like he couldn't help it—and they were wide and glassy with fear, with hope.

"I like you. Like really like you. And I didn't know how to tell you without risking losing you. But I'm tired of pretending I don't feel it. I'm tired of acting like I don't want more."

You stood frozen, every heartbeat suddenly loud in your ears.

"I know this might ruin everything," he added, hands clenching at his sides. "But I needed you to know. Even if you don't feel the same."

There was a pause. A long one.

And then you spoke, quietly:

"You're an idiot."

"…I mean—yeah."

You stepped closer, heart thudding somewhere between relief and disbelief.

"I was supposed to confess to you during the Hanami festival we were going to..."

His eyebrows shot up. "Wait—what?"

"I like you too, Kuroo."

He stared at you for a second.

Then his mouth dropped open in that stunned, stunned way of his you'd always secretly loved.

You laughed, unable to help yourself.

And he just stood there, gaping, like the sky had fallen and dropped all the stars in his lap.

"Wait—during the Hanami?" he asked, blinking "That's so cute—You can still do it! I'll pretend to be surprised."

You snorted, ducking your head as your cheeks warmed. "It's okay. I mean… we can just go on a date there. It's fine."

"No—no, come on," he said, stepping in close, hands gently resting on your shoulders as he bent to meet your eyes. "Please. It's literally so adorable. Please do it."

"Kuroo," you laughed, flustered. "We don't have to—"

And then you looked up.

And it became evident how close you two really were. Way closer than you expected.

The words caught in your throat and you could see the warmth spreading across his cheeks.

His eyes flicked to your lips when a soft exhale escaped you, and his voice dropped to something small and barely there.

"Can I—?"

You nodded, already breathless. "Yeah."

He leaned in, gentle and uncertain, and kissed you like he didn't quite believe it was real—like he'd been holding back for months and was finally allowed to breathe.

His lips were soft, just slightly chapped, and so, so warm you thought you might melt.

Above you, the cherry blossoms drifted down like snow. And beneath it all, your heart beat so wildly, so fiercely, you felt like it might tear out of your chest.

In that moment, you knew—

Yeah.

This was love.

For the first time in a long while, the weight of time didn't feel so heavy.

And then, a cold hand on your arm—

You woke with a sharp inhale, sun pressing hot against your skin, towel tangled around your legs. You blinked blearily—and were met with Akane's concerned, wide-eyed stare hovering above you.

"Y/N. Where you having a nightmare?" she asked, lovely as ever.

"Kinda," you rasped.

It was honest, in a way.

"We're heading back to the inn for lunch—wanna come?" she asked.

You groaned, rolling over and clutching your towel closer.

"I'm good. You go ahead."

"You sure?"

"Mmhmm," you muttered, already half asleep again. The sunlight pressed against your shoulders like a warm hand.

You hadn't slept, and even if you had—for a little—it didn't feel like rest, so you didn't have a say, your body was begging for at least an hour or two more.

Akane saw this, so she let you be.

You didn't dream after that.

Just silence.

Just sun and waves.

Just a stillness you hadn't felt in a long time.

The kind of sleep that didn't ask questions you weren't ready to answer. No dreams about Kuroo, no memories, no confessions.

You'd maybe slept an hour when someone gently shook your shoulder.

Your eyes blinked open to gold—those familiar, cat-like eyes.

"Y/N. Where is everyone?" Kuroo asked, voice scratchy from sleep.

"They went for lunch," you mumbled, still half-asleep. "Didn't they wake you?"

He shook his head, brow furrowing slightly.

You stood up, brushing sand from your legs—and then your eyes caught on his chest.

Your mouth dropped open.

"What?" he asked, genuinely confused.

"Kuroo," you breathed, eyes wide. "You're cooked."

His chest was as red as a stop sign, sunburnt all over, save for a hilariously pale strip where the chain of his necklace had shielded his skin. His face wasn't much better—rosy and already peeling around the nose.

You tried to hold it in. You really did.

But then you snorted—hard—and doubled over laughing.

"Oh my god. You're like… aggressively sunburnt. Sis you fall asleep in the sun?"

He looked down at himself, eyes going wide, and tried not to laugh too. "Why didn't you wake me up?!"

"I was also asleep!!" you said through giggles.

And just like that—he broke. He threw his head back, laughing, loud and reckless, his whole chest moving with it. You laughed too, harder than you had in what felt like forever.

It was stupid. It was simple. But it felt good.

The awkwardness from the night before unraveled, washed away with the tide and the laughter that wouldn't stop. Something about being ridiculous together again made it easier to breathe.

You held out your hand for him.

"Come on, hot stuff. You need to cool off before you combust."

He groaned. "Hot stuff? Really?"

"Didn't hear a no."

You grabbed his wrist, and together you ran toward the water.

It started as splashing—just a few kicks, a few flicks of saltwater. Then it escalated into a full-blown splash war: shrieking, ducking, Kuroo flailing dramatically and pretending to drown while you howled with laughter.

You laughed until your sides ached. Until the burn in your throat gave way to something lighter, something free.

Then you swam. Further out than he did—braver with the deeper water, like always. Kuroo lingered closer to the shore, watching. He didn't follow. You remembered he hated not feeling the ground beneath him. The open water made him uneasy.

But he didn't say a word about it. Just waited.

And when you came back, wading through the waves, he was there—hand outstretched, steady and warm as he pulled you in.

"You went too deep!" he called over the crashing waves.

"Sorry!" you beamed, cheeks flushed. "I missed the sea!"

He just stared at you, shaking his head like he couldn't believe you.

But his smile said something different.

"Makes sense," he muttered, almost to himself.

Then—

A drop.

Then another.

You looked up.

A shimmer in the air. A soft warning in the clouds.

Then the sky split.

A curtain of silver poured down all at once, rain hammering the beach, darkening the sand and soaking through your clothes on the shore in seconds.

You shrieked. "Oh my god—"

"We're cursed," Kuroo yelled over the sudden downpour. He grabbed your wrist. "Bus stop—down the hill—come on!"

You ran.

Half-blind. Soaked. Shoes slapping through puddles and freshly carved rivulets in the sand.

By the time you ducked into the tiny bus shelter, the world around you was nothing but white mist and the sound of the storm.

Kuroo kicked at the drainage grate, trying to keep the water flowing. You stood shivering, clutching the damp strap of the bag you barely had time to pick up in one hand and your soaked sarong in the other, the fabric clinging uselessly to your skin.

You were drenched. Breathless. Still laughing.

And then you looked up.

And suddenly, you noticed how close you two were. Closer than you expected.

It was starting to feel a little familiar, dangerously so.

But this time, you tried to ignore the way his eyes flickered to your lips.

"You were always a storm magnet," he said softly, smiling tentatively.

You rolled your eyes, a soft sound escaping your chest—half amused, half something else.

Something heavier.

"You and your memories," you muttered, almost fond. Almost.

But your voice cracked at the edges.

Because every little thing he remembered about you—

The drink, the insomnia, now this—felt like a tug on an old, half‑healed stitch.

Unraveled you in ways he probably didn't even realize.

He swallowed. "Means I never really forgot. Any of it."

Rain streamed off the roof in silver sheets. The sky was full of sound—but it was nothing compared to the noise inside your chest.

"Are we really doing this?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. "Because it hurts."

His jaw tightened. "Hurts me too."

You nodded slowly. You should've stopped.

Should've let the rain carry it all away.

But the words were already rising.

They broke free before you could hold them back.

"Do you know how much it hurt," you said, "that you didn't fight for me?"

Your fists curled around the soaked fabric of your sarong.

"I kept waiting—for you to say something. 'Don't go.' 'We'll figure it out.' Anything. But you just… let me end us."

Kuroo flinched like you'd struck him.

Rain clung to his lashes, streaked down his face, mixed with something else now.

"Do you know how much it hurt to let you go?" His voice shook.

Your breath stopped.

He raked a hand through his dripping hair, stepping closer—like he couldn't keep the distance anymore.

"I wanted to be selfish," he said. "I wanted to beg you to stay. But every time I pictured you giving up your dream because of me—I just… I couldn't do it, Y/N."

You stood frozen, lips pressed tight to keep the sob down.

"You didn't even ask," he whispered. Tears blurred his eyes until rain and grief were the same wet sting. "You made the choice for both of us."

"Don't," you whispered, voice wobbling as you turned, like maybe you'd walk away. Like maybe the storm could muffle the ache again.

But then—

Something slipped from your bag.

A soft clink on wet concrete.

Kuroo's breath hitched.

Lying between you, half-soaked in rainwater, was the old enamel pin he gave you.

The dumb little cat in a graduation cap.

Its colors chipped. Edges dulled.

But still whole.

Still yours.

He bent slowly, almost reverent, and picked it up like it might fall apart in his hand. He turned it over, lips parted.

"You kept this," he breathed.

You said nothing. Your throat was too tight.

You reached out instinctively to take it back—but he didn't let go.

Instead, he took your hand in his. His fingers curled gently around yours.

Held it. And the pin. And everything that had been left unsaid for years.

His eyes lifted—wide and shining with something close to awe. Like he was seeing it all for the first time.

"You still feel it," he whispered.

And you?

You could've swallowed the whole storm, and it still wouldn't have been louder than your heartbeat.

"I said this was your good luck charm. Said it'd remind you that you could do anything," he murmured, gaze still fixed on the pin caught between both your fingers.

"But I..." he hesitated, voice breaking softer "I honestly gave it to you because I wanted to be close. Because I wanted to be a part of wherever you were going."

You pressed a palm to his chest—somewhere between a shove and a plea.

"Stop, Tetsurou," you begged, voice tight. Fragile.

But he didn't.

"I was terrified," he rasped. "Terrified I'd drag you down. Terrified you'd resent me someday if you came back just to see me. I thought—if I loved you, really loved you—letting you go was the only way to prove it."

Lightning lit the sky behind you, a silver bolt that painted his face in stark gold for a breath. Thunder rolled after, low and trembling through the ground beneath your feet.

His hand trembled as he lifted the one still tangled with yours—the pin cradled between your palms—and pressed your fingers to his lips, slow and aching.

"But you kept this all this time..." he whispered. "You didn't let go either… did you?"

Your throat burned. Your eyes blurred.

His other hand came up to cover yours on his chest, pressing it tighter over the frantic rhythm of his heart.

"Do you feel that? I never stopped loving you," he said—barely more than a breath. "Not one day. Not one hour."

And something inside you cracked open. A sob slipped free before you could stop it; you tried to pull back, but he followed, seeing the signs, cupping your soaked cheeks with gentle, sure hands and not letting you look away from his eyes.

"I'm still scared," he admitted, voice raw. "But I'm more scared of another year without you."

Another sob tore loose. Your hands found his shirt, fingers fisting in the wet fabric like it was the only thing keeping you upright.

"Fight me," he whispered. "Yell at me. Make me prove I love you every damn day—I will. I'll do it. Just… don't walk away again, Y/N. I can't live without you."

Air hitched between you. Then the last sliver of distance collapsed—

You surged forward. His arms caught you like they'd been waiting, and your lips met in a kiss that landed sharp and desperate—like exhaling after years of holding your breath.

A kiss that tasted like salt and rain and relief.

So sharp it almost hurt.

It was clumsy—teeth knocking, noses cold—but it felt like stepping over a threshold into a warmth you'd been locked out of for years.

Rain trickled down your neck, his hands tangled in your hair, your sarong slipped to the concrete, and still—neither of you pulled away.

When you finally broke apart, foreheads pressed together, you couldn't stop shaking.

He smiled first, just barely.

"I warn you, I'm not letting go this time. Even if you try to run."

You nodded, breathless.

"Not even in a hurricane," you whispered.

He let out a watery laugh and brushed his nose against yours, still trembling.

"I missed this so much," he murmured, then kissed you again.

And again.

And again—until your chest hurt from how hard you were smiling, until you giggled into his mouth, and he laughed into yours.

It was messy. It was soaked. It was everything.

And this time—this time it didn't feel like a beginning or an end.

It felt like coming home.

Inside the inn, the dining room buzzed with the low clatter of chopsticks and overlapping voices. Steam curled up from hot bowls of rice and miso soup, the scent of grilled fish and soy sauce warm in the air.

"Lev, you can't just take food from other people's trays—" Yaku hissed.

"But he wasn't eating it!"

"I was breathing, you giraffe!"

"You can't call me 'giraffe'! You know it hurts my feelings!" Lev whined.

Kenma didn't even look up from his phone. "You deserve that."

Taketora snorted into his drink, face flushed from one too many sips of his favorite umeshu.

"It's a little romantic, don't you think?" he muttered after a while of staring into his rice. "The two of them out there in the rain? If they don't come back holding hands, I'm suing."

"Yeah, and you're paying me!" Yaku added, mouth full of food.

"Oh, they're definitely making out right now," Kai said with a confident smirk, poking at his pickled vegetables.

"Love is a holy mystery, ought to be hidden from all other eyes, whatever happens. That makes it holier and better," Fukunaga muttered, not even looking up from his plate of food.

"Stop quoting Dostoyevski!"

Akane glanced toward the door, fingers drumming idly on the table. "I mean, if they don't get back together after this trip, I'm staging an intervention."

Kenma hummed in agreement, pressing his cheek to the table.

"Kuro gets all bummed about it every time he gets drunk. He always brings it up. I really hope they do. For my sanity and his."

For a split second, no one spoke.

Then the front door slid open.

And there you were.

Dripping wet. Hand in hand. Shoes squeaking on the floor, soaked from the summer storm. Your sarong clung to your elbows. Kuroo's hair was flattened to his forehead, water still streaming from his sleeves.

Everyone froze.

And then—

"HEY—!" Lev's voice cracked over the table. "They're holding hands!!"

A chorus of gasps, claps, and groans followed, rising like a sudden wave.

Akane actually stood up, hands on her hips.

"FINALLY."

Taketora whooped. "I told you! Pay up, Yaku-san!"

Yaku sighed and started digging in his pocket for bills.

Kenma, half-asleep with his cheek still on the table, just muttered, "You're twenty minutes later than I predicted."

You froze, suddenly self-conscious, hair dripping onto the floor, Kuroo's hand still tangled with yours.

You covered your face with your free hand, blushing furiously, but Kuroo just grinned beside you—wide and unashamed and so stupidly in love it was unbearable.

Before you could say anything, Alisa was already moving—grabbing towels from a nearby hook and tossing them over both your heads like a proud, exasperated big sister.

"You're soaking the floor," she scolded gently, eyes shining. "But you look happy."

You were.

So happy it was terrifying.

Kuroo gave a crooked smile, still catching his breath from the run through the rain. "Sorry we're late."

No one was actually surprised. If anything, it felt like they had all just been waiting—not for something to happen, but for something to finally come home.

As you stepped inside the dining room fully, toweling off your hair and cheeks, you realized something else.

There was a spot already set for you. Your drink poured, your favorite side dish saved, your chopsticks sitting neatly beside Kuroo's.

They'd not only waited—but they'd never stopped making space for you.

You sat down beside him—shoulder to shoulder, hearts still racing from more than the rain. And when Kuroo nudged your knee under the table, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, you couldn't help but nudge back.

You were home.

Finally home.

my masterlist ♡

[inkpetrichor]

AHHH I JUST FINISHED UR FIC NASTY DOG AND IT WAS AMAZING. genuine beautiful piece of writing. it made me go through all my emotions. i could tell all the thought that went behind that story. you are so awesome!

THANK YOU SO MUCH for all the love and support ಥ﹏ಥ

I'm still learning as a writer but messages like these really keep me motivated<333

[inkpetrichor]

Nasty Dog! | Kuroo Tetsurou x f!reader

10. Last part

masterlist here<3

cw. MDNI. fem! reader. delinquent! reader. use of yn. smoking. cursing. hurt/comfort. fluffyy. suggestive. pls let me know if i missed anything. wc. 6k

You stood frozen.

The silence between you was heavy, suffocating.

You had never seen him lose control before—not smart, composed Kuroo. Not the boy who always knew what to say, who always wore that knowing smirk like armor.

And now, that armor was gone.

Kuroo finally tore his eyes away from the direction Inukai-sensei had disappeared, dragging a shaky hand through his hair.

When he looked at you, it wasn't fury anymore.

It was heartbreak.

"…I'm sorry," he rasped, voice cracking on the words. He took a step forward, but stopped when he saw your shoulders tense.

The aftershocks of everything—the fight, the pictures, Emi's bruised face, Junpei's hands on you, the betrayal, the silence—churned inside you like a storm that refused to pass.

"I didn't know you could look like that," you said, voice low and raw. Not an accusation. Just truth.

Kuroo swallowed hard, like the taste of his own actions made him sick.

"I didn't either," he admitted, brokenly. "Not until I saw him. Not until I thought about what... what he did to you and—God, I was so busy feeling humiliated I didn't even see you."

He looked down at his hands, still flexing unconsciously.

"I'm sorry," he said again. "For all of it."

You didn't answer right away. Just watched him.

Because underneath that apology was something deeper:

A boy who had trusted himself to protect something precious.

And felt like he'd failed.

You crossed your arms, nails digging into your sleeves to ground yourself.

"I should've told you sooner," you murmured. "As soon as it happened. I should've trusted you."

"I should've trusted you," he said immediately, his voice rough. He took another step, then caught himself again. "I should've believed you the second I saw your face in those pictures. That wasn't guilt. That was fear. I thought I needed facts. Evidence. Some clean version of the truth I could understand. But what I needed was to believe you and—fuck, I knew you, and I still didn't listen. I'm sorry."

You finally lifted your gaze to meet his. There was no anger left there now.

Just guilt.

Sadness.

Love.

So much love it hurt to look at.

"I kept wondering why you didn't just tell me," he went on, his voice quieter. "Why you weren't answering my calls. I thought it was about us. That I wasn't enough. That I'd pushed you too far. But the whole time, you were just… surviving this."

He gestured toward the gravel, where Junpei had fallen. Where Hebinuma had stood. All of it.

Your throat tightened.

"I didn't want you to think I was weak," you whispered. "Or that I needed saving."

His head snapped up, eyes fierce.

"Don't," he said, voice breaking. "Don't say that. You're the strongest person I know. And it doesn't make you weak that that piece of shit got to you. That wasn't your fault. You froze. That doesn't make you weak. It makes you human."

He took a step closer. Then another.

"You fight like hell for everyone else. But you carry everything like it's nothing—like it's your job to take the hits and keep walking like it doesn't hurt. And I let you. We all let you. But we shouldn't."

He ran a hand through his hair, gripping it at the roots. "God, I was so fucking stupid," he breathed. "Letting someone else plant doubt in my head when I should've fought for you harder than anyone."

"You're not stupid," you said quietly. "I could've said something. I could've communicated."

Slowly—deliberately—you closed the space between you. Just enough that your fingers brushed.

His breath hitched. Like he hadn't dared hope you'd come closer.

You looked down at his trembling hand, at the faint bruising already forming on his knuckles.

"I wasn't fair to you," he continued, not meeting your gaze. "I wanted to believe you. I did. But I let my pride get in the way. I let what other people might say get in the way. And that hesitation? That's on me."

You nodded slowly. Then looked down, ashamed.

"You weren't the only one who hesitated."

He blinked.

You looked down, ashamed.

"That night," you said. "At the beach. When you asked me to be with you—I pushed you away because I was scared. Scared of needing someone. Of needing you."

You swallowed. "And now I can't help thinking… maybe this all started because of me. Because I didn't say yes when I should've. If I had, maybe Hebinuma wouldn't have—"

"You didn't owe me anything that day," he cut in gently "I didn't ask because I needed a yes. I asked because I wanted you to feel safe choosing me. Because I wanted you to want me. Not cornered. Not guilty. I never wanted to be something you felt trapped in."

You swallowed hard.

"I do feel safe with you," you said, barely above a whisper.

His gaze wavered—then melted.

"And I'm sorry," you went on, stepping closer. "For making you doubt that. For shutting you out. I thought I was protecting myself. But all I did was break both of us."

"I was scared too," he said. "Scared that you still didn't love me like I do you. Scared that you still weren't sure about us. And then when I saw those pictures…" He shut his eyes. "I let them rot in my chest instead of just asking you."

His hand brushed yours again—tentative, asking. And he shook his head softly.

"I'll never do that again. Not if you'll still have me."

You reached for him, fingers curling into the front of his shirt, tugging him close until your forehead rested against his.

"Idiot," you murmured. "You never lost me. I thought I lost you. And it sucked. Just so you know."

He gave a choked laugh—a half-sob wrapped in relief.

"You're the first person I've ever wanted like this," you said, trembling. "For real. And I'm bad at this—at vulnerability and feelings and... everything. It scares the shit out of me. But I'll try. I swear I'll try."

His arms slid around you, slow and careful, like he still wasn't sure if he was allowed to hold you this way—but you curled into his chest instantly.

The warmth of him, the pressure, the smell of sweat and salt and something unmistakably Kuroo, flooded your senses.

His arms wrapped around you a little more sure then, like armor. Like a shield. Like if he held you tight enough, nothing could touch you again.

"I'm here," he whispered. "Whatever pace you need. Whatever you're ready to give—I'll take it."

"I want all of it," you said into his shirt, breathing him in. "I just don't know how to be good at this."

"You don't have to be," he said. "You just have to let me try with you."

You nodded and sighed into him again, feeling his warmth seep into your skin and his lips brush your hair.

For a long moment, you just stood there, breathing each other in, feeling the world tilt back into place one heartbeat at a time.

Kuroo's fingers traced light circles on the back of your hand, and the tension in your chest finally began to ease.

Then, without thinking, you tilted your head up and caught his gaze.

There was something raw and tender in his golden eyes—something unspoken that mirrored the vulnerability you couldn't quite articulate.

He blinked, his breath catching just slightly. For a moment, the world stilled.

His gaze flickered to your lips.

So you kissed him—soft, hesitant at first, a gentle touch that said more than words could. A kiss filled with unspoken apologies, shared fear, and the quiet acknowledgment of how far you'd come.

When you pulled back, only slightly, he followed—like gravity pulled him back to you.

His thumb brushed your cheek.

"I didn't think you'd actually do it," he whispered, voice rough. His ears were flushed pink.

You smiled faintly.

"What? Kiss you? Why wouldn't I?"

His answer was another kiss. His eyes lingered on your mouth before closing the space between you.

But just as your lips met—his phone buzzed loudly in his pocket.

He paused—just barely.

You felt the tension in his lips, his reluctance to pull away. A frustrated sound rumbled low in his throat.

Then, stubborn as ever, he kissed you again anyway—like he could chase away everything else.

The phone buzzed again.

And again.

You smiled against his mouth. "You should probably get that."

He groaned into the kiss, then pulled back with a grumble like a man personally wronged. "Whoever it is has terrible timing."

You giggled as he dug his phone out—then raised your eyebrows at the wince that followed.

"Shit," he muttered, shaking out his hand. "Forgot I punched a wall with this."

"That was a face, not a wall."

"Same texture," he deadpanned.

You snorted. "I'm honestly glad you don't know what punching a wall feels like. Green flag."

The amusement drained from his face the second he looked at the screen.

"Oh no."

"What?"

He turned the phone toward you. The caller ID flashed: Yaku ☠︎︎ (DO NOT IGNORE)

"…You're dead."

He hit accept with the weariness of a condemned man, and the explosion that followed was immediate.

"KUROO DOCOSAHEXAENOIC ACID TETSUROU, IF YOU DON'T GET YOUR ASS TO THE GYM IN THE NEXT FIVE MINUTES I'M GOING TO SHAVE YOUR HEAD MYSELF AND DUCT TAPE YOU TO THE VOLLEYBALL NET—"

Kuroo yanked the phone away from his ear, wincing. You could still hear Yaku's voice shrieking from a distance like a tiny demon had possessed the receiver.

"Yaku," Kuroo said flatly into the mic, "I am literally bleeding for the team."

"FROM YOUR BRAIN, MAYBE! What kind of captain is late to his own practice!? What happened—did you fall down a well!?"

He winced again, flexing his sore hand. "Okay, first of all, rude. Second of all... I had a situation."

"Fix it after practice, dumbass."

Kuroo sighed and glanced at you, reluctant. "Fine. I'm coming. Just… give me five more minutes—"

"TWO MINUTES. IF YOU'RE NOT HERE BY THEN, I'M MAKING YOU RUN LAPS UNTIL YOUR STUPID ROOSTER HAIR FALLS OUT."

Click.

Kuroo stared at the screen like it had betrayed him.

You raised a brow. "So. Practice?"

He groaned. "Apparently I'm the worst captain in Nekoma history."

"You're definitely in the running."

"You're not supposed to agree that fast," he said, but his smile returned—soft, tired, and impossibly fond.

You stepped forward, gently taking his bruised hand in yours. His knuckles were already swelling.

"You should put ice on this."

"I'd rather put my mouth back on you."

"Too bad," you said, lacing your fingers through his. "Go be a good captain."

He groaned again, then leaned down to press one last kiss to your forehead—lingering.

"I'll come see you after."

You nodded, heart fluttering. "I'll be here."

He turned to leave.

But the second his hand slipped from yours, the air felt colder. Your body was still aching from everything that had just happened—your mind, your heart, your ribs where fear had curled like a vice. You didn't want to be alone right now. Not yet. Not with the heaviness still clinging to your chest.

You needed to hear his voice. To feel his warmth a little longer.

You needed him.

"Wait."

He glanced back, brows raised.

"You're not walking into that gym with a busted hand and your pride bleeding out."

He smirked. "Aw. Are you worried about me?"

"Yes," you said simply, holding his gaze. "And I want to make sure your hand doesn't swell up to the size of your ego."

"Oof." He clutched his chest. "That one hurt worse than punching a wall."

You rolled your eyes and started walking.

"Come on, Captain. I'm not letting Yaku murder you until I've iced your hand and guilt-tripped him into letting you live. It's my fault you're late anyway."

He jogged to catch up. "You're coming to practice like this? After everything?"

You shrugged. "Someone's gotta make sure you survive. And someone's gotta warn Kai you're injured so you can skip drills."

"Strategic and sweet," he murmured, brushing his arm against yours as you walked. "I'm playing, though."

"You're not. Not with a busted hand."

"My team needs me, though."

"I need you..." The words slipped out before you could stop them. Your breath caught. "To heal well... n' shit."

You tried not to combust at the way the words had escaped you—but your heart betrayed you, slamming against your ribs.

You could feel his shit-eating grin.

"Shut up," you mumbled.

"I didn't say anything."

"You're thinking it."

"You need me."

You elbowed him lightly.

"Careful!" he whined. "My punching hand!"

You snorted and took it again, cradling it between your palms. "Poor baby."

"That sounded sincere and sarcastic at the same time. Impressive."

You didn't answer, just kept walking beside him, fingers interlocked.

The ache in your chest was still there—what happened, what was almost lost—but for now, with his bruised hand in yours and the warmth of his smile beside you, the storm had finally passed.

The two of you didn't make it all the way inside.

Instead, you found yourselves on the worn stone steps just outside the gym, the amber glow of late afternoon draping over the courtyard like a warm blanket. The door hung open just enough to let the distant rhythm of practice drift through—the soft thud of volleyballs, the squeak of sneakers, the muffled echo of Kai’s voice barking drills.

"Still could've played", he said, gaze flicking toward the gym doors. "Left hand's fine. And I know the drills well enough to run them with my eyes closed."

Kuroo sat beside you, elbow on his knee, injured hand resting in your lap as you pressed a bag of ice to his bruised knuckles. He winced—but didn't pull away.

You shook your head, adjusting the ice. "Don't blame me. The whole team told you to sit this one out. Even your coach."

"I know," he said. His tone was clipped, but not angry—just frustrated with himself.

There was a pause.

Then, more quietly, he added, "I just… hate missing it. Not even the playing part, really. I just like being there. With them."

You looked up.

Kuroo wasn't looking at you. His gaze stayed fixed on the sunlight pooling across the gym doors.

"I love the game," he said slowly. "But it's the people that make it worth it. Reading them. Syncing up with them. Volleyball's all about connection. You lose that, and it doesn't matter how good your jump serve is."

You blinked, surprised at how soft his voice had gone.

"And when you're the captain," he went on, "you're not just trying to play your best. You're trying to hold everyone else together. You make the calls. You take the hits. You carry the tension when it gets tight."

He finally glanced over at you. "Hard to do that from the bench."

You studied him for a moment, then gently shifted the ice pack, brushing his hair back with your free hand.

Your mind jumped to your gang. To Emi, Keniba, Taiga, Inuzuka. At how they looked at you, how they expected you to lead them, to carry the weight, and how Kuroo himself had told you you didn't need to carry all that by yourself.

"I get what you mean." You smiled faintly. "But even captains need people to hold them together sometimes."

His lips quirked, but it wasn't teasing this time. It was tired. Grateful.

"I like it better when I'm the one doing the holding," he murmured.

"You'll get your chance." You kissed his cheek, gently. "After you stop pretending you didn't almost break your wrist."

"Fine," he said with a sigh, relaxing slightly under your touch. "But only because you're good at guilt-tripping me."

"And because your team would've tied you to a bench."

"There's also that." A small silence. "Still. I should be out there playing," he said, quieter now, casting a longing look toward the gym doors.

"You should be out there healing, dumbass."

He smiled at that—small, crooked, and so achingly Kuroo it made your chest squeeze.

"Go easy on me, baby," he rasped, voice still raw from everything. "Pretty sure you hit harder than I do. And Yaku already threw his shoe at me and threatened to shave my pretty hair."

You snorted and shook your head, gently swiping at the dried blood on his knuckles.

"If you don't go bald from yanking on it yourself…"

He tilted his head. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You do that a lot when you're stressed. You run your hands through it and tug like you're trying to rip it out."

Your free hand slipped into his hair, fingers threading gently through the sweat-damp strands. He leaned into the touch without hesitation, eyes fluttering closed like a sun-drunk cat.

You smiled softly, imagining him purring.

"Maybe that's why it's always such a mess."

He opened one eye. "You love my mess of a hair."

"I do," you admitted. "It's hot."

You leaned in, kissed him softly. Then pulled back with a smirk. "Especially when you're rolling off my sheets."

"Oh yeah?" He cracked a smile—slow, lazy, tinged with heat. "Then maybe you'll get a repeat performance tonight."

"Mhm. After the day we've had, I think we've earned it."

You kissed him a little longer, your fingers curling into his hair. But when a distant thud of a volleyball echoed from inside, you flinched, pulling away and returning to your work.

There was a beat of silence. Kuroo's gaze drifted upward, scanning the sky, thoughts clearly elsewhere.

"Never realized I did that… The hair-pulling thing," he muttered eventually. "You clench your jaw when you're stressed," he added after a moment. "Hard. I fear for your molars. Sure you don't have bruxism?"

You huffed a laugh. "Wouldn't be surprised."

For a while, there was nothing but the rustle of trees and the soft thuds of practice inside.

Then, quietly, his fingers turned in yours, curling between them.

"Hey," he said, tone lightening just a little, the edge of a smirk returning. "You gonna kiss it better or what?"

He raised his hand slightly, waggling his fingers.

You gave him a look. "You're such a baby."

Still, you leaned down and pressed a kiss—soft and sincere—to the bruised ridge of his knuckles.

He sucked in a breath, sharp and startled, his whole body stilled.

"You asked for it," you said, mockingly sweet, tapping his cheek.

His ears pinked. "Yeah, but—" He looked away, clearing his throat. "That felt illegal somehow."

You snorted and nudged your shoulder into his.

"By the way," you added innocently, "your punch form? Kinda shit."

He turned to you, affronted. "Excuse me?"

"I'm just saying!" You threw your hands up innocently. "Your footing was off, your hips weren't engaged—you basically punched with your arm alone. That's how you mess up a wrist."

He narrowed his eyes, the corners of his mouth twitching. "Okay, Miss Critique. Should I pull up footage of your volleyball serve?"

You gasped. "Low blow!"

He grinned wickedly, sitting up straighter. "Oh no, I remember it clearly. Last time you tried serving, you mentioned something about killing the ball?"

"The ball started it. And it was one time," you protested, half laughing, half mortified.

"One very memorable time," he teased, voice rich with mischief.

You pouted dramatically. "You're mean."

"And you're dangerous—with sports equipment and your fists," he said, ruffling your hair affectionately.

You tried to bat his hand away, but it was half-hearted. Because even as you bantered, something inside you melted at the way he smiled at you, warm and open, like you were his favorite thing in the world.

You were.

And he was yours.

You leaned into him again, and this time, his arm slid easily around your shoulders. No hesitation.

It didn't fix everything. It didn't erase the bruises or the hurt.

But right now, it was enough.

It was more than enough.

The world outside felt like it was turning a little slower—less sharp, more gentle—as you sat there with Kuroo. The space between you two was no longer filled with the tension of unspoken things. In its place, a warmth had taken root, something soft and steady that didn't need to be explained.

You thought about how it all started. The late-night tutoring sessions, the ridiculous tension, the teasing, the stupid fights. It had begun as something simple—something driven by a combination of curiosity, lust, and your own stubbornness.

But now, sitting with him, feeling the steady beat of his heart against your side, it all felt different. This—this—was more than that.

It wasn't the lust that had pulled you in, or the selfish pride you'd wrapped yourself in. It wasn't the idea of him being your tutor, or even just the sense of needing someone to stand by you.

It was love. Real, undeniable love.

You felt it in the way he reached for your hand, the way his touch wasn't possessive, but comforting. You felt it in his apology for believing in the worst, for seeing the pictures and thinking the worst of you.

You didn't get it. You didn't understand how he could look at the mess you could make of things, how he could see you—really see you—and still choose to love you.

But he did.

And that scared the hell out of you.

You wanted to say something—anything to make it make sense, to make it feel real, but the words were caught in your throat.

You looked down at your joined hands, thumb tracing idle patterns across the edge of his palm.

"I don't get it," you whispered. "How you can still love me after everything. After I pushed you away. After I hurt you."

Kuroo didn't respond right away. When he finally did, his voice was low, certain.

"I don't think it's about getting it. I just know what I feel." He turned your hand in his, linking your fingers together. "I choose to love you, even when you're a pain in my ass. Even when we're standing on shaky ground. And I messed up, too. I should've trusted you the second I saw those pictures—but I didn't. And I'm sorry. For all of it."

Your throat ached.

"You… really forgive me?"

He let out a quiet laugh—not mocking, but soft. Kind.

"There's nothing to forgive. Not really. We both made mistakes. But I'm still here. You're still here. That's what matters."

You smiled, shaky but real.

He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.

"Love's messy," he murmured, "but I think that's what makes it honest."

You didn't answer right away. You just let the words settle, let them echo through you until the fear inside you softened at the edges.

"I think I can handle messy," you whispered, leaning into him again.

He rested his forehead against yours, eyes closed.

"Good," he murmured. "Because I'm not going anywhere. Volleyball's about connection. About knowing your team better than they know themselves."

"I think I get it now," you said, a little shakily. "It's not just on the court, is it?"

Kuroo smiled, something warm flickering in his eyes. "No. It's not."

You glanced up at him, your voice low and sure. "Then we're teammates too, aren't we?"

His grin was soft. "The most important kind."

You nodded, fingers tightening around his. "Then even if we mess up, even if we lose our rhythm… we can figure it out. Together."

He leaned down, pressing a kiss to your temple. "Yeah," he whispered. "That's the point."

And just like that, with your fingers tangled in his and the sunset warming your skin, you felt it—not just love, not just forgiveness, but the quiet, unshakable truth of connection.

The kind that kept a team moving forward.

The kind that kept hearts tethered—no matter how messy the play got.

Kuroo didn't end up getting punished for decking Junpei. Technically, it counted as fighting on school grounds—but Inukai-sensei never reported it. Whether it was because he heard what Junpei had done to you or because he'd always had a soft spot for Kuroo, no one could say. Either way, the incident was quietly swept under the rug.

Hebinuma wasn't as lucky.

Once word got out that she was behind the rumors, more stories started surfacing. People who'd stayed quiet before began to speak up—about whispered lies, fake texts, the kind of manipulations that didn't leave bruises but cut just as deep. The pressure built fast, and eventually, her parents pulled her out. Transferred her to a private school to let her "start fresh."

Kuroo had snorted when he heard the name.

"Nohebi Academy," he muttered, practically spitting the words. "Figures."

You raised an eyebrow. "What's that supposed to mean?"

He just smirked, eyes glinting with something unreadable. "You'll see what I mean when we win preliminaries."

Kuroo was officially welcomed into your gang after Junpei was kicked out for good. There was no debate, no vote—just an unspoken agreement sealed with a few slaps on Kuroo's back and a rare nod from Kenkiba.

As for Junpei, no one even wanted to say his name after what happened in Shibuya.

Kenkiba and Taiga flat-out refused to talk about him. When you told them the full story, both swore they'd kill him if they ever crossed paths again. The only reason they hadn't made good on that promise was Inuzuka.

He still hung around Junpei—barely. Out of obligation, maybe. Habit. Loyalty, twisted and stubborn.

You didn't blame him. Didn't expect him to turn his back on someone who'd once been like a brother. In some quiet, reluctant way, you even respected it.

But you didn't trust him. Not until he came to you one night, jaw clenched, knuckles bruised. Said he'd finally punched Junpei in the face after he started slurring your name through a bottle of cheap whiskey.

He didn't tell you what Junpei said. He didn't have to.

The look on Inuzuka's face said enough—disgust, disappointment, something final. That friendship had an expiration date, and he knew it.

And that, somehow, made you happy. Inuzuka deserved better.

Emi got a long suspension, but her parents didn't give her too much trouble—not after they heard the whole story.

Besides, they were far more unsettled by the scruffy delinquent who started showing up at their doorstep every day, claiming he was just there to "check in on their daughter". He lounged on their porch like a stray dog, scarred knuckles and all, yet somehow managed to be stupidly polite—always bowing, always thanking them, always offering to help carry groceries or wash dishes, always blushed.

Kuroo got to work on your grades like a man on a mission, determined not to let Inukai-sensei's kindness go to waste.

You met his grandparents and his dad not long after. They welcomed you in with open arms and open hearts—so sweet, so effortlessly kind, it almost made you uncomfortable at first. You weren't used to that kind of softness. That kind of steady, family warmth.

But you adjusted. And before you knew it, you were spending nearly every afternoon in Kuroo's house—studying hard and falling even harder in love with him.

Your dad started watching volleyball.

It was kind of hilarious—watching him fumble through conversations with Kuroo armed with only the rough basics he'd picked up from late-night YouTube searches. But he tried. And that effort meant something.

Kuroo, for his part, was a saint about it. Patient and kind, walking your dad through the rules with that nerdy, excited sparkle in his eyes he got when he was talking about volleyball. They even watched a few matches on your living room TV, Kuroo explaining plays like a commentator while your dad listened, genuinely interested, even if he didn't fully understand.

He even showed up to one of Nekoma's preliminary matches.

You didn't expect it, and neither did Kuroo—his eyes went wide when he spotted you two in the gallery. You were screaming your lungs out; your dad was... nodding solemnly each time Kuroo scored a point.

Not Nekoma. Just Kuroo.

You were terrified the exams might absolutely wreck you—but to your surprise, the knowledge was all there. Tucked neatly in your brain, maybe wedged somewhere between steamy memories and smug smirks, but still there.

Kuroo had figured out pretty early on that he could basically Pavlov you into memorizing anything if he paired it with the right... incentives. And once he realized that? Oh, he milked it. Relentlessly.

Not that you were complaining. It worked—for both of you. And really, who could blame him?

He's only human.

You nearly cried when you saw the scores.

Not because you doubted yourself—maybe a little—but because for the first time in your life, you'd worked this hard for something that wasn't survival. And you'd made it.

You'd made it because someone had believed in you. Stubbornly. Quietly. Completely.

Even when you didn't.

Kuroo had drilled concepts into your brain with the same focus he used to break down blocking rotations. He'd whispered definitions between kisses, rewarded correct answers with the softest "attagirl" and mapped out study plans across your bedroom wall like tactical war tables.

And god, you loved him for it.

For his patience, his persistence.

For every flashcard and quiz.

For every time he looked at you like you weren't just capable—you were worth it.

So when Inukai-sensei handed you that folded paper with a small, proud nod, you didn't wait. You ran—out of the classroom, down the hall, past the vending machines where Taiga was flirting with a confused second year—straight to the one place you knew he'd be.

The gym.

And in the gym, unaware of your march towards him, Kuroo stood near the sidelines with Sawamura Daichi next to him, arms loosely crossed, posture relaxed but gaze sharp.

"You guys have really leveled up," Kuroo said, that familiar spark in his eyes—the strategist at work. "You're reading each other better. It's showing."

Daichi chuckled. "Still a long way to go, but... we're figuring it out."

Kenma tugged lightly at Kuroo's sleeve, eyes still on his phone. "Kuro."

"Give me a sec, Kenma," he murmured. Still watching. Still calculating.

The gym doors creaked open behind them.

"Kuro." Kenma spoke again, a little louder this time, with a little more urgency. "Y/N is here."

Kuroo stilled. Just for a second.

"What?" he said—quieter than before, but with a sudden edge. "Why?"

Kenma shrugged without looking up. "Said she needed to see you. I told her to wait. But you know how she is."

Before Kuroo could react, a familiar voice echoed across the gym.

"Tetsurou~"

Every head turned.

You said his name with that same, shameless sweetness that always made his spine straighten.

Like you owned him.

Like you knew you did.

The effect was instantaneous.

Kuroo's posture stiffened—not panicked, not embarrassed. Braced.

Across the court, Karasuno's lineup froze mid-drill.

"Wait, who is that?" Tanaka hissed, ready to die on the spot, elbowing Tora. "Did... Did Nekoma get a manager?"

Tora snorted. "Nah. That's Kuroo's girlfriend."

It hit like a lightning bolt.

Hinata gasped out loud. Sugawara fumbled a toss. Asahi dropped a ball with a quiet, panicked "Seriously?!"

Even Tsukishima blinked. Twice.

They weren't just thrown because Kuroo had, in fact, a girlfriend—Tokyo kids were weirdly open, sure—It was how he responded to her.

Kuroo Tetsurou—captain, tactician, master of cool detachment—was walking across the court like nothing else existed. Eyes on you. Steps sure. Expression unreadable, save for the faint curve of a smile that only you could pull from him.

And you? You looked like you owned the place. Confident grin, school uniform rumpled just enough to break a few rules, eyes only for him—You didn't exactly look like anyone's idea of a polite, demure girlfriend.

You met him halfway with that cocky, careless grin. The one that always meant trouble.

"Sorry," you said, voice soft enough just for him. "Am I embarrassing you?"

He raised a brow, cool and unshaken—but the faint pink at his ears betrayed him.

"Nah," he murmured. "Not yet. You planning to?"

"Still figuring it out."

He laughed, quiet and warm—the kind of laugh you could feel in your chest.

"How's Emi?"

You shrugged. "Miss Suspended is bored out of her mind. But Kenkiba's been keeping her company."

Kuroo raised a brow. "Wait. Really?"

You gave him a wicked grin. "I know, right?"

That made him snort. "Damn. I owe Taiga a thousand yen."

You pulled out the folded sheet of paper from your bag like it was a winning lottery ticket.

"Inukai-sensei gave me my grades early."

His eyes lit up immediately. "And?"

You unfolded it with a dramatic flourish.

The numbers were beautiful—nearly perfect.

You could see his smile grow the more he read, pure pride spread across his face. And then he grabbed you—arms firm around your waist, spinning you before you could protest.

He kissed your cheeks once, twice, three times in quick succession, like he couldn't help himself.

Karasuno collectively short-circuited.

Yaku hurled a ball.

"PDA!"

Kuroo deflected it lazily with one hand, not even breaking eye contact.

"Congratulations," he whispered, still holding you close. "I knew you could do it."

You cupped his cheek, fingers brushing gently over the skin just below his eye.

"I couldn't have done it without you."

There was a pause. You leaned in, lips brushing his ear.

"I was thinking we could celebrate tonight."

Kuroo's breath caught. He blinked, ears turning crimson.

Behind him, Karasuno practically vibrated.

They couldn't hear you, but the sight of Kuroo Tetsurou blushing was too good to look away from. Even Daichi's brows were creeping toward his hairline.

Kuroo cleared his throat. "Later. This is Karasuno."

You peeked past his shoulder.

"So these are the rivals." you mused, tone amused and slightly dangerous.

The way you looked them over—confident, appraising—made even Tsukishima shift his weight under your gaze.

"Which one's the smurf Kenma's got a crush on?"

"Don't say that in front of him."

"Why? It's cute."

Kuroo didn't answer. Just smiled and shook his head.

"Practice matches usually go long with them."

You shrugged. "I'll be celebrating at the karaoke with the gang. Shoot me a text when you're done, no matter how late. I want to be with you tonight."

No teasing this time. Just truth.

He blinked. Heart skipping.

"My grandma promised you strawberry daifukus if you passed."

Your eyes lit up. "That's true! Oh my god, I love your grandma."

"And she loves you," Kuroo said without hesitation.

You rose up on your toes and kissed his lips—a lingering, affectionate touch.

The whole gym combusted in silent, stunned horror.

Yaku, red-faced, hurled another volleyball at you.

"PDA!"

You lazily slapped it aside and flipped him off with two fingers before sauntering out, leaving chaos in your wake. Kuroo watched you go, smiling like a man who'd just found his whole heart again.

The gym was dead silent for a beat.

"...So Kuroo's girl is a delinquent," Tanaka whispered.

"And terrifyingly pretty," Noya echoed, dumbfounded.

"How the hell did that happen?" Daichi muttered.

Kuroo scratched the back of his neck, the barest hint of a smirk returning to his lips.

"Long story."

Then, sharp again, clapping twice:

"Alright. Warm-ups done? Let's run this."

But as he turned back toward the court, heart still humming from the weight of your kiss, the real story played out behind his eyes.

Yeah. It was a long one.

A dumb one. A good one.

It hadn't been clean. It hadn't been easy.

It started with bad grades and worse intentions—stolen glances across messy desks, half-truths traded for tutoring sessions, and the slow, inevitable pull of something neither of you had really planned for.

With a girl who acted like she didn't need anyone and a boy who made a habit of seeing through defenses.

It had hurt.

And it had healed.

And even knowing everything he knew now—every misstep, every heartbreak, every moment when he thought maybe he'd lost you—he would still do it all again.

Exactly the same.

Kuroo let out a breath, long and full.

The gym was loud again, the drills resuming.

And meanwhile—miles away—you threw your head back, laughing breathlessly into the mic as you butchered the first opening of Bleach at full volume. The booth shook with noise—your gang yelling the wrong lyrics, Emi clinging to you like you were her personal teddy bear, faces flushed from pride and excitement and one too many Asahi super dry's.

You felt your heart fill up with joy as Emi planted a drunken kiss on your cheek.

You hugged her tighter, heart full in a way you didn't always trust but tonight, let yourself believe in.

You made it.

Maybe not cleanly.

Maybe not the way everyone else did—with perfect grades, nice families and easy smiles—but you were still here. Still laughing. Still surrounded by people who chose you, scars and all.

You looked around at all of them—Kenkiba howling with laughter with Inuzuka under his arm and a cig between his fingers, Taiga trying to rap the wrong verse, Emi grinning so wide it made your chest hurt—and you thought about him too.

Tetsurou.

Giving his all on the volleyball court.

You couldn't have gotten here without them.

Without Emi, dragging you out of bed when the world got heavy.

Without Kuroo, seeing more in you than just a lost cause with a pretty face.

You owed it to them.

You owed it to yourself.

Your phone buzzed against your hip.

You fished it out with one hand, mic still clutched in the other.

Tetsu<3: Done. Where are you?

You grinned and texted back immediately:

: Karaoke. Come find me, smart boy<3

You slipped your phone away just as the chorus came back around, shouting the lyrics at the top of your lungs with your friends.

And for the first time in a long time, you believed it.

You were happy.

You were here.

And you weren't letting go.

an. and just like that… nasty dog wednesdays are over. thank you so much for all the love this series got. i never expected all the love it got—and every single comment, reblog, and unhinged reaction made my whole week. you guys made this so special. i'm still learning, still growing as a writer, and this series taught me a lot. thank you for sticking with me through the chaos, the pain, the horny, the healing, the everything. please continue to support my series—there's more chaos (and emotional damage) coming soon. until then, thank you for being here. thank you for reading. from the bottom of my messy little heart: i love y'all, see you soon (つ╥﹏╥)つ tags. @themoreeviltwin @taylordenae @rhea-sylvea @iluvikeu @tgnvhp @adangerousbalance @orphicarchive @tammytaamm @iluvmusicxoxo @rvm1ne @kuzoq @espressocandies @ashley95943734 @jayathelostdragon @kyokoyya @crystal-lilac @kuzuven0208 @lblackwood @evilari111 @chaoticotaku @uekarashi @talia-the-gemini

[inkpetrichor]

Nasty Dog! | Kuroo Tetsurou x f!reader

9.- Part nine

masterlist here<3

cw. MDNI. fem! reader. delinquent! reader. use of yn. smoking. cursing. angst. hurt/comfort. TW. dead dove: do not eat. sa/unwanted physical contact (non-consensual kissing). mentions of suicide and sh (past). dissociation (trauma response). emotionally intense arguments. cyberbullying. gossip. malicious photo sharing. violence. pls let me know if i missed anything. wc. 6k an. sooo i hesitated a lot on this one. this chapter is a little heavier. it contains intense and potentially triggering content, and while i worked hard to handle it with care and respect, please take the content warnings seriously. they're there for a reason. if you're not in the right headspace, if anything listed might hit too close—please don't push through just for the story. take care of yourself first. the chapter will always be here when and if you're ready. i trust you, my beloved readers, to approach it with the emotional maturity and self-awareness i know you have. i know you're not minors. i know you're thoughtful, empathetic people. and i appreciate you more than you know. so thank you—for being here, for reading, for caring. i love you. please be gentle with yourselves<3

Shibuya felt wrong that night.

Too quiet.

Or maybe it was just your panic, drowning out the chaos of the city.

Even the noise of cars and neon signs seemed muffled beneath the storm in your head.

When you got to the place, something in your gut twisted.

Off.

Rotten.

The streetlight above buzzed like a dying insect, casting sickly yellow light onto the damp concrete. The alley smelled of rust and old piss, and your shoes stuck slightly with every step, like even the ground itself didn't want you there.

Junpei leaned against the wall, hoodie up, his face half-sliced by shadow.

No Emi.

Just him.

The orange streetlamp carved hard lines across his cheekbones, but his eyes stayed buried in the dark.

You stopped dead in your tracks. Every nerve in your body fired at once.

"Where is she?" you asked, voice sharp and cold.

He looked up slowly. "She's not here."

Your pulse stumbled, then picked up at 100 per hour.

"...What?"

"I lied."

His voice was almost casual. He gave a small, sheepish smile like this was some petty misunderstanding.

"I just... I needed to see you."

Silence. Then a breath that came out too shaken.

"You said she was going to hurt herself."

"I had to get you here," he said like it was the most reasonable thing in the world. "You wouldn't have come if I told the truth."

Your blood ran ice-cold. Something ancient and primal surged up your spine.

The good old fight and flight.

But before you could move, he kept talking.

"I think about you all the time. I see you with that guy and it—it drives me crazy. You're not supposed to be with him. You're mine. You always were."

You took a step back, throat dry.

"You're a fucking psycho."

He stepped forward—and his hand shot out, closing around your wrist.

"I love you," he said. Like that explained anything. Like it was some kind of blessing. Like it was a reason.

Then he yanked you toward him.

His mouth crashed into yours.

Sloppy. Forceful. Wrong.

You froze. Your mind shut down.

You weren't in your body anymore. It was like watching through fogged glass.

Then his other hand gripped your waist, then slid—lower, insistent.

And with that—the glass shattered, and your body was yours once again.

Your knee came up in a second. Hard into his stomach.

He let out a choked grunt, doubling over—but you didn't stop.

You punched him once, then twice—fury guiding your fists before the pain even registered in your already injured hand. The sting only hit on the third swing, throbbing through your knuckles.

But that didn't matter.

And neither did his groans as he hit the pavement.

You stood over him, chest heaving and adrenaline shaking your limbs.

"Don't ever fucking touch me again," you spat, wiping the back of your hand across your lips like you could scrub him off.

He didn't move.

But that didn't matter.

You didn't remember the train ride home. Or if you even took it. Didn't remember the streets you cut through. Or unlocking the front door.

Just the sound of your lungs burning. The numbness in your legs. The way your skin crawled like it was trying to peel itself off your bones.

It felt unreal. Like a nightmare.

Like maybe it didn't happen. Like maybe you imagined it.

But when you kneeled on the floor of the shower and let the scalding water pour over your back—when you scrubbed and scrubbed until your skin stung raw—you knew the truth:

You didn't imagine it.

You couldn't erase it.

You couldn't scrub him out. Burn him out. You couldn't speak it aloud.

You tried—you tried to call Kuroo.

But your thumb hovered over his name for too long—imagining his voice. Imagining the way he'd say your name—soft and scared—and something in you fractured.

You couldn't handle the way he'd ask if you were okay. Not when you weren't. You couldn't deal with his voice right now—not the concern, not the gentleness.

So you didn't call him.

Didn't answer the texts that kept piling up.

Didn't open the one that just said, "I'm worried about you. Please say something."

Instead, you curled into your bed, knees tucked tight to your chest, and smoked until your lungs ached and your fingers trembled and the pack was empty.

It didn't help.

The ache behind your ribs didn't fade.

You sat in the haze until the air turned thick with smoke. Until the quiet became unbearable. Until the acid in your chest began whispering lies in your own voice.

Until the shame didn't just sink into your bones—

It became them.

You woke up to the smell of ash and the taste of old smoke in your mouth.

Your throat was dry. Your skin felt tight. Your limbs were too heavy to move like your bones had been replaced with concrete in the night.

You laid there, staring at the ceiling, trying to remember what it felt like—yesterday. The morning before, when you woke up next to Kuroo and everything felt perfect. When you felt happy and full and finally safe.

His breath soft against your neck. His voice still sleep-heavy as he whispered your name.

That morning felt… warm.

Now the sheets were cold. The silence too.

No warmth pressed against your back. No lazy arm slung over your waist.

No heartbeat beneath your ear.

Just you.

Alone.

You showered again. Not because you thought it would help, but because your body needed something to do.

But the water didn't burn this time. You didn't scrub like before.

The weight inside your chest seemed quieter, but not gone.

You felt a little less shocked, a little stronger.

Still, the walk to school felt like something someone else was doing.

Your limbs moved, but you didn't remember telling them to. Your shoes struck the pavement in soft, disconnected thuds. The city was wide awake, but none of it felt real.

You didn't even register arriving at Nekoma's gates—until everything around you shifted.

It started subtle. A shift in the air pressure—stares, side-eyes, a sudden hush that trailed behind you like smoke—sticky, inescapable, impossible to ignore.

And then the whispers.

"Isn't that the girl from the pictures?"

"Wasn't she dating the volleyball captain?"

"Did she really hook up with Ookami Junpei?"

"Apparently they used to be a thing."

Your heart dropped like a stone into a frozen lake.

Pictures?

Your phone buzzed in your pocket. Once. Twice. Again. A steady pulse of notifications—sharp, demanding, merciless.

You didn't check. Couldn't. Whatever waited on that screen would scrape you raw from the inside out, and there wasn't much left to cut through.

And then—

"Kuroo's looking for you."

The voice barely registered. Familiar, maybe. Yaku? Kenma? It didn't matter. It sounded far away, like someone was shouting through water.

Your limbs grew heavy. The spring air clung to you, too thick, too cold. You were still wearing yesterday's bruises, even if no one could see them.

Every second stretched, unbearable. Until you felt him.

Not saw—felt.

The unmistakable force of him—barreling toward you like a loaded gun with no safety.

Kuroo.

"Y/N."

Your head snapped up.

And there he was. A storm system making landfall, jaw clenched so tight you could see the muscles ticking beneath his skin. His fists were balled at his sides, knuckles white.

And his eyes—God, his eyes— They burned. They weren't just angry. They were wrecked. A wildfire of betrayal and grief burning behind them with nowhere to go.

"Is it true?" he rasped.

His voice sounded raw, like he'd been screaming somewhere else already, somewhere you couldn't see, long before he found you.

It hit harder than any punch.

You felt everything all at once—

Kuroo. Tutoring. Class 5. The beach. Takoyakis your dad bought. Rumors. Emi. Shibuya. A mouth that didn't belong. Water too hot. Skin too raw.

The school gates yawned behind you like the maw of something ancient, waiting to swallow you whole.

"Is it?!"

His voice cracked across the courtyard, slicing it in half.

Some students flinched. Others stared. But most slipped past, sensing the detonation and giving it distance. Soon, it was just you and him.

You stood frozen in the eye of the storm.

"I saw the pictures." His voice was quieter this time, still hurt—but sharp. Like glass underfoot.

You looked away. Couldn't look at him. Not when he was looking at you like that.

"Please tell me you didn't fuck him," he whispered.

The world tilted.

"I didn't." Your voice barely existed. It came out like smoke from a dying flame. It wasn't enough. Would never be enough.

"So you didn't do anything?" he pressed. His voice spiraled, unraveling at the seams. "Nothing?"

You shook your head.

"What about before?" he asked, lower now. "Before we met. Before the tutoring."

Your breath caught—then froze.

And you watched the moment it broke him.

His fingers dug into his hair, yanking like he could tear the thoughts from his skull. Your silence said more than anything you could've uttered.

"Fuck," he hissed, pacing back. Hands dragged down his face. "Fuck. I'm an idiot. I'm a fucking idiot. No wonder you weren't picking up last night."

"Tetsurou—" your voice trembled. "I didn't cheat on you."

"Then what the hell were you doing there?! With him?!"

He whipped around, the sound of his voice so sharp—so hurt—it left invisible gashes down your spine.

The images in his mind were killing him. Junpei's hands. Junpei's mouth. Your silence.

You saw the poison eating him alive. And you had no antidote.

You wanted to tell him. God, you did.

But—

"I… I can't tell you."

His whole body stilled.

"What?"

"I can't tell you," you said again, firmer. "It's not my secret to tell. I want to explain—I do. But I can't. I'm asking you to trust me."

A beat of silence.

And then something in him… cooled. Not calmed. Hardened. Like steel cooling too fast.

"I can't."

You felt something crack under your ribs.

"What?"

"I can't," he said again. Quiet. And somehow, that hurt more than yelling. "I tried, Y/N. I really did. But there's just—there's too many holes. Too much evidence. Too many things you didn't say."

He rubbed his face, exhausted.

"You already broke my heart. The beach. Now this... I can't let you do it again—not a third time. I need to get away from you."

He didn't look angry anymore. He looked tired. Hollow.

"Tetsurou, I didn't fucking cheat on you," you choked out again, voice catching on splinters.

He flinched just slightly. Like your voice physically burned him.

He wanted to pull you in. To believe.

But when he looked at you—all he saw were the fucking pictures.

His mouth twisted. For a second, you thought he was about to say something cruel, something meant to hurt. His expression wavered between rage and devastation.

But then he exhaled again, lower this time, trembling.

And barely above a whisper—so quiet it cracked—he muttered:

"I need space. I can't even look at you right now."

The world stopped turning. The noise faded. The people. The school. Everything. Only him. Only you.

And the crumbling space between you where everything good had lived and died.

He meant it as mercy. As a 'I don't want to say something I'll regret.'

But in the moment, that intention didn't really land.

You stared at him. At the boy who once kissed you like he saw your soul. Who held your hand like it meant something sacred.

Now he couldn't even look at you.

And you? You couldn't even cry. Not properly, at least. Your body was too used to swallowing it down.

The ache inside your chest curdled, hardened, and twisted itself into something sharper. Something easier to carry than grief.

Hurt turned to fury. Anger calcified into armor.

"You know what?" you whispered, voice brittle. "Fuck you."

Kuroo's head snapped back to you, eyes wide.

"Excuse me?"

"Yeah. Fuck you. Go ahead. Believe the pictures. Believe whatever you want." Your voice shook, but didn't falter. "I'm a cheater and slut. I'm too much work... I already broke your heart, didn't I? Then leave me."

Every word felt like a bleeding wound. You didn't mean them. You didn't like the knives you were throwing.

But they were the only weapons you had left.

"I have enough shit to deal with already. If you can't trust me... then fuck you."

Silence.

Not stunned. Not even angry.

Just... sad.

He didn't argue. Didn't fight back. He just stood there, breathing like it hurt, like every word you spoke made it worse—and yet still, somehow, he couldn't deny any of it.

The unfairness sat in your chest like a boulder, immovable and cold.

You wanted to punch something. Scream until your throat bled.

But instead, you hid.

You turned. Walked fast—past the gate, across the grounds, to the corner of the school that always felt safest.

Kuroo let out a breath and turned to leave—when he saw her.

Emi.

Leaning against the wall just out of sight, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Her eyes were hollow—like the light behind them had been long gone.

She'd been there the whole time. Watching. Listening. Invisible.

She didn't look surprised. She didn't even look mad. Just tired.

Like this whole little dance between you two was boring her and hurting her at the same time.

Kuroo barely spared her a glance, a half-lidded look that slid past her like water. He kept walking.

And then—

"It's not true," she said, voice as calm as the smoke she was inhaling. She exhaled through her nose, the faint trail curling upward. Her eyes met his without hesitation.

He half-turned, jaw still tight. "Were you there?"

Her brow arched. She shook her head and took a slow drag.

"Then how do you know?"

"Because I know her," Emi said simply. "I thought you did, too."

That one hit deeper than he expected. His eyes narrowed, but something in his face twitched—like he'd been stabbed in the ribs but was too proud to flinch.

"Do you know what she was doing there, then?"

Emi squinted, tilting her head just slightly.

"I might."

He took a step forward, voice low. "Are you gonna tell me?"

She snorted. "Why do I always gotta do the dirty work for you two? I'm out here carrying the damn plot. How about you actually talk to each other for once?"

Kuroo huffed and turned again, footsteps sharp against the concrete.

And then—

"I tried to kill myself."

Sharp like a blade. Soft like a kiss.

He stopped in his tracks.

Emi stepped forward, already pulling out another cigarette like it was armor. She lit it with practiced ease, took a drag, held it in.

When she spoke again, her voice was flat. No sass. No bite. Like she'd hollowed herself to get the words out.

"In junior high."

Kuroo turned back slowly.

Emi rolled up her sleeve.

No flourish. No drama. Just a quiet, deliberate motion.

And there it was.

A scar. One long, brutal line that etched down her forearm and curved around it like a memory too jagged to ever smooth over.

Kuroo winced when he saw it. It physically hurt to look at.

"We went to the same junior high. Y/N and me. Hebinuma too," she began, voice low, like it cost her something. "Y/N transferred in a little late. By then Hebinuma already had her little kingdom. Rumors, isolation, backstabbing—standard queen bee shit."

Emi's gaze drifted skyward, her expression distant, like she was searching the clouds for a version of herself that never made it out of those years.

"I never even knew what I did to deserve it. One day, I just had a target on my back."

Her voice cracked faintly. Not enough to break—but enough to show it still lived under her skin.

You knew she still asked herself that question in the dark.

"But that doesn't matter. What matters is, one day, I broke a mirror and tried to end it."

She didn't flinch as she said it. Didn't rush. Just let it hang.

And then looked him dead in the eye.

"She has the pictures," she said, nodding faintly. Maybe to him. Maybe to herself. "Yeah. From the hospital. And whenever she remembers I exist, she comes back to remind me how easily she could spread them around. Just like she did with those photos of Y/N."

Kuroo's body locked up. Every part of him tensed. His fists clenched at his sides, jaw ticking hard enough to ache.

"We've made her delete them a hundred times. But she keeps backups. Always. Like it turns her on—knowing she can ruin me whenever she wants. That's the kind of bitch she is."

Emi flicked the ash off the end of her cigarette with a hard snap.

"My theory? Junpei probably called Y/N last night and told her I was gonna do something stupid. So of course she ran. Didn't ask. Didn't think twice. Because that's the kind of hot-headed, loyal idiot she is."

A strange kind of fondness edged into a smirk. Something caught between exasperation and admiration. Grudging, protective. Almost proud.

"Then Junpei kissed her—probably just for a second. Long enough to throw her off. Long enough for Hebinuma to get the shot."

She glanced back at him, her gaze sharpening. Her voice dropped.

"And she's good with a camera, you know? Real good. She doesn't need truth. She just needs a good angle."

Her eyes narrowed, deadly calm.

"And people believe her. Always. She could ruin my family with those hospital pics. Just a few lies in the right place and—bam. CPS, scandal, cops. That's how much power she has," Emi muttered, jaw clenched. "Or I don't know. Maybe that's just how fucking terrified I am of her."

She rolled her sleeve back down, the motion careful. Like she was tucking away a confession too sharp to keep showing.

"There. That's the story. Y/N didn't say anything because she wouldn't throw me under the bus to clear her own name—'cause she's stupid like that. So yeah. Now you know. Straight from the source."

She took a long drag. Crushed the butt under her heel with finality.

"You do whatever you want with that information."

Kuroo didn't speak.

He just stood there—stone still, jaw slack, hands flexing uselessly at his sides. Like every word she'd said had short-circuited him.

Then, finally, he breathed.

Ragged. Gutted.

He dragged both hands down his face, hard enough to leave red streaks, then shoved them into his hair and gripped hard—like he needed pain to focus.

"I… I need a second," he managed at last, voice wrecked and low. "I need to think."

Emi shrugged. "Yeah. You do that."

She didn't say it cruelly. Just tired.

"You talk to her or you don't," she added. "But this whole thing where you two run in circles and bleed for it? It's getting old tbh."

And then she stepped away from the wall, exhaling long and slow, and walked past him—past the gates to go find the gang.

You were sitting on the floor in your little hidden spot—knees to your chest, face buried in the soft fabric of your jacket. You weren't crying, not really. But every few seconds, a tremor ran down your spine like your body wanted to sob but your mind refused to let it.

You waited.

Waited for the hurt to fade. For the anger to settle.

Waited for Kuroo.

Because you knew he'd come.

But the hurt didn't fade. The anger didn't settle.

Instead, the silence swallowed you whole.

You sat there all day—back against the brick wall, eyes on nothing. The afternoon heat clung to your skin, but you didn't move. Didn't cry. Barely breathed.

At some point, our hands stopped trembling. The sting in your chest dulled to a bitter throb, then went cold.

And by the time the sun started to dip low, the version of you who had broken down the night before was long gone.

She'd been replaced by the one you knew how to be.

The angry one. The survivor.

Footsteps crunched across the gravel in front of you.

You didn't flinch. Didn't even look up.

"Took you long enough," you muttered flatly.

Kuroo's voice came out hoarse. Tight. "Had some shit to figure out."

"Yeah. Guess we both did."

Silence. Thin, barbed-wire silence.

Then—

"Emi told me of what happened in junior high."

Your head snapped up at him, eyes wide.

"She said you wouldn't tell me. Said that was the reason you were in Shibuya last night. Why didn't you just—"

"I was protecting Emi," you snapped. "Her secret."

Kuroo scoffed. Dry. Bitter. "Yeah? And where does protecting me fit into that? You know what it looks like? I look like a fool and a cuck to the entire school."

You surged to your feet, heat roaring in your chest.

"You think I wanted any of this?" Your voice rose and trembled, but you didn't back down. "You think I enjoyed getting fucking manhandled and photographed like some piece of meat?!"

His eyes met yours—dark and stormy. Pain flared behind them, not just his but yours too.

"Then why didn't you tell me?" he asked again, quieter now, like he was begging. "Why didn't you trust me?"

You laughed. A dry, hollow sound.

"Please. Like you trusted me the second you saw those photos? You looked at me like I was poison. Like I was already guilty."

He flinched.

"Maybe I should've told you," you said. "But I was scared."

He opened his mouth, paused, then dragged a hand through his hair—rough, frustrated, the strands sticking out in every direction.

"Scared of what?" he asked finally. "Of me?"

"No, idiot!" you yelled, voice breaking. "Of losing you! Of you looking at me like I was broken! Like I was disgusting! Like I wasn't worth fighting for anymore."

You wiped your eyes furiously with the back of your hand, hard enough to sting.

"And congrats," you spat. "You made sure of that real quick."

"That's not fucking fair," he snapped. "You're acting like you didn't give me every reason to doubt you."

"Oh, I'm sorry," you snarled, laughing darkly. "Was getting assaulted supposed to come with a fucking heads-up?"

Kuroo's eyes narrowed, stepping closer.

"That's not what I'm talking about."

You glared at him, daring him.

"You could've told me about him that night at my house. When I asked. Could've told me about Emi," he said. "You hid shit from me over and over. And now I'm the asshole because I hesitated for five seconds after someone handed me proof?"

Your fists curled so tight your nails bit into your palms.

"That wasn't proof. It was a setup. A fucking ambush."

Guilt twisted his face, but anger didn't leave either.

"You made it impossible to trust you!" he snapped. "You put walls around everything that mattered and then got pissed when I couldn't guess what was inside. Made it a goddamn puzzle I wasn't allowed to solve."

You stepped in close, face inches from his.

"Oh, poor you," you seethed. "Did I ruin your fantasy? Was I supposed to wrap myself up with a bow and hand you all the ugly pieces so you could decide if I was still worth it? Show you how fucking imperfect I was so you could come in and fix me? 'Bad girl fixed by the nice nerd guy,' Perfect fucking story, right?"

His jaw tightened, breath sharp. "I didn't want to fix you. I just wanted you to be honest."

"I was trying," you whispered. "I really was. But the second you had to choose to believe me, even if it was hard, the second it stopped being cute—you dipped."

He didn't respond. Couldn't.

"I didn't tell you about Emi because it wasn't my secret to tell. And because she nearly died, and I wasn't there. I couldn't protect her. And I still feel like shit for it."

His face flickered—guilt and shame crawling behind his eyes.

But you didn't stop.

"And you…" You inhaled sharply. "You're mad because of your reputation? Because people think you got cheated on? Is that what matters most to you?"

Kuroo's jaw clenched, but he didn't deny it. Didn't correct you.

"And you looked at me like that," you added, and your voice broke on the last word. "Like I was dirty."

You swallowed hard.

"And I feel dirty. I do. That fucker… he…" your breath hitched, the words came trembling, brittle. "All these punches—and for what? I couldn't even..."

Your eyes dropped to your hands like you resented them. Fists that had flown a hundred times in a hundred fights. That had drawn blood, broken noses.

All the fights. All that training with your dad.

Useless, when it mattered most.

You were the one who always hit first. Who protected everyone else.

But in the end—

You couldn't even protect yourself.

Kuroo's face collapsed. All the anger fell out of him in one breathless second. Guilt replacing it as it swept over him like a tidal wave.

Like he was only now, finally, realizing what those pictures actually meant. What had really happened.

And that he'd believed the camera instead of you.

You saw it hit him. Hard. His eyes widened slightly, like he was seeing it now—truly seeing it—for the first time.

Not the rumor.

Not the picture.

You.

His girlfriend.

The girl who was looking at her hands like they betrayed her.

"Y/N—" he rasped.

He reached for you, but when his fingers brushed your elbow you shoved it off, stepping back without looking at him.

"Don't." You pulled away. "It doesn't fucking matter anymore. It wasn't a big deal. I don't care."

"You do, though."

You glared at him, jaw tight. "You don't get to tell me how I feel."

"I'm not," Kuroo said, voice rough. "But I know very well what it looks like when you're trying not to feel."

You scoffed and turned away, arms crossed so tight they ached.

"And stop doing that too," he said sharply.

You blinked. "Doing what?"

"That," he snapped. "Pushing it down. Acting like it didn't fucking happen."

Your spine straightened.

"I'm fine."

"No, you're not."

The silence that followed bristled with static.

He stepped closer again. Not enough to touch, but enough for you to feel the weight of him.

"You're doing that thing," he continued, voice low, gentler. "Where you take something that should destroy you and just... shove it into some box and pretend it didn't hurt."

His tone wasn't accusing anymore. It was something softer. Something scared.

"And maybe that's how you survive, I get it. But it's not the same as healing. And if you keep doing it one day it's gonna eat you alive. One day you'll snap, and no one—including you—will understand why."

You looked at him then. Really looked. And for a second, your guard slipped.

Just a crack.

"Then what the fuck do I do?!" You stared at him. Your breath was shaky. "I'm... I don't know how to talk about this shit! I'm so used to swallowing it I forget there's another fucking option!”

He blinked, startled by the admission.

"You cry! Stop locking it up like it doesn't deserve air! Just—fuck—scream if you have to! Just don't shut down like this..."

There was a moment of silence. You exhaled, shaky and slow.

"You know what? Worst part is you're acually right."

Kuroo's face softened. But you didn't let it stay that way.

"But don't think that means I forgive you," you added quickly. "Because I don't. Not yet."

He nodded slowly, voice low. "I don't expect you to."

You turned your face away, arms still crossed, chest still aching—but lighter somehow.

You didn't know how long you stood there, breathing hard in the silence between you two.

The words hung between you like smoke—raw, half-said, unsatisfying.

You could still feel the shape of his hands in the air where they'd almost held you. The anger hadn't gone. The hurt hadn't either.

But under it, something softer stirred. Not forgiveness—not yet.

But something closer to understanding. Or the ache of it.

"I should've told you earlier. As soon as it happened," you muttered. "I do bottle shit up. I always have."

Kuroo looked at you—eyes bloodshot, but steadier now.

"And I should've trusted you," he rasped.

A small, bitter smile tugged at your mouth. "Look at us. Actually communicating."

He huffed a weak breath, something between a scoff and a laugh.

"I think that whole conversation counts, honestly. It's not like we don't communicate we just... Need better methods I guess."

You let your gaze drift down the gravel path, blinking hard.

A sound broke the stillness—a sharp, broken whimper.

You both turned.

And then you saw her.

Emi was walking toward you, eyes dead, lips parted, her grip tight in Hebinuma's hair—fisted hard at the nape of her neck.

Her usually neatly styled, bleached hair was in disarray, her makeup smeared, and her eyes swollen. Blood ran fresh from a cut on her lower lip.

Her expression was hard as she shoved Hebinuma forward, letting go and making her stumble and fall to her knees in front of you.

"Speak! Tell 'em what you told me."

Hebinuma didn't look much better—her nose was swollen, her right eye barely open and already bruising. Her hair was a mess and nail marks raked down the sides of her face and down her neck.

She whimpered, shoulders hunched inward like she could fold herself out of sight. Her hands trembled.

When she glanced up, it wasn't at you—it was at Kuroo. Like a cornered rat reaching for a predator's mercy.

"Kuroo-san..." she whimpered, barely audible.

"Speak up, bitch!" Emi screamed, her voice hoarse and shaking with unrestrained rage.

Hebinuma flinched, shrinking inward. But your eyes stayed locked on Emi.

Your best friend, your sweet Emi—who always hung back when fists flew—stood there, seething.

You'd never seen her like this before. Blood on her mouth. Fury in her eyes. You'd always taken the hits for her. But now... now she was burning.

When it became clear Hebinuma wasn't going to speak, Emi scoffed, rolling her eyes like she'd stepped in something filthy.

"She did it. All of it," she said, voice clipped and shaking. "She convinced everyone to spread shit about you and Kuroo. She told Junpei to call you so she could take the pictures and spread even more bullshit. The guys are looking for him right now. That motherfucker must be hiding if he knows what's coming. They're gonna beat the shit out of him."

Her shoulders lifted, then sank with a trembling breath.

"I don't know if it'll help, but I made sure her little friends spread the word that it was all a lie."

"Emi..." You surged forward, cupping her face in both hands. She flinched in pain, and your stomach turned. Her skin was hot beneath your fingers, raw around the bruises.

"She landed a good one," Emi said, voice trembling, trying to joke. "Right on the cheek. Gotta give her that." She shot a venomous glance at Hebinuma. But when she looked back at you, something cracked.

Her eyes were glossy, her voice small and soft like a kid waking from a nightmare.

"You think it'll bruise?"

"It better not—for her sake." You turned on Hebinuma, baring your teeth. "If you lay another finger on her, I'll fucking kill you. Got that?!"

Kuroo raised a hand like he meant to calm you—but his eyes were wide, locked on Hebinuma's battered face, flicking across it like he couldn't quite make sense of what he was seeing.

"I think Emi already did enough," he muttered.

You sneered, snapping your head toward him. You weren't done with him—not even close—but Emi's gentle hand on your shoulder grounded you, fingers curling just enough to keep you tethered.

"I started it," she said quietly. "I heard her admitting everything to her friends, so I just... yeah. And the fact she'd spread pictures of you getting fucking assaulted is just disgusting. What the fuck is wrong with her?"

Her voice wavered, the end trailing off.

"But I didn't do it just for you. I had to get her at some point, right? I couldn't keep leaning on you for protection... You spoiled me too much..."

"Idiot," you said, voice thick with anger and love. "You can lean on me whenever the hell you want. And fighting on school grounds means suspension. You know that."

"But… you're doing so good now." Her eyes flicked away, guilt bleeding into her bruised expression. "If you fought her, you'd go back to your old class, right? And you'd lose Kuroo too, because he would've thought you cheated, and that you and Junpei were really a thing…"

You glanced at Kuroo. His gaze had softened.

Guilt curled up his spine like a noose. His jaw clenched.

And then—

"Yo, Y/N! Here's the traitor!"

You looked up.

Kenkiba had Junpei by the collar, dragging him across the gravel like trash to be taken out. His face was bloody, lip split and cheek swelling, eyes blinking in and out of consciousness.

The rest of the gang trailed behind, their steps heavy and filled with intent.

Kenkiba's steps slowed when he saw Emi's face. His eyes widened in horror, and he surged forward.

You stepped aside without thinking, letting him rush to her side.

"Emi! Did Hebinuma do this to you?"

"You should see her face," Emi muttered with a weak chuckle. "But I think I twisted my ankle kicking her. It hurts, Kiba~"

He wrapped his arms around her as she sagged into him, the adrenaline finally fading from her limbs.

Behind them, Taiga grabbed Junpei by the scruff, making him stand up, and turned to Kuroo with a grimace.

"It's a lie, man. Y/N would never do you like that."

You waited.

For Kuroo to speak. To agree. Something.

But he'd gone still.

Too still.

His entire body went tight—shoulders locking, chest rising with slow, heavy breaths. His gaze zeroed in on Junpei like a sniper finding his mark.

And then, in a heartbeat, he moved.

Taiga barely had time to step aside before Kuroo's fist obliterated Junpei's jaw with a sickening crack. Junpei hit the ground like a sack of bones, blood spraying across the gravel.

Taiga and Inuzuka lunged, grabbing Kuroo by the arms, but he broke through—rage-fueled, vicious—just enough to land a savage kick to Junpei's ribs.

"IF YOU EVER FUCKING TOUCH HER AGAIN, I'LL KILL YOU!" Kuroo roared, his voice raw and shaking with fury.

He thrashed in the guy's grip, a storm given human shape. His face was twisted with a rage you'd never seen on him—feral, gut-deep, personal.

"YOU MOTHERFUCKER! TOUCH HER AGAIN, I FUCKING DARE YOU."

"Shit—volleyball nerd is strong, what the hell—" Taiga grunted, half in awe, half in alarm as he struggled to hold him back.

You stood motionless, frozen in place, trembling from the sheer heat of Kuroo's fury. He wasn't the composed, sarcastic genius you knew.

He was rage. Pure and unfiltered.

"Tetsurou-kun."

Inukai-sensei's voice cracked through the chaos like a gunshot.

Taiga flinched and muttered under his breath.

"Holy fuck."

He stepped from the shadows, arms crossed, expression grim.

"Tetsurou-kun, I think that's enough," he said calmly, though his voice carried the weight of command. "No one here wants to see you walk down that path."

He nodded to the boys, and reluctantly, they let Kuroo go.

But he didn't move.

He just stood there—trembling, fists still balled at his sides, sweat dripping from his brow, breathing like he'd just survived a war.

His eyes stayed wide and crazed, locked on Junpei who lay coughing on the ground, like if he looked away for even a second, the bastard would vanish before he could finish the job.

"I think it's safe to say we all have a clear picture of what happened here," Inukai-sensei continued, voice like velvet pulled taut over steel. "But as Y/N said, fighting on school grounds does mean a suspension. I'll take Hebinuma and Shiromaru to the infirmary. Then we'll go to the principal's office."

His gaze softened a shade as it landed on the two of you.

"You two need to talk."

Still, Kuroo didn't speak. Didn't blink.

Just stood there, fury and grief barely leashed under his skin, jaw clenched like he was trying not to break.

Inukai-sensei kneeled to ease a sobbing Hebinuma to her feet and walked off. The gang trailed after him, dragging Junpei's limp body with them.

And just like that—

You and Kuroo were alone again.

Next chapter↪

tags. @themoreeviltwin @taylordenae @rhea-sylvea @iluvikeu @tgnvhp @adangerousbalance @orphicarchive @tammytaamm @iluvmusicxoxo @rvm1ne @kuzoq @espressocandies @ashley95943734 @jayathelostdragon @kyokoyya @crystal-lilac @kuzuven0208 @lblackwood @evilari111 @chaoticotaku @uekarashi @talia-the-gemini

[inkpetrichor]

Nasty Dog! | Kuroo Tetsurou x f!reader

8.- Part eight

masterlist here<3

cw. MDNI. fem! reader. delinquent! reader. use of yn. smoking. cursing. suggestive. fluffy. tw: mentions of bullying and rumors. anxiety/stress. academic pressure. reference to suicidal ideation. pls let me know if i missed anything<3 wc. 5k an. i love yall <3 as always, your comments are appreciated <3

The morning crept in slowly, filtering through the blinds in strips of gold. You stirred first, cheek still pressed to his chest, his arm a dead weight across your waist. His skin was warm, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear.

"Don't move," Kuroo rasped, voice gravel-deep with sleep. "Five more minutes."

You smiled sleepily. "We already had five."

"Then ten. I'm injured."

"You're not."

"You used me like a jungle gym. I'm emotionally and physically wrecked."

You snorted softly and shifted, your bare legs tangling with his under the blanket. "Your grandparents are going to wake up soon."

He muttered something unintelligible and burrowed deeper into the pillow, refusing to move.

You rolled your eyes but couldn't help the fond smile tugging at your lips. You shifted closer and pressed a kiss to his neck, slow and lingering.

"C'mon, captain. Didn't you say something about showing me how to play for real?"

That made his eyes crack open—dark and hooded with sleep, but sharp in the way they raked over you.

"You sure you're ready for that? You could barely walk to the bathroom earlier."

"I bet I'd look hotter in your shorts than you do," you whispered, your voice teasing against his lips.

He chuckled, low and rough. "Debatable."

You kissed him before he could say anything else—slow at first, then deeper, needier. His hand slid up your thigh under the covers, warm and firm, fingers curling into your skin. His other hand found your waist, dragging you over him as his mouth claimed yours again, hotter this time, a little desperate. You sighed into him, your fingers threading through his messy bedhead, running your nails over his scalp to make him groan into your mouth.

His hips shifted beneath you, just enough to make you feel the way he wanted more—wanted you—and for a moment, you let yourself sink into it.

Then—

You tensed, breath catching.

The house was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of silence that threatened to break at any moment with a knock or creak or door swinging open.

You pulled back with a breathless laugh, still close enough to feel his lips brush yours. "We can't. Not here."

Kuroo's eyes opened, frustration and affection twined in equal measure. "Seriously?"

"If your grandparents find out I'm here, they're going to kill you."

"They'll like you," he said, chasing another kiss, already pulling you back down.

You kissed him once more—quick and sweet this time—before slipping just out of reach. "They could like me. Not if they find me like this. Now let's go."

He groaned and flopped onto his back like he was being punished. "Cruel."

"You'll live," you whispered, brushing your thumb over his cheek.

"Barely."

You smiled and rolled out of bed. "God, you're such a baby."

You stood and stretched, letting his shirt rise up just enough to make his eyes narrow.

He huffed. "You ruin me, call me names, and then tease me. Incredible."

You smirked, blowing him a kiss on your way to the door. "Better get used to it, jungle gym."

"My legs are still jelly," you muttered, tugging at your sleeves.

The gym was cold when you stepped inside, lights humming overhead, polished floors gleaming beneath your boots. The faint scent of varnish and dust clung to the air. You were still rubbing sleep from your eyes, Kuroo's borrowed jacket half-zipped over the —also borrowed—shorts. Soft and warm around your thighs, a little too big, smelling like him.

He looked just as wrecked as you felt—hair messier than usual, stretching his arms above his head with a groan that went straight to your stomach. That low sound, paired with the lazy flex of his muscles had your brain flashing right back to the night before.

You stared a second too long.

Kuroo caught it, lips quirking, one eyebrow cocked. "Still jelly? From the morning run or from riding me into the mattress?"

Your face heated instantly. "Don't test me, volleyball boy. I will start a rematch right here."

He chuckled, dropping his arms and resting his hands on his hips, already shifting into that calm, commanding air he always carried on the court.

"Alright, alright. We'll keep it light. Just a little warm-up. I want you to get a feel for the ball."

You eyed him warily. "You say that like it won't end with me breaking a window."

He smirked. "Have a little faith."

Before anything else, the two of you worked together to set up the net—well, you fumbled while Kuroo quietly took over. You nearly pinched your fingers on the crank, got tangled in the cords, and argued over which side was supposed to be the front until Kuroo stepped in, gently nudging you aside with a smug little smile.

"You're so annoying," you grumbled, crossing your arms.

"You're lucky you're cute," he shot back, tying the last knot like it was second nature.

Net up, cart stocked, and Kuroo already tossing the ball between his hands—playtime officially began.

You tried. You really did. But your first serve skimmed the net and flopped to the ground like a dying fish. Your second one bounced off the side wall. By the fifth, you were ready to throw hands.

"I'm gonna kill that ball," you growled, fists clenched.

Across the court, Kuroo nearly doubled over laughing. "Okay, killer. Let's reel that in a little. We don't threaten the ball, we respect the ball."

You glared daggers. "The ball started it."

"Alright, alright," he snorted, walking toward you. "Let me show you how it's done."

He stood tall, his posture perfect, his gaze narrowing as he tossed the ball into the air. You couldn't look away. His movements were fluid and confident, practiced, sexy as hell. Arms stretching, hips rotating just right, a sharp snap as his palm met the ball. It soared over the net with a clean, echoing thud.

You blinked.

"...You're gonna have to do that again," you said, shaking your head. "Sorry—I swear I'll pay attention this time. You just looked way too beautiful."

That made him choke.

That made him blush—bright red ears, neck flushing, eyes darting away like the words hit deeper than all the filth you'd whispered into his skin the night before.

"Oh my God," you laughed, wide-eyed. "You're blushing? That's what gets you?"

He spun toward you, even redder.

"Oh yeah?"

You blinked, and then he was charging toward you. You squealed and bolted, but his arms caught you halfway across the court, wrapping you up from behind. You laughed as he spun you around in a slow, clumsy circle, dizzy and breathless in his grip, both of you stumbling and giddy.

"Let me go!" you managed, though you were smiling too hard for it to be convincing.

"No, I won't," he murmured, his mouth brushing your neck. He pressed slow, lazy kisses there, soft enough to make your knees weak.

The doors creaked open right in front of you.

Kenma stood there for a second, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. He blinked once. Twice.

"Never again," he muttered, turning to leave.

Kuroo lunged, grabbing the hood of his sweatshirt. "Nope. You're here. You're setting."

"I was promised peace and quiet."

"You were promised a DLC," Kuroo corrected. "Now come on."

Kenma groaned but let himself be dragged in like a reluctant cat in a box.

You gave him a cautious little wave. "Hey. Sorry in advance for whatever crimes against volleyball I'm about to commit."

He blinked at you. Then, with a soft sigh, wandered over to the cart and grabbed a ball.

"Let's just go slow," he muttered. "You've never played?"

"Not unless you count chucking dodgeballs at teachers in junior high."

Something flickered in his eyes—not quite amusement, not full judgment either. Something more... curious.

Kuroo leaned against the net, arms crossed, that lopsided smile tugging at his mouth.

The thing was... it clicked fast.

Kenma didn't warm up to people easily. It took weeks for him to even speak to Lev when he joined the team, let alone find a steady rhythm with his spikes. With Yamamoto, it was months of tolerating his volume and 'willpower' bullshit before anything resembling friendship bloomed.

But with you?

It was different. He didn't mind you as much as he thought he did at first.

You didn't crowd him. Didn't press. You asked simple questions, nodded when he corrected you, and didn't take offense when he was blunt. Even when your frustration flared, you stayed grounded—focused. You were all fight, sure, but it wasn't mindless. There was focus under the snark, intention under the sarcasm. A spark that made sense.

Halfway through your tenth try, once you landed with a click of your tongue after another failed spike, Kenma narrowed his eyes.

"You actually listen."

You blinked at him, confused. "Uh. Yeah?"

"No, like… really listen. That's weird."

You shrugged, panting lightly. "I mean, I don't know what I'm doing. It'd be stupid not to."

Kenma tilted his head, studying you like you were a puzzle he hadn't quite figured out yet.

"People who don't know usually pretend they do. Or argue. You don't."

"Because I'm not trying to impress anyone," your voice was even even, then teasing. "Except maybe your dumbass best friend."

Across the gym, Kuroo's voice rang out. "I heard that!"

Kenma squinted at you. "Okay. Again. Let's try that timing one more time."

And this time—

Something snapped into place. A few slow reps, a couple of awkward tosses—and then it happened.

The ball landed just right in your palm. You moved without thinking—instinct guiding your arms, weight shifting, body coiling. You slammed it down hard. The sound cracked through the gym like thunder.

Kenma's brows lifted slightly—his version of shock.

You stood there, stunned, heart pounding.

Kuroo's head jerked up. His own heartbeat stuttered.

He'd expected effort. Maybe some messy hustle, maybe a laugh or two. But that? That kind of power? That kind of control? It wasn't polished, but it was real. It had weight.

You stood tall across the court, breathless, flushed, strands of hair stuck to your cheeks, your eyes wild and alight like you'd just stepped into something raw and electric.

Holy shit.

You didn't even realize what you'd just done.

"Oh shit," you said, eyes wide as you turned to Kenma. "That felt awesome. Do that again."

Kenma, unreadable as ever, tossed up another ball.

Kuroo watched the play unfold—Kenma's fingers snapping into position, your body moving like it had done this a hundred times. No hesitation. Just motion.

You looked feral. Sharp. Alive.

Boom.

The second spike was even cleaner. You landed with a slight stumble and a burst of laughter, breathless but radiant.

Kuroo dragged a hand through his hair, lips parted in disbelief.

He'd never seen you like this. Not even the night before, not in your smugest or sexiest moments. This wasn't about proving anything. This was joy. Pure, kinetic, unfiltered joy.

And it was Kenma—Kenma of all people—who unlocked it.

He didn't know who he was feeling jealous of, he just knew he was. More than he'd like to admit.

You kept calling for more, flushed and beaming, eyes glittering like your lungs were full of lightning. Every spike echoed like a heartbeat.

And then—

The gym doors creaked open.

Kuroo turned just in time to see three familiar heads poke in—

Yaku, Lev, Yamamoto.

And at that exact second, you launched into another spike. Your body snapped through the air like a whip, palm striking the ball with a vicious crack that echoed across the gym. It slammed into the court so hard it bounced halfway to the second floor's balcony.

All three boys flinched like someone had fired a gun.

"That noise was her?"

Kuroo didn't answer. He couldn't. He was still watching you.

You landed hard, boots squealing against the polished floor, shoulders heaving, grin tugging at your lips from the leftover rush—until your eyes found them.

In the span of a breath, your entire demeanor changed.

Not loud. Not obvious. But Kuroo saw it—the shift in your spine, the flicker of your eyes. The way your grin faltered and your hand brushed across your mouth like you were wiping it away. That sharp edge returned to your expression, the one he'd seen before—the one built for defense, for distance.

You moved quickly, snagging Kuroo's jacket from the bench and shrugging it on in one smooth motion, zipping it halfway.

Yaku stepped forward, voice already tight. "What the hell, Kuroo?"

Kuroo opened his mouth to explain, but Yaku cut in, his concern outweighing his irritation.

"She's not even wearing proper shoes! What if she landed wrong? You want her blowing out her knee just to show off? If Coach hears about this—"

"Yaku."

Your voice cut clean through the tension—low, respectful, completely steady.

Everyone froze. Even Kuroo.

"I'm sorry." You bowed your head—not dramatically, but enough. "That was my mistake. We were supposed to leave before practice started, but I lost track of time."

Yaku stared, thrown.

You turned toward the others. "I didn't mean to cause trouble. I know this is your space."

Silence.

Even Lev looked disoriented, his mouth slightly ajar as he glanced at Yamamoto like wait, what?

Kuroo watched their reactions carefully. The confusion on Yaku's face. The uncertainty in Yamamoto's posture. Lev's visible shock.

Because here you were—you—the girl they'd only heard about in whispers. The one who'd decked two guys outside the station once. The one people warned first years not to look at the wrong way.

And instead of being what they expected—brash, rude, dangerous—you were bowing. Soft-spoken. Apologizing with your head down and a steady, neutral tone.

You weren't trying to prove yourself. You were just being respectful.

You offered Kuroo a small smile—quiet, unreadable—then turned and grabbed your bag, slinging it over one shoulder as you headed for the exit.

"See you in class, Tetsurou."

The gym door clicked shut behind you.

Silence stretched out.

"She... she's nice?" Lev whispered, like he wasn't sure if he'd imagined the last two minutes.

Yamamoto frowned. "I thought she was gonna, like... flip us off or threaten to set the gym on fire or something."

"She's not not scary," Yaku muttered, still trying to recalibrate. "But... yeah. She's also nice to me in class."

Kuroo stood there, heart thudding like he'd just run suicides.

You were rough. Reckless. Intense. He liked that.

But when it came to his team—you'd seem to soften, even if just a tad. Not because anyone asked. But because you knew it mattered to him.

That hit him in the chest harder than any spike.

Yaku sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Kuroo. Just... be careful, okay? With the rumors and all. Bringing her here might not—"

"I know," Kuroo said quietly, still staring at the door.

Kenma, who had silently been returning a ball to the cart, spoke without looking up.

"She'd be good," he said, voice flat but certain. "If she stuck with it."

Kuroo let out a breath, slow and full of heat.

Yeah.

You'd be dangerous.

As the morning wore on and the first period began, Yaku tried to apologize for the little gym incident.

You didn't let him.

You didn't even seem fazed by getting caught—tension gone, mood light, swagger returned. You lounged back in your chair, spinning a pen between your fingers like it wasn't the same hand you'd used to spike the soul out of a volleyball less than an hour ago.

You talked about it like it was a random Tuesday.

Mostly, you talked about the feel of it—how the ball connected with your palm in this perfect, violent snap. How the impact echoed down your bones. How dumb the boys looked when you landed.

"I mean, it was good," Kuroo admitted, tone casual—but his lips curled ever so slightly. "And you're new to this, so it's obvious we'd be surprised."

"Tetsurou~ Are you saying I'm a natural?"

"Oh no, the ego of a spiker. Tragic."

You turned to fire back—but the words froze on your tongue. From the doorway came a calm, measured voice. Cold as an iceberg.

"L/N Y/N."

Your whole body went still.

Inukai-sensei.

Slowly, you turned your head, and there he stood, one hand in his pocket and the other resting against the doorframe.

He didn't look angry.

That would've been easier.

"Step outside with me."

You didn't say a word. Kuroo watched you go, brow furrowing as you just stood, quiet and obedient—too quiet—and followed him into the hallway.

The hallway was quiet. Cool and sterile. You stood with your back straight, hands shoved into your pockets, every line of you locked in place.

Inukai-sensei didn't look at you right away. He stared out the window at the end of the corridor, as though gathering his words from the pale sky. After a couple minutes, he nodded into the distance.

"You know what a leash is for?" he asked suddenly.

You blinked. "Excuse me?"

"A leash," he repeated, calm. "It's not about control. It's about protection... You leash a dog not because you don't trust it, but because the world outside can kill it before it knows where the danger is."

Finally, his gaze found yours—sharp, deliberate.

"But some dogs don't like leashes. They pull. They snap. They fight it until they choke themselves."

His metaphor made you flinch.

This wasn't about leashes.

"I thought," he continued, folding his arms behind his back, "when I brought you into this class, that we had an understanding. That the exception the head of department made—one they've never made before, wasn't something you'd toss aside. I told you this was a rare opportunity. I told you I needed your resolve."

You opened your mouth. "Sensei—"

"I assumed," he spoke over you, voice unwavering, "when you nodded along, that you understood what it meant. That I didn't stick my neck out for a lost cause."

His words landed heavy, like slow stones dropped into your gut.

"Two weeks and a half," he said, tone flat. "Two weeks and a half of skipped classes. Three schoolmates injured. Two phone calls from other schools with complaints about you and the rest. And speaking of—" he gestured faintly at the gauze wrapped around your knuckles. "I assume Ookami Junpei's face is also your doing?"

You didn't answer.

"So you're fighting your own friends now?"

"He's not my friend."

Inukai raised a brow, like that made it any better.

"Two weeks and a half," he repeated.

"It was a slip-up," you said quickly. "I'm back on track."

He regarded you for a long moment. Then, a single nod.

"I want to believe that," he said. "Considering you're here. And for once, you don't reek of cigarette smoke."

Your jaw locked, tongue heavy behind your teeth.

Still, he didn't raise his voice. He never had to.

"This school has never done this before," he said again. "Bringing someone with your record into a class like this one. It was a risk."

"Someone like me?" you cut in, sharp.

"Yes," he said simply. "Someone like you is a risk. There's no use pretending otherwise. And there are dozens of students who would kill for that desk. That chance you're wasting."

His voice didn't shake. Just twisted the knife with calm, deliberate finality.

"Exams are approaching," he continued, turning slightly. "If your grades drop from what earned you this transfer, the administration will assume you cheated. And you'll be sent back to your original class."

Your stomach turned. But he wasn't done.

He glanced back at you, tone colder now. Final.

"And if you get into one more fight, I won't vouch for you anymore. I won't argue for you in the staffroom. I won't look like a fool anymore to protect someone who spits in my hand after I offer it."

And with that, he walked away—his shoes clicking steadily down the sterile floor.

You stayed frozen. Let the silence close around you like a second skin.

The hallway felt colder now. Like the light from the window had turned blue.

When you slipped back into your seat, it was like nothing had happened. But your shoulders sat heavier. Eyes duller.

Kuroo felt the shift immediately.

He leaned closer. "Was it the rumors?" his voice was low and laced with concerned when he asked.

You shook your head once. "No. I don't think he's heard them."

"Yet," Yaku muttered from behind.

"Yet," you agreed quietly. "It's because of the last two weeks. If I bomb the exams or throw another punch… I'm fucked."

Yaku's brows furrowed. "Isn't he your old homeroom teacher?"

You exhaled, shifting in your seat. "Still is."

"Why?"

You tilted your head, eyes fixed on the desk like it held answers.

"Because he's the only one who can put a leash on us."

Kuroo watched you. The change in your posture, the fight drained out of your limbs, the soft gravel in your voice when you said us.

You leaned forward, elbows braced on the desk.

"He dragged me into this," you muttered. "Begged the teaching board to give me a chance. Just one. This means something. Not just for me—for all of us. Me, Taiga, Kenkiba, Emi… A chance to prove we're not just some ticking time bomb."

Your nails pressed into your palms.

"He saw something in us when no one else did. When every teacher wanted to write us off as burnouts and thugs." Your voice dropped to a whisper. "And I made him look like a fool."

Kuroo's chest ached at the quiet shame in your tone.

Before he could say anything, a sharp 'Shhh' cut through the air from the front of the classroom.

But he kept looking at you from the corner of his eye.

He'd seen you laugh. He'd seen you fight. He'd even seen you fly.

But this—this quiet war you were fighting with yourself, just to be seen as worth the chance? This war you were fighting for you and your team?

This was the part of you he hadn't expected.

And it made his heart twist.

Emi exhaled slowly through her nose, the smoke trailing upward in a lazy, curling spiral.

"How pissed?"

"Like a Buddhist monk watching his dog dig up a grave."

That earned a sharp snort from her—half a laugh, half disbelief.

"Jesus."

"He pulled me into the hall," you muttered, flicking ash off your cigarette. "Gave me the whole 'you're lucky to be here' speech. Said I've got until exams. If I screw up again, he's done with me."

You were tucked into the usual corner—half-sheltered from the wind, the brick walls funneling the breeze in gusts that carried the bitter tang of tobacco and the damp scent of old rain steeped into concrete. Only this time, Kuroo leaned beside you, legs long, gaze unreadable and Yaku sat a little stiffly on the floor, clearly not used to this part of the school—this kind of company.

Emi squinted at the unfamiliar face, puffing out smoke slowly. "Who's the little one?"

He visibly tensed. "Morisuke Yaku."

"Oh! I knew I'd seen you somewhere," Emi said, suddenly brightening. "Shiromaru Aiko. Big fan of your work."

She extended a hand, black polish chipped and catching the light. Yaku shook it, more out of social instinct than warmth—clearly unsure what 'work' she was referring to.

"You beat up my ex in junior high 'cause he called you tiny," Emi explained with a grin when she caught his confused stare.

Kuroo raised a brow. Yaku stared into the middle distance like he was trying to astral project.

"...He had it coming."

"He did," Emi snickered. "Iconic."

For a fleeting beat, things almost felt normal—easy. The way they used to be.

Then Kuroo leaned forward slightly, his voice low but direct. "If Inukai-sensei hears the rumors, you're probably done. But if you beat Hebinuma up to stop her spreading them, you're extra done."

The warmth in your chest died instantly. You frowned.

"But I can't let her spread that shit about Emi either," you snapped.

Beside you, Emi's posture faltered, like something inside her had been knocked loose. Her smile dimmed. She stubbed out her cigarette on the cracked pavement with more force than needed.

"I'm going home," she said quietly, brushing ash from her skirt. Her voice was paper-thin. "Not feeling too well."

"Emi—"

"Y/N." She didn't look at you, and her tone was stern, cold, and final. "I'm fine. You can't protect me this time. You finally have something good—getting your grades up and shit. A real chance. You're proving a point for all of us."

Your throat tightened. That ache bloomed again—low and hot behind your ribs, frustration curling into helplessness.

Kuroo spoke before you could.

"Why do you even want to stay in Class 5 anyway? If it's for me, don't. I don't care about that. I'll still like you even if you're not there."

"Gross..." Yaku muttered from the side.

You gently shook your head. A warm smile creeping to your lips despite yourself.

"It's not about that. I don't want to disappoint Inukai-sensei," you murmured. Your voice came out rougher than intended. You took a breath, the air sharp in your lungs.

Kuroo's brow furrowed slightly, watching you.

"He's been looking out for us for too long. Before anyone gave a shit about what happened to me, or what I could be, he did. He saw all of us—me, Kenkiba, Taiga, Emi—not just as trouble, but as kids. He stuck his neck out when no one else would."

You turned to Emi with a smirk. "Hell, remember in first year when Kenkiba trashed the storage shed during that fight with the upperclassmen?"

Emi snorted, a nostalgic smile making its way to her lips despite all of it.

"He threw a shovel through a window."

"Yeah. Should've been expelled on the spot," you said, half-laughing. "But Inukai-sensei told the board he asked Kenkiba to clean up and that the glass was already broken."

Yaku let out a small, surprised snort.

"Or Taiga," you added. "The cops caught him spray-painting with his uniform on. Inukai convinced them not to press charges. Said it was 'an experimental art project.'"

Kuroo looked mildly horrified. Emi looked back and smiled at him.

"It was a giant flaming skull smoking a blunt, by the way."

"Experimental," you repeated, deadpan. "And you know what? After all that, after every time he'd catch us smoking or fighting, or breaking almost every rule in the book—he still let us back in the classroom like nothing happened. Of course, after a lecture or a speech that made you feel like you actually didn't want to do it again. Like you didn't want to disappoint him anymore."

You paused.

"He's been backing us from day one. Even when we didn't deserve it. Even when we gave him every reason to stop."

Your hands clenched at your sides. "He argued with the board for us and begged them to give me a chance in class 5. Not because he thought we were harmless, but because he believed we could be better." Your nails dug into your palm. "All that trust, all that risk, and I'm screwing it up."

Emi nodded once—tight, unreadable, like she didn't trust her own voice—then turned and walked off, her shoes crunching gravel and brittle leaves.

You didn't stop her.

But a weight sank low in your gut—cold, immovable.

Kuroo's hand brushed your arm. "We'll talk to her again tomorrow."

You nodded, but your eyes stayed fixed on the spot where she'd disappeared around the corner.

You weren't sure she'd show.

You wanted to believe Emi would be fine. That she was strong. That she meant it when she said she could hold on. Even if Hebinuma had the pictures again.

But that night, she wasn't answering your texts, and the unease that had been simmering inside you all day finally started to boil.

The last message you sent—

:You okay? Please call me.

—just sat there. Unread. Unanswered. You told yourself not to panic as you paced your room, fingers twitching every time your phone buzzed. But it was never her.

It was just past nine when your phone buzzed again with an incoming call.

You lunged for it, hope flaring that it might be Emi.

It wasn't.

Your thumb hesitated over the screen, confusion tightening your brow.

Junpei.

You stared at his name, your gut clenching like a fist. Every instinct told you to let it ring. Whatever he wanted, it couldn't be good—and you didn't trust him. Not after what he pulled. Not after everything.

But your thumb didn't drop.

What if this was about Emi?

Your heart started racing before your brain could even catch up, a primal kind of fear that surged through your body like a warning siren. You hesitated, one breath too long—

Then you answered.

You shouldn't have.

His voice came through low and shaky.

"Y/N… Emi's not okay."

Your stomach bottomed out. "What? What happened?"

"She called me earlier," he said, breath hitching. "Said she couldn't take it anymore. I—I tried to call her back, but she won't pick up. She was crying. I think… I think she's in Shibuya. That spot by the old station—you know the one."

Your lungs tightened like they were collapsing. The air in your room thinned.

The fear hit you like a body blow—sudden, all-consuming. Images flashed rapid-fire behind your eyes. Emi crying. Emi alone. Emi gone.

You felt it earlier, in the way she wouldn't meet your eyes. In her voice. But you let her go.

And now it might be too late.

You wanted to be smart. To question why she'd call him of all people. Why he suddenly cared. But logic shriveled under the heat of your panic. There was no time.

Because if there was even the slightest chance she was really out there—alone, scared, hurting—

You had to go.

"What about the gang?" you asked, your voice brittle, barely audible over the thudding in your ears.

"I don't know," Junpei whispered. "Please. Just go."

You didn't respond.

You were already pulling on your shoes, shoes on, bag slung over your shoulder, phone clutched like a lifeline. Your heart slammed against your ribs like it was trying to break out.

The cold air hit like a warning. Last time, you hadn't moved fast enough. And you couldn't survive being too late again.

Next chapter↪

tags. @themoreeviltwin @taylordenae @rhea-sylvea @iluvikeu @tgnvhp @adangerousbalance @orphicarchive @tammytaamm @iluvmusicxoxo @rvm1ne @kuzoq @espressocandies @ashley95943734 @jayathelostdragon @kyokoyya @crystal-lilac @kuzuven0208 @lblackwood @evilari111 @chaoticotaku @uekarashi

[inkpetrichor]

Muse | Azumane Asahi x f!reader

9. This Little House of Ours

masterlist here<3

cw. angst. hurt/comfort. discussion of trauma. TW. sh scars (visible, non-graphic). internalized guilt. low self-worth. mentions of emotional abuse. discussion of trauma. emotional vulnerability. crying. safe intimacy. a liiitle suggestive (if you squint). emotional catharsis. asahi being a sweetheart and a champ and i love this man and aaaaaaaah. wc. 4.8k an. additional content warning keishin ukai being a menace

You were already pacing near the front door when the doorbell rang.

"Stop panicking," Keishin called from the hallway, flicking ashes into the tray balanced on the windowsill. "You look like you're about to face a firing squad."

"I am," you hissed. “You've met your mother, right?”

He snorted. "She's not that bad."

"She threatened to grill him."

"She also made simmered pork belly and cut the daikon into little stars. She's a complex woman," he exhaled with a cloud of smoke. After just a second, an evil smirk curved his lips. "What, afraid our crazy family might scare man-bun away?"

You were about to fire back when the soft shuffle of slippers drifted in from the living room.

"Keishin," your uncle's voice was mild, as always. "Don't tease her."

You glanced over your shoulder and found him mid-sitting on the floor by the low table. A thick book cracked open in his lap, a tea mug steaming quietly beside him. He looked up with a soft smile and adjusted his glasses.

"She's nervous. Let her be."

You felt yourself breathe a little easier just from hearing him. He always had that effect—quiet and steady like an oak tree, grounding the chaos around him.

Keishin sighed. "You guys are too soft on her."

"And you're not soft enough," your uncle replied without looking up, flipping a page.

"You're lucky Mom likes you," Keishin said, turning back to you and dragging from his cigarette. "She never let my high school girlfriends in the house."

"You had high school girlfriends?"

He gave you a lazy smirk.

"I was quite popular y'know? Ladykiller."

Before you could roll your eyes and tell him to put the cigarette out, the doorbell rang—and there was Aina, catching the exact moment Keishin took another puff.

"Keishin," she said sharply, hands on her hips. "Not inside. Not when our guest is here."

"He's here early, I wasn't ready—"

She snatched the cigarette out of his fingers with a practiced hand and stubbed it in the tray. "Ready or not, your lungs are not my air freshener."

The doorbell rang again.

You shot both a look, then turned to your uncle. "I'm going to open the door."

He gave a slow nod and smiled. "Deep breaths, sweetheart."

You took one—and opened it.

There he was.

Asahi stood just outside, looking freshly showered and absolutely shell-shocked in his black button-up and clean sneakers, holding a neatly wrapped box in both hands like it was his offering to the gods. Hair half-tamed and cheeks already pink.

Painfully handsome.

"Hey," he said, voice low and nervous.

"Hi," you whispered back, smiling despite the nerves coiled tight in your stomach. "You made it."

He nodded, then hesitated, glancing past you toward the house. "I, um… brought something. It's from a bakery near the station. I didn't know what she liked, so… I panicked and bought three different kinds."

Your heart fluttered. "That's perfect."

You reached for his hand and gave it a little squeeze before tugging him inside. The moment the door closed, Aina appeared in the hallway like she'd been waiting in the shadows.

Her eyes sparkled.

"Ohhh," she said sweetly. "So this is the mysterious friend."

Asahi straightened to his full height, then bowed politely, nearly 90 degrees.

"Good evening, I'm Azumane Asahi. Thank you for having me—"

"No need to be so formal," she said, waving him off with a delighted smile. "But I am impressed. Most boys wouldn't manage more than a grunt and a weak handshake."

"Aina-san," you groaned.

She gave you a wink. "I'm teasing, honey. Mostly."

Asahi offered the box with both hands, still flushed with embarrassment. "I brought these. I hope that's alright."

"Look at you," she said warmly, taking the gift and peeking inside. "Thoughtful and handsome. You're going to give me a heart attack."

"Aina-san!" you cried, this time fully red.

Keishin finally strolled over from the living room, beer can in hand. "Alright, alright, let the poor guy breathe."

He gave Asahi a casual nod.

"She's already stolen my cigarette and my pride," Keishin grumbled as he passed by. "You're next."

Asahi laughed softly. "It's nice to see you, Ukai-san."

From the living room, your uncle closed his book gently, setting it on the table as he rose to his feet. He walked over, calm and smiling, his presence like a hush over windchimes.

"You must be Asahi-kun," he said, voice low and kind. "I've heard a lot about you."

Asahi bowed again, more relaxed this time. "Yes, sir. Thank you for having me."

Your uncle's smile deepened. "We're glad you're here."

Dinner was... surprisingly warm.

Aina had laid out everything like it was a full-blown holiday meal—miso soup, rice, braised pork, steamed vegetables, pickles, the works. She even used the nicer plates. You'd barely sat down before she was already chatting with Asahi, asking about school, volleyball, his cooking, and—of course—his intentions.

"I just want to know what kind of boy my girl is spending time with," she said with a smile that somehow felt like both a hug and a lie detector test.

Asahi tried to answer everything with calm politeness, but you could see the little twitches in his hands and the stiff way he sat. Still, he didn't retreat. He was solid and warm beside you, always glancing over whenever you shifted or reached for something, his knee brushing yours under the table like a quiet promise: I'm here. I'm okay.

Your uncle occasionally chimed in with gentle questions—about books Asahi liked, favorite foods, music. Never sharp, never cornering. Just interested, soft-spoken, and observant.

At one point, Asahi accidentally dropped his chopsticks and went stiff with embarrassment.

"It happens to the best of us," your uncle said quietly, passing him a clean pair with a small smile. "You should've seen my first dinner with Aina's family. I spilled soup all over myself."

Laughter softened the tension at the table.

He even survived the full interrogation with Keishin and the post-dinner tea with Aina hovering just close enough to make him sweat.

"So," she said, taking a sip of her tea, "are you the friend we made that luck charm for?"

You nearly choked on your jasmine tea.

Aina gave you a knowing look. "You didn't tell him we made it from scratch for him?"

You sank a little in your seat, cheeks feeling warm.

Across the table, Asahi's ears turned red. "I still have it. In my bag. I keep it for matches."

Aina's face lit up. "Well then. Guess it worked."

Keishin snorted. "It worked way too well."

She kicked him under the table.

After dinner, as you were helping stack plates in the kitchen, Aina gave your shoulder a little squeeze.

"You should show him your room," she said gently, almost too casually.

You blinked. "The kura?"

She nodded. "He should see your little house. It's part of who you are."

You hesitated, fingers tightening around the dish towel. That space—converted from the old storage room—was your sanctuary. The walls still smelled faintly of cedar, the old beams exposed and lovely in the lamplight. You hadn't shown anyone. Even the Sakanoshita family respected your space and rarely entered it. But...

You looked through the doorway. Asahi was standing near the table, helping Keishin dry glasses and still looking like he was trying not to break anything.

Safe.

Yeah. You could show him.

You wiped your hands, heart fluttering again, and called softly, "Asahi-san?"

He looked up, warm and gentle.

"Want to see my room?"

He nodded, setting down the cup, and you both walked toward the back of the house.

Keishin looked at Aina with a quirked brow.

"You never let me bring any of my girlfriends over, god forbid showing them my room."

"That's because your girlfriends were a bunch of delinquents. And that never stopped you, did it? You think I don't know you used to sneak them in through your window?"

Keishin almost dropped the cigarette between his fingers in shock. Your uncle reached over and plucked it from his hand before Aina could.

"You're not sneaky, Keishin," he said calmly.

Aina just looked at the corner you and Asahi had disappeared from with a loving smile.

"I trust this boy. He's a gentleman."

Keishin hummed, nodding. Afraid of disagreeing with his mother now.

She looked at him and snatched the lighter from his fingers.

"Now talking about girlfriends, I saw Ono-san at the market today. She said her daughter was single. She's a beautiful girl, you know?"

"And that's my signal to leave," Keishin said, recovering his lighter from his mother's hands and retreating with all the dignity of a man under siege.

She rolled her eyes and turned to her husband. "And what did you think of him?"

Your uncle was already rinsing tea cups at the sink.

"I think he looks at her like she hung the moon."

Aina pressed her hand over her heart. "Yeah," she whispered. "He does."

She turned back into the kitchen and paused, eyes landing on the spotless stovetop. Even the pans were clean.

"He washed everything?" she muttered, touched.

Your uncle smiled to himself as he dried his hands. "A true gentleman."

The soft click of the sliding door felt like a hush falling over the night.

"This is it," you said, stepping aside so he could enter first.

Asahi ducked slightly through the low frame, his eyes adjusting to the warm lamplight that filled the old kura. He blinked once, then looked around slowly, as if afraid to break the quiet.

Wooden beams lined the ceiling like ribs, dark and beautiful. The walls were half shelves and half shadow, filled with worn books, charcoal tins, and neat stacks of sketch pads. On the far wall sat a bed tucked beneath a slanted ceiling beam, and next to it, a small bathroom door left slightly ajar.

In the center of the room stood an easel with a half-finished painting: the Sakanoshita farm in winter, captured in the delicate strokes of traditional Japanese style. Soft, fluid, timeless.

He exhaled quietly. "This is... incredible."

You gave him a small smile, suddenly a little shy. "It used to be a storage room. They cleaned it out when I moved in."

"It's warm," he said, and you could tell he didn't mean the temperature.

He stepped closer to the easel, careful not to jostle anything, and took in the painting. "You're really talented."

Your cheeks warmed. "Thanks... it's not finished yet."

He turned toward the desk and noticed the scattered sketches—raven studies, volleyball players in mid-jump, motion and energy captured in pencil strokes. And then, nestled on your nightstand, a book spine stood out to him.

He tilted his head. "Gothic Couture: A Retrospective?"

You crossed your arms, a touch defensive. "What, goth girls can't like fashion and ukiyo-e?"

"No," he said, smiling, "I think it suits you."

That made your heart flutter. He always said things like that—not just sweet, but true, like he saw exactly who you were and didn't want to change any of it.

You sat down in the rolling chair by your desk, motioning for him to take the stool across from you. Asahi obeyed quietly, settling in as his eyes scanned the room once more. The silence between you was soft and golden, only broken by the faint creak of wood and the distant buzz of cicadas outside.

Then you picked up your sketchbook and pencil, flipped to a blank page.

Asahi tilted his head. "Are you—?"

"Don't move too much," you said softly, already mapping the lines of his face.

He stilled instantly, ears already pink.

You'd never drawn people live. But Asahi made you want to. Maybe it was the calmness in his shoulders, or how kind he looked even in stillness. Drawing him felt less like a challenge and more like... wanting to remember.

He sat quietly for a minute, then said, "Dinner was really nice."

You nodded, smiling softly. "She liked you."

"She's a little scary."

You grinned, pencil in hand. "I think she should be? I'm not sure... still getting used to this whole 'happy family' thing."

Asahi let out a low hum, rough and warm in his chest, the kind of sound only he could make. It rolled over your skin like distant thunder, and your pencil faltered mid-stroke.

You didn't mind.

"You looked happy," he said after a pause. "Sitting with your family like that."

"I was."

The pencil moved again, lighter now, tracing the soft curve of his jaw. "It's the first time in forever that I feel... safe. This place is truly magic."

He didn't answer right away. When you looked up from your sketch, his eyes were already on you. Gentle. Steady. Like they always were when you said something heavier than expected.

But then you saw the shift in his gaze.

You followed his eyes—down, to your forearm. The thin, pale scars caught the light like ghosts of the past. Unhidden. Unthinking.

Oh.

You hadn't realized you'd pushed your sleeves up, only that your arms felt freer to move. It was warm in the kura tonight, the lamp casting a golden glow over wood grain and paper edges and the white lines on your skin.

Your breath hitched in your throat. Your muscles tightened, instinctive, halfway to yanking your sleeves back down—but then you heard your name.

And the way he said it wasn't startled. Or disgusted.

It was soft. Careful.

Like he was placing your name in the center of his palm and holding it there.

He already knew. He'd heard the whispers. You even confirmed them, that day in the library when your voice trembled but your eyes didn't flinch. That day when you held his hand in yours, with sleeves smudged in graphite, and told him to love it, for it was his tool, not his enemy.

He knew the scars existed.

But he'd never seen them.

You let your arm fall slowly back to your lap. Your heart pounded, but not out of fear. Not tonight.

"I didn't mean to," you whispered. "I just... forgot."

"That's okay," he said gently. "You don't have to explain."

He didn't move closer. His hands stayed folded between his knees, his frame still but alert, as if bracing for a wave but determined not to flinch. His eyes, however, never left you. Never once looked away.

"Can I ask what happened?" he said, after a pause thick with something unspoken. "Only if you want to tell me."

You sat there, surrounded by the scent of old wood and fresh pencil lead, the quiet hum of the lamp buzzing behind you. This little storage room turned sanctuary—this tiny, strange home—suddenly felt too still. And yet... you felt safe.

Because across from you was a boy who looked at you like every part of you was still worth staying for.

You set your pencil down slowly. Opened your mouth. Closed it. Picked the pencil back up and resumed your drawing. Safe movements. Familiar. Controlled.

Asahi swallowed, barely audible. You saw it in the way his throat moved. Felt the tension crawling back into his shoulders.

He thought you wouldn't say anything.

And then—

"I don't know why I started..."

Your voice was so quiet, it barely rose above the scratch of graphite. But it came.

You swallowed hard. Your eyes stayed on the sketchpad, letting your hands keep moving, the lines of his jaw a small anchor in the weight of it all.

"I think it was about punishment," you whispered. "At least... for me."

He shifted subtly. Not in alarm. Just listening, fully. You didn't dare look up.

"Punishment for what?" he asked, voice low, almost broken with care.

"I don't know... or maybe I do." You exhaled shakily, brushing a smudge away from the page. "I never knew what my parents wanted from me. I just knew that whatever it was—I wasn't delivering."

Your lips trembled. You kept talking anyway.

"I tried everything. Grades. Art. Being quiet. Being loud. I thought maybe if I worked hard enough, they'd smile. Just once. Say 'I love you.' Kiss my forehead. Tell me goodnight. Hug me." Your voice cracked, but you kept going. "Was that too much to ask?"

A pause. The kind that stings.

"All I got was punishment. No dinner. Locked doors. A slap or two. Disappointment." You let the silence hang, bitter and sharp. "So I guess... I just kept punishing myself too. I thought I deserved it. I believed I wasn't good enough. Like I would never be."

You didn't realize you were crying until something wet splattered onto the corner of your sketchbook—just beside his outline. You blinked, confused, and reached up.

Your fingertips came away wet.

"Oh..." you breathed. "Why am I—? Sorry. I didn't—"

But you couldn't finish.

Because Asahi was already moving.

He crossed the space in a heartbeat, arms wrapping around you with a tenderness that made your ribs ache. The stool clattered behind him, forgotten. He didn't care.

His arms locked around you, warm and solid, and you gasped against his chest. The breath came out ragged, part sob, part relief.

"You are enough," he whispered fiercely, voice thick against your hair. "I'm so sorry that happened to you."

Your lip trembled. The tears broke free again, and this time you didn't hold them back. You let your arms wrap tightly around his back, fingers clawing into the soft cotton of his shirt like you were afraid he'd disappear.

But he didn't.

He just held you tighter.

And in the quiet of your tiny house, in the arms of someone who made you feel like you were allowed to cry—you did.

You cried for a while.

Not pretty, delicate tears—but raw, stuttering sobs that wracked your chest and soaked the fabric of his shirt. He held you through it all, without flinching, his arms unshakable around you. His chin rested atop your head, lips brushing your hair every now and then, murmuring things too soft to catch, but warm enough to hold you together.

At one point, you felt his hands tighten—not out of panic, but anger. A protective, helpless anger he didn't voice, but you felt it in the strength of his hold. Like he was furious with the people who made you believe you had to earn love. Furious at a world that had allowed it.

But his voice was only gentle.

"You didn't deserve that," he whispered. "Any of it."

You pressed your forehead to his collarbone and let yourself feel small in his arms.

A quiet sob hiccuped in your chest. His arms tightened again, tucking you impossibly closer.

"Thank you," he said after a long silence. "For telling me."

You nodded. Words felt too heavy to lift. But the nod was real. So was the shaky breath you exhaled into his shirt.

Eventually, the storm in your chest began to settle. It didn't vanish. But the worst of it passed—like high tide receding, leaving only wet sand behind.

You pulled back slowly, just enough to look up at him. His hands slid to your arms, warm and steady. He gave you time.

"Sorry," you said, your voice hoarse, skin blotchy and eyes red. "That was... a lot."

"Don't say sorry." His brow furrowed slightly, like the thought of you apologizing for your own pain physically pained him. "You don't ever have to be sorry for this."

You nodded again, slower this time. Still processing.

"Wanna lie down?" he asked quietly.

You blinked at him. Then glanced over at the bed in the corner of the kura—neatly made, one pillow still slightly indented from the last time you curled up there to read.

You hesitated. He didn't rush you.

But after a second, you whispered, "Yeah."

He helped you up gently, like you might break if he pulled too hard. You climbed onto the futon and scooted back against the wall. He settled beside you with careful, quiet movements—sitting first, then stretching out only when you tugged softly on his sleeve.

You lay down facing him. His arms opened again, just enough to say you can if you want to.

You did.

You tucked your head beneath his chin, your hand resting lightly over his chest where you could feel the rhythm of his heartbeat, suddenly way quicker. His arm wrapped around your waist. It was the kind of warmth that made sleep feel safe.

"I'm glad you came today," you murmured.

He didn't say anything for a moment, just nodded and swallowed. Hard.

"Me too."

The silence that followed was soft and clean, the kind that didn't need to be filled. You melted deeper into his chest, breath evening out, muscles unwinding one by one.

Eventually, your breathing slowed. You went still.

He waited a few more minutes to be sure.

Then, gently, he reached out with his free hand and picked up Gothic Couture: A Retrospective from your nightstand. The cover was black satin-textured, with a silver-lettered title and an ornate corset design.

Careful not to jostle you, he cracked it open and began to read.

And there you lay—fast asleep against his chest, scars and all, and Asahi held you like he'd never let anyone hurt you again.

Asahi turned a few pages, careful not to shift your weight from where you lay curled against his chest. You didn't stir—not even when the book's spine creaked faintly. Your breathing stayed soft and even, a whisper against the hollow of his throat. He could still feel the heat of your tears cooling on his skin.

He glanced down at you for a long moment, his hand resting along the curve of your spine. You were fast asleep now.

At peace.

Then he looked back at the book.

The first few pages were mostly text—an introduction to the evolution of gothic fashion through the decades. The style had always intrigued him a little. Not that he'd ever thought much about fashion before, but he liked dressing well, and he remembered seeing you dressed in black lace and sharp silhouettes and wondering, what does that feel like?—to own your presence like that. To wear something that feels like armor and expression all at once.

He turned another page.

This one was a full spread. A photo of a long black coat—tailored to perfection, with a high collar, silver embroidery running up the sleeves, and a corset-laced back. It was haunting. Beautiful. Structured. Honest in its drama.

He swallowed.

The stitching was tight, clean. The fabric layered like wings.

He didn't know why, but he could see the way it had been made. The construction. The seams. The purpose in every thread.

He traced the outline with his eyes, then touched the page gently with his fingertips, just once.

It felt like something inside him cracked open—quietly, like a shell that had been protecting something fragile. Something waiting.

I want to make something like this.

The thought came uninvited.

It wasn't loud. It wasn't sudden.

It just felt… right.

Like the way he felt when he played volleyball—steady, present, himself. But different, too. Like this was something else entirely. Something that stirred in his chest, not with adrenaline, but with awe.

He flipped to the next page. Another design. This one with softer elements—lace, velvet, ruched sleeves, and tiny pearl buttons.

Could I do something like this?

He looked back at you, still sleeping soundly. Your face had softened—no trace of the pain from earlier, only peace. Trust.

You'd let him into your world tonight. At least a little.

And without realizing it, you'd handed him the start of something else, too.

There were two sharp knocks on your door, then it opened.

Keishin stood there, blinking once with wide eyes.

He made a sound that might've been a cough—or maybe just his soul leaving his body—and closed the door with a soft but deliberate click.

Asahi froze.

His entire face went crimson. His ears felt like they were about to catch fire. He knew what it looked like. He knew.

"I—UKAI-SAN, I—IT'S NOT LIKE THAT!" he called out, voice cracking slightly.

You stirred against him, blinking blearily as your cheek slid against the warm fabric of his shirt. "...Whuh?"

"Keishin-san just—he opened the door—I think he thinks—" Asahi stopped himself, half in horror.

You blinked again, sleep still clinging to you like a haze. Then it clicked.

"Oh no." You sat up fast, hair a mess and voice scratchy. "Did he just—left?"

Asahi nodded stiffly, looking like he was bracing for divine judgment.

You groaned and flopped backwards onto the mattress, hiding your face in your hands. "He's never gonna let me live this down."

Outside the door, Keishin's voice rang clear, wry as ever:

"You're lucky my mom likes you, Azumane!"

Then, muttered just loudly enough to be heard,

"Unbelievable. All this, 'he's a gentleman' talk..."

You stared at the ceiling. "I think we might be dead."

"I wish I was dead," Asahi mumbled, dragging a hand down his face. Then, he looked down, and a small smile made it to his lips. "You drooled on my shirt by the way."

You gasped, mortified. "I did not."

He pointed to the tiny damp spot on his chest. You both stared at it in silence. Then broke into quiet laughter—helpless, shared, breathless.

Then—two more knocks. Sarcastic this time. Followed by the door opening again.

Keishin poked his head in, raising an eyebrow and wearing a smug smirk that could rival a villain in a soap opera.

"Well, are we all fully clothed now?"

You bolted upright again. "It's not like that! We never— ahrg I hate this."

"What?" he said, feigning innocence, stepping further inside with a shrug.

"And you're supposed to knock, wait for an answer, and then come in," you scolded, pointing at him like a disappointed teacher. "I'm telling on you with Aina-san."

Keishin ignored you completely and looked at Asahi, who was still sitting upright, blushing furiously and trying to disappear into the mattress.

"You good, Azumane?"

"I—y-yes, Ukai-san." His voice cracked again.

"Cool. It's getting late. I'm driving you back before my mom starts planning your wedding."

You covered your face again. "Oh my god."

Keishin grinned like the devil himself. "I mean, the lighting in here is very romantic. Got the moody art vibes going. Intimate little house. Real nesting behavior."

Asahi made a noise like he was about to die.

You pushed yourself upright and threw a pillow at your cousin.

He caught it. And then had the audacity to wink.

"Five minutes. Shoes on," he said, walking off like this wasn't the most mortifying moment of your life.

You glanced at Asahi, who looked absolutely stunned.

"I'm so sorry," you whispered.

He blinked. Then... smiled. A little crooked, a little shy. "He's kinda cool."

You sighed. "He's something."

Asahi stood and offered you a hand to help you up. "Still my favorite night, though."

You smiled back. "Mine too."

Outside, Keishin yelled, "Clock's ticking, lovebirds!"

You walked him to the door, your fingers still laced with his, heart still raw and full in your chest. The hallway lights were dim now, the house quiet except for the distant hum of Keishin muttering something about teens in love and gas money.

Asahi turned to you at the genkan, his hand gently brushing your cheek. His eyes lingered there—still tender, still stormy with everything you’d shared tonight.

"I'll text you when I get home," he said softly.

You nodded, already missing him.

And then, he leaned in.

The kiss was small. Barely more than the brush of lips. But it was full of meaning—reverent, like a promise whispered in a temple.

When he pulled away, your eyes stayed closed for a beat longer than his.

"Sleep well," he murmured.

"You too," you whispered back, your fingers reluctant to let go of his.

He stepped into the night, and you watched him go until Keishin's car disappeared down the road.

The kura was quiet when you came back in, but it no longer felt as small as it used to. You touched your sketchbook on the desk, the warmth of his presence still lingering in every corner of your little house.

Your heart didn't feel heavy with memory.

It felt light—with hope.

Next chapter↪ (coming soon<3)

tags. @strxnged; @frankoreoz

[inkpetrichor]

saw it was wednesday and started kicking my feet!! love ur writing sooo bad

Me when I get these messages:

I love y'all

[inkpetrichor]

me every time you upload!!!!!! BIG FAN OF YOUR WORK💗💗💗💗😼😼😼😼🤩🤩🤩🤩

YOU'RE TOO SWEET ༼⁠;⁠´⁠༎ຶ⁠ ⁠۝ ⁠༎ຶ⁠༽ thank you so much for your support.

Next muse chapter coming on Sundayyyyy >:33

[inkpetrichor]

Nasty Dog! | Kuroo Tetsurou x f!reader

7.- Part seven

masterlist here<3

cw. MDNI. fem! reader. delinquent! reader. use of yn. smut. p in v. brat reader, brat tamer kuroo (we love that around these parts). power struggle. cowgirl. kuroo being a whiny fuck. lemme know if i missed anything ;3 wc. 5.8k an. a little break from the shitshow y'all but be ready lol. comments and reblogs are always appreciated<3

Kuroo's house smelled like clean laundry and the faintest trace of his cologne. The air was cooler inside, still holding the chill from when he'd opened the window that morning. 

You kicked off your boots in the genkan, too tired to hide the slight hitch in your breath as the adrenaline drained from your body, letting out a sigh and flexing once more your bruised hand.

"That fucker has a strong face, I'll give him that."

Kuroo was already rummaging in the bathroom. You heard the click of a cabinet, the rattle of a first-aid box.

By the time you went upstairs and stepped into his room, he was sitting on the edge of his bed, kit open beside him, sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

"Sit," he said quietly, nodding to the spot beside him.

The springs of his bed creaked slightly when you sat down.

He took your hand in his like it was breakable. Turned it over in his palm, inspecting the busted knuckles. When the antiseptic hit, it burned deep. You hissed and looked away, jaw locked.

"Sorry," he muttered, frowning.

His fingers moved with care—more than you were used to.  The guys would've just slapped a band-aid on it and called it character-building. Kuroo was deliberate and meticulous. Like if he wrapped it right, maybe it wouldn't hurt so badly underneath.

"You twisted into the punch?" he asked, almost to himself.

"Yeah," you mumbled. "Didn't mean to split it, though."

"You've got good form."

You snorted. "Thanks. My old man taught me."

When he finally finished wrapping your hand, he didn't let go. Just held it, thumb brushing the edge of the gauze, like he didn't want to stop touching you.

"Who was it?" he asked.

Your stomach coiled.

You should've told him. The whole story—how you'd had a one-time thing with Junpei, how he wasn't over it, how he started talking shit about you and Emi. How the word slut made your blood boil.

If you were smarter—or learned more from your past communication fuckups with Kuroo—you would've said everything right then and there. Spilled it out and fixed it before it could actually become a problem.

But you didn't answer.

His jaw ticked, but he didn't push.

Instead, his gaze lifted to yours—steady, unreadable. "You hit him for Emi, didn't you?"

You nodded. And he nodded back.

No judgment. No questions. Just a quiet understanding that made something behind your ribs tighten.

He let go of your hand with a defeated sigh, then slid two knuckles under your chin, tilting your face toward his. The action sent a shiver of anticipation down your spine.

"You're such a pain in the ass," he murmured, serious. But you didn't miss the way his eyes jumped down to your lips when he spoke.

You tilted your head and cocked a brow in a quiet challenge, watching his pupils dilate at the sight of your smirk.

"Be honest. You love that I'm a little rough around the edges."

His mouth twitched into a crooked half-smile.

"Yeah? You think I get hard over you being a walking red flag?"

You leaned in, voice low and lips inches away from his. "I think you do. You literally are right now."

"Touché."

For a second, the weight of the day hovered between you—sore knuckles, rumors you couldn't outrun, the silence you were too scared to fill. Kuroo didn't pull away, but he didn't lean in either. Not like he usually did. Not like he wanted to be the one to start.

So you asked.

"Will you kiss me?" Voice lower. Honest.

His brows lifted just slightly, caught off guard. "You asking nicely?"

"I need it," you admitted. "Need you. Right now."

Then his mouth was on yours—hot, hungry. The tension snapped like a live wire.

He kissed you like he was rewarding you for asking so sweetly. Like he'd been holding it in all day.  Hot hands slid up your back, dragging your body tight against his, his tongue sliding over yours in a kiss that was filthy and wet and so full of want it left you gasping. You bit his bottom lip. Tugged his hair.

And then—he slowed.

Broke the kiss, forehead pressed to yours, panting.

"You okay?" he murmured, brushing his nose against yours.

"Yeah." You swallowed, breath shaky. "Better now."

His hand slid under your shirt, slow and deliberate, fingers dragging over your ribs. But you knew that look in his eyes—that careful hesitation. That maddening tenderness he defaulted to when he thought you were on edge.

You grabbed his collar and tugged him in.

"Tetsurou. Don't treat me like I'm gonna break."

That made something flicker behind his eyes—something darker. Familiar.

"Then don't act like you want to."

You shoved him back onto his bed.

He landed with a surprised huff, propping himself up on his elbows, shirt tugged halfway up from the scuffle. 

The sight of him—flushed, hair mussed, lips swollen—set your pulse thrumming.

"Is that how we're doing this?" he asked, eyes sparking with challenge.

You crawled over him, straddling his waist, your busted hand braced carefully beside his head while the other slid under his shirt. He was already half-hard beneath you, starting to strain against the fabric of his pants.

"Unless you're too tired, captain."

His grin was wicked, eyes darkened.

"Oh, you're really asking for it tonight. I'm gonna fuck the attitude right out of your mouth."

You gave your hips a slow, teasing roll. His brows furrowed and a low moan slipped from his lips.

"Then shut me up already."

With a groan, he flipped you under him like it was nothing—hands pinning your wrists, mouth dragging down your neck, kissing every inch like he needed to taste the proof you were here, alive, his. 

It was rough in the way you liked—his grip a little possessive, teeth grazing your collarbone—but always with that frustrating tenderness underneath. Like no matter how wild it got, he was still holding something back. Still keeping you safe.

He pulled away from you to take off his shirt and grab a condom from his nightstand. You stared at his naked torso with your lip between your teeth all lean, lazy muscle, and half-tamed chaos. Impossibly hot.

He climbed on top of you, mouth crashing into yours again—filthy and deep—one hand back to pinning your wrists while the other dragged down your body. Shirt shoved up. Your thighs already falling open for him.

When his fingers slid into your underwear, you whimpered into the kiss.

"Fuck," he hissed, rubbing slow circles against your clit. "You're dripping. You like fighting that much?"

You bit his lip and tugged at your pinned wrists.

"Shut up. You're just that hot, alright?"

That earned you a sweet smile and two fingers—deep and slow, curling just right. Your back arched, thighs shaking as he kept grinding the heel of his palm against your clit with every thrust.

"God, listen to you," he muttered. "You act so tough and you're melting for me. You wanna cum on my fingers like a good girl?"

"Not enough," you breathed. "I want your cock."

"Oh, now you're polite."

You laughed—breathless, shaking—an aggressive warning slipping past your lips. "Tetsurou..."

He groaned at the rough sound of his name on your throat. Then he tugged your underwear off, kissing down your stomach, over your knees, and into your inner thighs. Nipping and biting as your fingers laced through his hair. 

He licked a filthy stripe through your folds, slow and hot, then gave your clit a single, hard suck—just to tease. Just to watch you squirm.

"I should make you beg since you wanna be a brat," he said against your core. The vibration made a shiver run up your spine.

"You should just shut up and fuck me."

He growled—low, dangerous—and fumbled out of his shorts. You barely caught a glimpse of him slipping a condom on before he was lined up, head brushing your entrance.

You moaned into his mouth, legs wrapping tight around his waist as he filled you, tip snuggling right into your cervix, stretching you open inch by inch. You clawed at his back, gasping, struggling to pull the air he fucked out of you back into your lungs. 

He didn't move right away—just stayed there, deep inside you, forehead pressed to yours again.

"You feel so fucking good," he groaned. "Like you were made for me."

You squeezed around him, egging him on. Begging him to move.

He started thrusting—hard, deep, just rough enough to steal the breath from your lungs. His hand found yours again—your bruised one—and laced your fingers together like he needed to anchor you to him. Every thrust hit perfectly, your moans got louder, more desperate, each wet slap pushing you closer to the edge.

He read your body like it was his favorite book. When your hips stopped meeting his halfway, your eyes rolled back, and your nails clawed at his back like you were trying to stay grounded—he knew you were about to break.

"You close?" he panted, his thrusts getting rougher, deeper. Dying to feel you come undone around him.

You nodded frantically, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.

"Don't stop—ah! Tetsurou~"

He grunted, fucking you harder, messier. You gasped, legs trembling, until white-hot pleasure snapped in your core all at once. You cried out, body tensing, pulsing through your orgasm as his name fell from your mouth like prayer.

Kuroo nearly lost it right then.

"F-fuck. That's it—that's so hot."

He slowed just enough to kiss you—hard and breathless—fucking you through the aftershocks, still clinging to the edge of his own climax.

You pushed gently on his chest and he stopped instantly, eyes searching yours to see if something was wrong.

The look you gave him—hair messy, lips swollen, sprawled across his pillow—could have ended him right there.

"Let me get on top."

Your voice was hoarse, still trembling with release. But you needed to see him. Needed to watch him fall apart.

His eyes flared with surprise, but he didn't argue. He eased out with a groan and rolled onto his back. You climbed over him and guided him back in, and he gripped your hips hard as you sank down with a hiss, letting out a strangled moan.

"Oh my god—fuck—" The noises slipping out of his throat made a satisfied smile tug at your lips.

You set a rhythm. Slow. Torturous. Rocking your hips slowly every time you sank back down. Watching him unravel.

"Look at you now," you purred, leaning close. "Thought you liked being in control."

His head tipped back with a helpless moan, hands digging into your hips like he was holding on for dear life.

You rolled again, deeper. He cried out—loud, desperate.

"Ahh—ahhh f-fuckfuckfuck—"

You picked up the pace, watching his jaw slacken, brows knit together. Sweat dripped from his jaw, down his neck. His Adam's apple bobbed as he tried to hold himself together.

His hands slid down to your ass, squeezing hard.

"Shit, baby—please..." he moaned. "Just like that—don't stop."

His voice cracked.

"Tetsurou~" you teased, teeth grazing his ear. "You gonna come for me like this? So easy?"

You shifted just slightly and he lost it—started thrusting up into you with abandon. His tip kissed your cervix and his pelvis rubbed your clit and he was so vocal. You were spiraling again.

"Mmhff— I—I can't—fuck, I'm—"

He slammed your hips down one more time and came with a shout—loud, high, wrecked. His whole body bucked, hot pulses spilling deep as he whimpered through his orgasm.

You came right after—shaking, fluttering around him so tight it dragged the last of his climax out with a helpless gasp. He didn't think it was possible to feel this good while still coming.

You slowed, rolling through the aftershocks. He twitched inside you, arms wrapping around your waist like he needed to keep you still or he'd unravel again.

You collapsed on his chest, lips brushing sweat from the curve of his neck.

Kuroo looked wrecked—kiss-bruised, hair sweat-slicked, eyes glassy. His hands shook faintly as they gripped your hips.

"You okay?" you murmured against his skin, nuzzling the dip between his collarbones.

He huffed a broken laugh.

"Define okay."

You grinned, smug and satisfied as you kissed along his throat, the edge of his jaw. He was boneless—soft, pliant, letting you mouth at him like he had nothing left to give. All that volume now a sad, sweaty flop, and you couldn't stop grinning as you dragged your nails lazily down his sides and he made a pathetic little sound.

"You get all whiny when I ride you," you murmured, nipping his throat. "It's cute."

"I do not—" he started, voice ruined.

"You do," you cut him off. "All needy and desperate and sweet. Gonna cry next time?"

He smacked your ass, more affectionate than punishing.

"Shut up."

You laughed, curling into him as he pulled the blanket over both of you. His hand dragged up your back, the other cradling your head as he held you tight against his chest, still catching his breath.

He was quiet for a beat, his thumb caressed the gauze over your knuckles. Then, softly:

"I've seen you fight before, you know."

You lifted your head slightly to glance at him.

"What, like... really fight?"

He nodded. Sitting up to tie the condom and throw it away.

"Out behind that sketchy little karaoke two stations over. You cracked some dude's nose with a mean left hook and then two jabs to his stomach. It was gnarly. He landed a punch on you but you just kept going until he was out cold."

You blinked.

"That was like years ago."

"I remember," he said, putting on his boxers and slipping into bed again. "You had blood on your knuckles and this look in your eye like you'd do it again."

You raised a brow, looking at him with a teasing smirk.

"Was I cool? Did that make you wanna fuck me?"

"That made me wanna know you," he said, voice soft but sure. "I remember the way you smiled when you wiped the blood off your lips. Like it wasn't a big deal. Like you'd done it a hundred times. Like you enjoyed it."

You rolled your eyes and buried your face in his neck.

"Don't get all poetic about it. I just fucked up a guy that grabbed Emi's ass."

"I'm not judging," he murmured. "I just think you're better than throwing hands in alleyways."

You narrowed your eyes at him playfully. "Are you trying to get me to join a boxing gym or something?"

He shrugged, eyes flicking to the ceiling. "I dunno. Maybe. Just think you're wasting your punches on high school trash. You're strong. Smart too, when you give a shit."

You smiled faintly, letting his words settle before nudging his cheek with your nose.

"What, you want me to play volleyball?" You purred.

That made him snort, eyes crinkling. "You'd spike like a monster, I bet."

"Oh yeah?" you teased. "Gonna train me, coach?"

He looked at you for a second too long, the wheels in his head visibly turning. Then he sat up suddenly, startling you.

"Wait. Actually. I got the key to the volleyball gym. We should go."

You blinked. "What, like... now?"

"No, not now—Jesus, I can't even feel my legs," he groaned dramatically, flopping back into the pillows. "But tomorrow morning, before class, before morning practice. I'll teach you how to serve. Maybe a little footwork. You'll suck at first but I'll make you decent."

You laughed—genuine and full-bellied—and something about the way his face lit up made your chest ache a little.

He looked stupidly excited—like he was already planning drills in his head, imagining your form, your footwork. And beneath all of it, you felt the quiet thrum of what he wasn't saying:

I want you in my world. Stay a while.

You softened and kissed his cheek, then melted into the warmth of his chest again.

"Alright, captain," you said quietly. "You're on."

His arms tightened around you instantly. "You're serious?"

"Yeah," you murmured. "You matter to me. So... maybe volleyball will too."

He didn't say anything at first—just held you closer, burying his face in your hair like he wasn't sure how to respond without giving too much away.

"You should stay over," he said after a moment. "My grandparents won't even know you were here. They come back tomorrow night."

You hesitated, not wanting him to get in trouble—but the thought of falling asleep in his arms and waking up to him too was way too tempting to pass up.

"My, um..." you cleared your throat. "My underwear is ruined tho. Didn't bring another pair."

"We could... Wash it in the sink?"

You snorted.

"Sure? Why not."

You reached over the side of the bed, grabbed your phone and fired off a quick text to Emi:

: If my dad calls, I'm at your place.

It took her exactly ten seconds to reply.

Emi <3: ദ്ദി ˉ��̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧ Emi <3: tell Kuroo I say hi~ Emi <3: tell him to use deodorant (·•᷄‎ࡇ•᷅ )

Kuroo peeked over your shoulder, grinning. "She say yes?"

"She said you stink."

He dragged you down into the pillows again, groaning. "Tell her I'm a fucking athlete."

You laughed into his shoulder. "She knows. That's why she's judging harder."

Kuroo just hummed, content, his hand tracing lazy circles over your bare back. One arm was thrown lazily over your waist, fingers twitching now and then like he couldn't not be touching you. 

You were curled into his side, cheek resting against his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat grounding you. Your legs tangled loosely under the thin comforter, your bodies still radiating that heat that didn't quite want to fade yet.

Your thumb idly dragged over your screen, rereading Emi's last text.

Your brows knit, barely noticeable—but Kuroo caught it anyway.

"You okay?" he murmured, his voice low and a little hoarse.

You didn't answer right away.

Instead, you dropped the phone onto the mattress and rolled half onto your stomach, face turned into his chest like you could hide in the warmth of him.

"I'm worried about her." you finally said.

Kuroo's hand stilled on your back.

"Emi?"

You nodded, lips brushing his skin. You lifted your eyes to his face. He was watching you—gaze sharp but soft around the edges, like he was already trying to figure out how to help, even before he knew the full story.

"She said Hebinuma's spreading rumors about her again. Like what she's doing to us. I asked if she could hold on and she said she was fine."

"But you don't believe her."

"I want to." Your voice cracked a little.

Kuroo didn't interrupt. His hand moved again—warm, steady—tracing circles on your skin like he could smooth the edges of your thoughts.

"She's my girl," you said quietly. "My ride or die. I want to believe her. But..."

You didn't say the rest. You couldn't.

Not your secret to tell.

Hebinuma has her pictures.

Kuroo shifted under you and gently tugged the comforter higher over your hips, like covering you could offer comfort. Protection. Something.

"You think she's scared to tell you?"

"I think she's trying to protect me," you murmured bitterly. "Even if it means letting herself suffer for it."

Kuroo exhaled slowly. His thumb brushed your shoulder blade, and he dipped his head so his mouth was closer to your hair.

"Sound familiar?"

You curled your fingers into the soft fabric of the pillowcase. "I hate that she's going through it alone. I hate that I didn't notice sooner. And I hate that bitch Hebinuma."

Kuroo didn't laugh. Didn't make a smartass comment.

He just pressed a kiss to your temple. Quiet. Firm.

"You're not a mind reader," he murmured. "You're doing what you can. Emi knows you love her."

"But what if it's not enough?"

"It is," he said, with more certainty than you could summon. "Because you see her. You protect her. That matters."

You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding and closed your eyes, letting yourself sink into his warmth.

Another kiss—this time to the crown of your head. His hand slid up to cradle your neck.

"I've got your back," he whispered. "Always. Hers too, if she'll let me."

You bit the inside of your cheek, trying not to cry. "God, you're so fucking good."

He smirked into your hair. "I know right? I'm an angel."

Just as the quiet started to settle again, the sound of a key turning in the front door echoed faintly through the apartment.

Kuroo froze. You both did.

He blinked like he was trying to process it in slow motion, then cursed under his breath and rolled out of bed so fast the blanket tangled around your legs.

"Shit. My grandparents—"

You sat up, clutching the blanket to your chest. "They're back?"

"I thought they weren't coming home 'til tomorrow night," he hissed.

He crossed to his dresser in nothing but his boxers, abs taut, one hand running through his disaster of bedhead.

He opened a drawer and rifled through it until he pulled out a worn black shirt with a faded band logo.

He tossed it to you without looking back. "That one's the softest. I wore it out, but I couldn't bring myself to get rid of it."

He flinched when a voice called his name. He cursed again, dragging open a second drawer and yanking out the first pair of sweatpants he touched. "Crap, crap, crap—okay, just stay here. Don't move. Don't even breathe."

You raised a brow. "They gonna hear me breathing?"

"I'm just panicking, let me have this," he muttered, tugging on a hoodie over his head. He was halfway to the door before spinning back to kiss your forehead—fast, a little frantic. "I'll keep them downstairs. Don't come out unless it's to jump out the window."

"Kuroo—"

He turned, flashed you a grin that was half-charm, half-fear-of-god. "Y/N, I'm begging you. Just give me ten minutes before you start breaking house rules and parental trust... Grandparental trust?" he shook his head. "Anyway, I'll be right back."

Then he slipped out the door, gently easing it shut behind him.

You were left in his bed, tangled in the warmth he'd left behind, the scent of him still clinging to your skin and his shirt. You heard his voice downstairs a second later—bright, casual, like he'd totally not just been naked in bed with his secret girlfriend.

His grandfather's deeper voice responded, muffled by the floorboards, followed by the lighter chime of his grandmother's laugh. You could just barely make out the exchange:

"Back already?" "The roads were clear." "You eat yet?" "Was gonna heat something up."

You imagined him moving around the kitchen, acting natural, trying to block any conversation about "heading upstairs." Probably throwing himself in front of the microwave like it owed him rent.

You took the time to properly look at his space. His room was dim, scattered in the quiet aftermath of everything you'd done. A few textbooks were stacked haphazardly on his desk. His bookshelf was tidy—rows of science journals, a few cracked-spined novels, and manga hidden like guilty pleasures. The whole room smelled faintly like him: warm skin, cedar soap, the ghost of cologne, and something sharper—like ozone and summer air and sex.

You sank into the pillow, heart finally slowing, and reached for your phone. A new notification buzzed the screen.

Emi <3: u alive??? /ᐠ. .ᐟ\ Ⳋ Emi <3: also pls tell me Kuroo has deodorant. now i'm worried ( ˶óᯅò) Emi <3: also also i kno ur probably naked so i'll keep this short: hebinuma posted smth. i think it's about me

Your stomach dipped. You sat up slowly, blanket sliding down your thighs as you unlocked the screen.

: What did she say? You okay babes?

Emi <3: it's not super obvious. just a photo. hospital slippers. caption like "some people always end up back where they belong" Emi <3: she didn't tag me or anything. it's vague

: That's not vague. That's fucking intentional.

Emi <3: right.

Three dots. Then nothing.

You stared at the screen, jaw clenched, the muscles in your arms coiling up tight. Your first instinct was violence. The kind that came without thinking. You wanted to find Hebinuma and plant her face into the nearest wall until she got the message.

But.

You'd promised Kuroo you wouldn't. Promised him you'd handle it differently this time.

Your fists curled in the blanket. Your pulse was thudding in your ears.

: If she posts anything else you tell me right away.

Emi <3: i will. promise.

Another pause. A longer one.

: Don't do anything dumb.: I mean it.

Emi <3: ദ്ദി Emi <3: u don't loose your cool n beat her up, she might go coo coo and spread the pics aroundEmi <3: now go fuck ur nerd or smt. ur stressin me out (¬'‸'¬)(¬'‸'¬)

: Fuck you.

Emi <3: u love me (づ￣³￣)づ

You exhaled, slow and shaky, pressing the heel of your hand to your eyes.

Because the truth was—this wasn't just petty rumors or high school cruelty anymore. It was calculated. It was cruel. It was Hebinuma digging up things that should've stayed buried just to prove she could still make someone hurt.

And Emi?

Emi had already lived through more than most people knew.

You didn't care what Kuroo said. If Hebinuma pushed her again—if she so much as hinted at taking this further—

You weren't gonna stand back.

You'd try to find a way to burn her without breaking your promise.

But if you couldn't. Then something was better than nothing.

Because you weren't just gonna watch someone you love fall apart again.

Not this time.

You pulled Kuroo's shirt over your head, the cotton clinging to your still-warm skin like it had always belonged there. It hit mid-thigh and smelled unmistakably like him. Worn-in, washed a hundred times, soft as a sigh.

The collar slipped off your shoulder just enough to be criminal.

You padded to the window, phone still clutched in hand, watching the dusk creeping across the rooftops outside. The voices downstairs had faded into the hum of television and casual conversation. Laughter. The clink of plates. Safe, ordinary sounds that felt too far away from the cold twist still knotted under your ribs.

You turned, unsure whether to message Emi again or not—and froze when you saw him.

Kuroo stood in the doorway like he'd forgotten how to move.

His eyes dragged and locked on you. The oversized shirt. Your bare legs. The faint pink on your cheeks.

His own hoodie slung crookedly off one shoulder.

He didn't blink.

"...What?" you asked, glancing down at yourself.

His mouth parted like he was going to answer, but nothing came out. Then he closed his door and dropped to his knees, head low, ears pink, hand scrubbing down his face.

"That's actually not fair," he muttered.

You blinked. "You okay?"

He lifted his head, face flushed and a little wild. "No. No, I am not. You—wearing my shirt—looking at me like that? I'm actively malfunctioning." "This was your idea, genius."

"Yeah, and now I wanna drag you back under me and commit sins the pope couldn't forgive."

You laughed—quiet, full of relief you didn't know you needed. He crossed the room and flopped on his bed, you joined him under the sheets, your limbs brushing his immediately, heat passing between your bodies even through the fabric. You leaned in until your lips were just at his ear.

"Later."

He groaned like you'd stabbed him. "You're the devil."

You kissed the side of his throat, and he tilted his head like he was seconds away from changing his mind about "later."

But then you pulled back, eyes catching his, and your smile faded.

"Emi texted," you said softly.

Kuroo's posture shifted immediately—he propped up on one elbow, brow furrowing. "Yeah? Everything okay?"

You hesitated. That same weight came back—like gravity had doubled under your skin.

"She's not saying much. But Hebinuma posted something." You paused.

Kuroo's eyes darkened. "What did she post?"

You shook your head. "Doesn't matter. Not really. Emi knew it was aimed at her. And it rattled her."

His jaw ticked, and he sat up straighter. "Shit. You think she's okay?"

"I don't know." You looked down at your hands. "She's trying not to make it a big deal, but it is. It's Hebinuma poking old wounds. Ones I don't think ever really healed."

Kuroo was quiet for a second. Then he reached out and touched your thigh, grounding. "You scared?"

You nodded, barely.

He leaned in, resting his forehead against yours.

"I know I promised you I'd leave Hebinuma alone," you whispered. "But if she keeps going... if she keeps coming for Emi like this—"

"I know," he murmured.

Your eyes flicked up to meet his.

"I'll keep my promise," you said. "But I'm not just gonna stand back and watch her hurt someone I love."

Kuroo's breath caught a little at that—maybe the phrasing, maybe the fire in your voice.

Then he kissed your temple. His thumb traced idle circles into your skin.

"Hopefully it won't come to that," he said.

Eventually, the lights went out, and the room dimmed into quiet shadow. He slid into bed beside you, arm wrapping around your waist like it belonged there. Your fingers fidgeted with the hem of his shirt as your legs found each other again beneath the sheets.

The silence stretched, thick with everything neither of you wanted to say out loud.

You leaned into him, pressing your forehead to his shoulder. He wrapped his arm around you, steady and sure, and for a long moment, you just stayed there, wrapped in warmth and quiet.

Then his hand slipped under the hem of his shirt—fingertips brushing the back of your thigh like an idle thought.

"You are still wearing my shirt, you know," he said, voice low.

You smiled against his shoulder. "And?"

"I'm only human."

When you tilted your head to look at him, the air changed. His gaze caught yours—darker now, slow-burning, but softer than before. Less hungry. Fuller. Like you were something to be held, not consumed.

Maybe both.

He brushed a piece of hair behind your ear, his knuckles trailing down your cheek after.

"You've got no idea what you do to me when you wear my stuff."

You leaned in slowly, nose brushing his. "I think I'm starting to realize."

His mouth met yours with a tenderness that made your breath catch.

His hand slid up your spine, fingers threading into your hair as he deepened the kiss—gentle, unhurried. His other hand rested on your bare thigh where the shirt had ridden up, thumb tracing lazy circles into your skin.

You shifted, swinging a leg over his hips, and he groaned softly against your mouth, head falling back just slightly like he was trying not to lose it.

"You're killing me," he murmured.

"You started it," you breathed, brushing your lips over his again, slower this time.

His hands settled at your waist beneath the fabric, pulling you flush against him. "I was being good," he whispered into your neck, lips trailing just under your jaw. "Trying to give you space."

"I don't want space," you said, barely audible.

He pulled back just enough to look at you—really look.

"Just... stay with me," you whispered. "Like this. Don't let go yet."

That broke something in him. His hands tightened at your waist, and he kissed you like he'd never get the chance again. Deeper now. Needier. Still not rushing, but desperate in the way only someone trying to feel everything could be.

Your fingers tangled in his hair. His name slipped from your lips in between kisses, a breathless sound that made him shiver.

Shirt tangled between you, legs twined beneath the covers, he didn't press for more. Just kissed you slow, again and again, like he was reminding himself that you were here. Real. His.

And that you wanted him just as much.

Your fingers brushed the nape of his neck, playing with the edge of his hair, and he hummed against your mouth like he could melt into you if he tried hard enough. He shifted a little, careful not to make the bed creak too loudly.

"They'll hear us," you whispered, half-laughing into his jaw.

"Let them," he muttered, then sighed. "No, you're right. I'm being good. I'm so good right now."

You snorted. "This is you being good?"

"This is me being a goddamn saint."

But still, he didn't stop kissing you. Softer now. Slower. One hand curved against your back, the other resting at your waist beneath the shirt, like he couldn't stand to let go just yet.

Outside the bedroom door, the muffled clink of dishes and the low hum of his grandparents' voices filtered in through the old house walls.

But inside this room—this hush between two heartbeats—you were safe. Sheltered. Tangled up in Kuroo's shirt and his arms and the feeling that, maybe for now, this was enough.

He kissed your temple one last time and pulled you close, breath warm against your skin.

"You're trouble," he whispered.

You smiled against his collarbone. "And you like it."

Kuroo shifted just enough to tuck you both beneath the covers, curling one arm around your waist. His lips pressed to your shoulder in a lazy goodnight.

For a while, neither of you said anything.

Just the sound of your breathing. The warmth of the sheets. The way your heartbeat gradually steadied in time with his.

Then, in the dark:

"...Tetsurou?" you whispered into the stillness.

"Hm?"

"You ever shared a bed like this before?"

He didn't answer right away. You could feel him thinking, the way his fingers slowly traced the curve of your back beneath the fabric.

"No." he said at last, voice quiet and honest. "Not like this."

You shifted closer, cheek against his chest, breaths syncing up.

"You?"

"Never," you murmured.

A pause.

"I like it," he said softly.

You smiled against his skin. "Yeah. Me too."

His hand slid into your hair, fingers combing slow and sweet.

"You feel good?" he said after a while.

You hummed, eyelids fluttering. "You're warm. And way better than my lumpy mattress."

"I knew it," he whispered dramatically. "You only came over to upgrade your bed."

You grinned. "That and this shirt. It's mine now, by the way."

"Figures. Everything else of mine is already in your hands."

That one hit deeper than either of you expected.

He tightened his grip around your waist.

"...We're really doing this now, huh? You're mine now," he murmured, a little vulnerable, a little awed.

You looked up at him, eyes still sleepy, but certain. "We are."

He smiled into the dark, a slow curve of lips against your forehead, and didn't let go.

The room softened around you, shadows gentling into corners, the fan humming above in quiet rhythm. He shifted closer until your foreheads touched, his hand curling around your waist like instinct. You nuzzled your nose into the curve of his neck.

You could feel how warm he was, how relaxed. The kind of comfort that only came when your guard was down. When you knew someone had you.

You didn't even realise when you drifted to a comfortable sleep.

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tags. @themoreeviltwin @taylordenae @rhea-sylvea @iluvikeu @tgnvhp @adangerousbalance @orphicarchive @tammytaamm @iluvmusicxoxo @rvm1ne @kuzoq @espressocandies @ashley95943734 @jayathelostdragon @kyokoyya @crystal-lilac @kuzuven0208 @lblackwood @evilari111 @chaoticotaku

[inkpetrichor]

Muse | Azumane Asahi x f!reader

8. Tokyo

masterlist here<3

cw. angsty (whats new lol). nightmare. TW. (metions of sh scars and wounds). past trauma. blood. itching (anxiety). mentions of abusive parents (reader's). hurt/comfort. it gets a little suggestive but in a very cute way. lemme now if i missed anything<3 wc. 5.8k an. this one's a little longer to celebrate muse is back from hiatus! enjoy<3

You knew it was a nightmare the moment it started.

That creeping dread rising in your throat, sharp and bitter, like acid threatening to burn through an empty stomach—it was familiar. You'd felt it before.

You opened your eyes—but there was nothing. Just black. Thick and heavy, like velvet pressed against your face. You could see your body, but not the world around you. Your surroundings remained unchanged despite your open eyes.

Something liquid lapped at your ankles and clung to your skin. Cold. Sticky. Too thick to be water.

Somewhere in the distance, the echo of a single drop.

Then another.

Each one echoed around you, the sound not too close and yet not far away.

Then a slow warmth trickled down your arms. And when you looked down, you saw them—

The old, pale scars split open again, their edges weeping an inky black. Fresh. Unhealed.

Blood?

No. Not blood.

Ink.

The thick, suffocating ink that pooled around you, rising higher with each passing second, was the same as the liquid seeping from your skin.

Your stomach turned.

You gagged. Tasted bile. Spat, but even that came out dark.

Then came the pain—slow at first, a stinging burn. One by one, the scars split open, thin lines tearing like wet paper.

The ink poured freely now, warm rivers painting your skin in glossy black. Your vision blurred. Your body swayed.

"What the fuck?" The words formed on your lips but made no sound.

What had once been a slow, creeping tide was up to your knees now, rising higher, higher. Desperation clawed at your chest as you pressed trembling hands against the wounds, but the flow wouldn't stop.

No, no, no. Please no.

You tried to run. It didn't matter where. Just forward. Just away.

But the dizziness in your head made even a few steps impossible. Your movements were clumsy, unsteady, like a drunken sway with no clear direction. Each step faltered, staggering under the weight of something you couldn't control.

Until you fell, face first into the lake of ink.

It filled your mouth.

It tasted like blood.

You choked, flailing. Couldn't find the surface. Couldn't see.

Couldn't think.

And then—

A light.

A face.

A pair of tired, brown eyes you knew all too well staring down at you.

Asahi...?

He looked like he was about to cry. His brows were drawn, his lips set in a grimace. His face held no relief, no comfort. Only quiet resignation.

Like you were something small. Fragile. A wounded creature bleeding out before him.

Like you were something he could not save.

Like you were something he had to save.

You hated that look the most—pity.

You woke with a gasp, dragging air into your lungs—too much, too fast.

Somewhere in the distance, your alarm clock buzzed sharply, rattling against the nightstand. It pulled you further from the nightmare's grip.

You blinked. Slowly. Letting the room come into focus.

The first thing you saw was a murky cup of water, streaked with color—paintbrushes slumped inside like forgotten soldiers after a long war.

You'd fallen asleep at your desk.

Again.

A groan escaped your lips as you lifted your head, only to feel the tug of paper stuck to the corner of your mouth and the gritty crust at the edges of your eyes.

Drool. Tears.

You peeled the page away with a grimace, frowning at the faint stain it left behind. The graphite had smudged beneath it, lines bleeding into your anatomy sketches.

It didn't matter much. Just drafts. Concept art for a larger piece.

Faceless spikers, frozen mid-air, drawn from different angles—some better than others. Ravens in flight. A rough attempt at an iron wall.

And then—

A pair of tired-looking eyes. Furrowed brows. A quiet intensity captured in soft lines and deep shadows.

Your chest tightened.

You must’ve done a good job on that one, judging by how your pulse quickened just staring at it.

But right now, that same gaze made your heart twist in a different way. Your nails drifted, mindlessly, to the skin of your arms, scratching gently at scar tissue you were lucky to find intact.

No open wounds. No ink.

After checking the spit and tears hadn't bled through to the next few pages, you shut your sketchbook—and the anatomy textbook you'd borrowed from the library.

Standing made your entire body rebel.

Your skin was damp with sweat. Your limbs, heavy. Your back ached from the unnatural angle you had slept in.

Every muscle felt like it had signed a pact against you—your back, your shoulders, even your toes. You hadn't just lost the battle of sleep. You'd lost the entire war of comfort.

Peeling off yesterday's clothes, you trudged to the bathroom. A glance in the mirror made you grimace—a bold graphite streak smeared across your cheek.

A lovely parting gift from your very unorthodox pillow choice.

The shower helped. The warm water loosened the stiffness in your joints, softened the fuzz in your head. But it didn't ease the itch in your arms. And it didn't wash away the image still seared behind your eyes—

His eyes.

The pity in your dream versus the softness you'd drawn just hours ago.

The weight in them. The quiet burden.

You shook your head hard, flicking water from your bangs as you turned off the tap.

No.

You couldn't dwell on it. You wouldn't let the dream follow you.

It wasn't the first time you'd had nightmares—But it was the first time Asahi had appeared in one.

You stood there for a moment, staring blankly at your uniform laid out on the bed. Hugging yourself. Shielding your skin from the cold licking at your damp limbs.

Aina-san wasn't kidding when she said Kuras were cold.

You still had things to do—get dressed, prep pork buns for the store, walk to school. You weren't late, but your body felt floaty, like your mind hadn't settled back in yet. Still off-center.

You were afraid you'd fuck up the buns.

The image of accidentally chopping off a finger and someone finding it in his lunch made you laugh, softly, through your nose.

You didn't know what that said about you.

"I'm gonna need coffee today," you muttered, exhaling long and low.

As your hands worked the dough—pressing, folding, turning—you began to feel it.

The dream, unspooling.

With every push of your weight into the table, it unraveled a little more. With every rhythmic slice of the knife—vegetables surrendering under its clean edge—it lost a little shape.

Precision.

Speed.

Control.

The memory of the nightmare was chopped down like the scallions and cabbage. Diced into something manageable. Smaller.

By the time you filled and sealed each little dough parcel, steam was rising from the pot. The air smelled savory and warm. The haze in your chest lifted, bit by bit, like the vapor drawing the unease out of you and up, out, to the ceiling.

Gone.

And when you set the buns into the display case that would keep them warm all day, you looked at them and whispered your goodbye—not out loud, but somewhere in your bones. By the time you came home, they’d be gone.

And maybe, if you were lucky, so would the dream.

You didn’t take one to taste like you always did before leaving.

If you had, you might've noticed this batch was a little bitter.

Needless to say, you were a little afraid to see Asahi after your nightmare. You were afraid you'd find those pity-filled eyes instead of the soft ones you loved so dearly—the ones that saw you, not as someone broken or fragile, but simply you.

But thankfully, nothing had changed. He greeted you that morning with his usual gentle smile, a bit rushed as he jogged toward the gym for morning practice. When you asked if you could tag along and sketch while he trained, his face lit up—not just with curiosity, but with something tender and warm, something that said he was happy to have you close.

Little did he know, the rhythmic sound of volleyballs striking hands and hardwood helped ground you. There was a kind of peace in it—a pulse, a beat, something steady to sync your breathing to. It quieted the restless thoughts, softened the noise in your head, and let your pencil glide across paper in confident, soothing strokes.

You filled a page with vanishing point studies, layers of gym windows and bleachers rendered in perspective, and one final sketch of the court itself—almost meditative in its precision.

The itch in your arms, the beast's pawing—began to calm.

Drawing and cooking: your quiet weapons. The things that scratched her behind the ears until she purred and curled back into sleep.

Still, the exhaustion clung to you. By fourth period, the caffeine tally had climbed to five canned coffees.

When the second yawn in five minutes overtook you, Asahi tilted his head, his brows furrowing in gentle concern.

"Had trouble sleeping?" he asked softly, voice warm and deep like a blanket fresh out of the dryer.

You rubbed your eye and tried to smile. "I guess you could say that… Hey, want to eat lunch in the library with me?"

His eyes widened slightly, then crinkled as a smile spread across his lips. It was so pure that your heart did a little somersault. You had to fight the sudden urge to reach out and cup his face, kiss that shy happiness off his mouth.

But there were too many eyes.

"Actually," he said, rubbing the back of his neck, cheeks dusted in the softest pink, "I found a cool place outside. There are not many people. If you want, we could… y'know… eat there."

"I'd love that."

He led you through the halls like it was the most sacred task of the day—his hand brushing yours once, then twice—before he pulled it back like it burned with nerves. You passed the tulips in the gardening club's patch, petals swaying in the summer breeze like dancers in slow motion, and then turned toward a quiet patch of grass beneath a cherry tree.

The buds weren't in bloom. It wasn't their time. But even in waiting, the tree had its own kind of beauty—strong, patient, steady.

You both sat down, a breath of warm wind washing over you, tousling your hair. His knee brushed yours, and neither of you moved away. A soft pink tinted both your cheeks.

This kinda feels like a date.

He opened his bentō box, and the subtle scent of cooked rice and grilled fish drifted through the air. It smelled real, like warmth and effort and home. The rice was packed carefully, little indentations still visible, like someone had touched it gently with their fingertips.

Nestled beside the rice were uneven but lovingly made slices of grilled salmon—some a little overdone, others not quite enough. Each imperfection only made it more charming.

"This looks delicious, Asahi-san. Can I try it?"

"A-Ah? S-sure!" He handed you his chopsticks, his fingers brushing yours, warm and slightly clammy. You caught the tiniest tremble.

You took a small bite, savoring the fish with a slice of boiled carrot. It was a little uneven too, a little thick in places—but it was soft, seasoned, thoughtful. Comfort on your tongue.

"It's delicious..."

Asahi shifted in place, bashful but watching your face like your opinion was the only one that mattered in the world.

"Really?"

"Yes! Your mom's a great cook."

His face flushed, deep and full, and he looked away to scratch behind his neck.

"Actually… I made it myself."

You blinked at him, wide-eyed, the corners of your mouth curling up.

"Really?! It's amazing! This is dangerous—you've ruined my boring sandwich forever."

His ears turned red as he took the chopsticks back, muttering something under his breath, flustered beyond reason. He glanced at your sandwich with the faintest frown, the crease between his brows forming gently.

"Why don't you cook bentō for yourself? You're a good cook, but you always eat store sandwiches."

You gave a sheepish smile. "I don't really have time in the mornings since I bake for the store. Nights I use for drawing or studying, and time just kind of… disappears."

"I could… bring you lunch," he blurted out, barely above a whisper.

"Just last night I fell asleep on my—" You paused, unsure you'd heard right. "Wait, what?"

He cleared his throat and met your eyes, more confident this time.

"I could cook for both of us. If you want to, I mean. I'm not that good, but I can improve. I want to."

The sincerity in his voice nearly knocked the air out of your lungs.

"Maybe we could take turns?" You smiled, trying to mask how shaken you were by his kindness. "I'd feel bad letting you do all the work. No one's ever done that for me..."

His face softened.

"No one's ever made you lunch? Not even your mom?"

You laughed, but it came out hollow.

"Especially not my mom. Dinner was my job back in Tokyo. My parents came home from work tired, and if I didn't have the house clean or my grades weren't good enough or I just made too much noise..."

The rest of the sentence floated away, like it didn't want to be said.

Asahi's face changed. The smile was gone. In its place: something firm, sad, and quiet.

"They sent you to sleep with no food?"

You shifted, suddenly wishing you hadn't said so much. You hated the way his brows drew together in concern—you didn't want pity.

You hugged yourself instinctively, pulling your hand away from his when he reached out. Too fast, too afraid.

It stung him a little. You didn't notice.

"I mean, it's fine. I got used to it. Bet there's people out there who had it worse."

"I don't think it's fine," he said, his voice low. "It's cruel."

"Asahi-san… it's okay."

"It isn’t. It hurt, didn't it?"

You bit your lip. The words were too close to your throat.

"Asahi, don't—"

"How could they do that to their daughter?"

A voice inside you cracked like lightning.

Yes! How could they!?

But another voice—sharper, meaner, older—growled at the bars of her cage.

A long silence stretched between you.

"I should've just gotten better grades."

His mouth parted slightly. His expression was like you'd just said something cruel about someone he loved.

"Just think about it," you continued. "I couldn't have been that hungry if it didn't push me to do better, right?"

"I don't think that's what you really believe."

You turned away before your eyes could betray you.

"Please... let's drop the subject, okay? If I keep talking, I'll get weird and ruin this whole day and I just... I don't want that."

Your eyes stung, and the smile you gave him did nothing but fuel the flames of his worries.

You weren't being honest. Not fully.

And it wasn't the first time.

At this point, he knew you well enough to read between the lines, and this time, there were more lines than usual.

The hand you rejected earlier had curled into a fist on his thigh as if trying to ground him, as if fighting the urge to reach out again. But he hesitated. Afraid he'd meet the same wall.

He hated this. Hated how you kept pulling away, even when he was right here, ready to be your anchor.

But he was the one who told you he'd wait.

So he nodded, respecting the boundary you had drawn—even if it felt unfair.

The way you shut him out, the way you danced around the topic with a hollow smile—it stung. Still, he couldn't push past it.

You were starting to feel familiar in the worst kind of way. Like that old enemy he thought he'd already conquered. That same tall iron wall he thought he'd broken through.

Why couldn't you let him in?

Why couldn't you trust him with whatever was tearing you apart?

A storm had crossed your face earlier, and now only silence remained—calm, but so far away.

And you? You just needed a second to put the beast back to sleep.

She writhed beneath your skin, claws scraping against your ribs—the confines of her cage—begging for a reason to break through. That familiar itch crawled across your arms—dangerous and sharp. But after a few quiet minutes, you forced yourself to ignore her growls. The tightness in your chest dulled just enough.

"So!"

Asahi jumped slightly at the sudden rise in your voice.

"How's the team after Seijoh? You've been pretty busy with practice… I appreciate you taking the time to have lunch with me."

He looked at you, not quite disapproving, but clearly not thrilled with your pivot. He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, his mouth opening as if to say something—then shutting again.

He didn't know why he felt so defeated.

Maybe it was the bitter taste in his mouth that had lingered ever since Seijoh.

Or maybe it was you. The way you always pulled away just when he thought you'd lean in.

"We're fine,” he said eventually. “It hurt, but… we're getting stronger."

He leaned back, resting his weight on his hands, gazing up at the cherry blossoms overhead.

You felt a bit lighter seeing he'd let go of the topic. But somehow, you still felt the can of worms wriggling in your chest. Sad little things. The lid sealed shut again—but they hadn't died, you could still hear their cries.

"We actually got invited to a training camp," Asahi added, taking your mind off them.

"Really? That's awesome!"

"Well… yeah. But I kinda wanted to spend some time with you. T-take you on dates...and stuff..."

Your cheeks matched his, both of you flustered now as he rubbed the back of his neck shyly.

"W-we could still go," you offered, voice small. "I'm not going anywhere."

"I am. The training camp's in Tokyo…"

Oh.

Tokyo.

Lovely.

Another growl. Another itch. Another wriggle.

"Ah~ I see. That's okay... Are you excited?"

"I'll miss you."

Something fluttered in your chest, warm and wild, spreading to the tips of your ears and sinking into your stomach.

The beast purred. Then curled up in a ball and fell quiet.

You looked up at him with a soft, rueful smile.

Don't look so sad. I'll miss you too.

And then—

"What if I went with you guys?" The words tumbled out, unplanned. "It's only on weekends, so it won't interfere with school... and I like watching you play."

"Really?"

"Yeah. It'll be fun..."

He looked surprised—even you were surprised—but then his face lit up like the morning sun, radiant and unguarded. And somehow, that glow dulled the dread of Tokyo.

After a moment, he glanced back up at the leaves, giving you a bit of space from the weight of his knowing gaze.

"It's a brave thing," he murmured, "going head-on against what scares you…"

Your eyes widened, and you didn't even try to deny it.

You looked down, a small, sad smile curling at your lips.

He can see right through me, you thought.

This is bad.

And yet—it made you feel so seen.

You reached out hesitantly, your pinky brushing against his, a gentle ask.

Asahi’s heart kicked a little faster at the touch. He noticed. But the earlier sting of rejection made him pause, unsure.

Your pinky nestled under his, more insistent now.

"Tokyo is still scary for me," you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper. "But… you make me feel safe."

It wasn't fair—the way you kept him guessing. Pulled away, only to give him the words he wanted most.

But he understood. You wanted to tell him.

Your body betrayed you before your mouth could. It just took you time.

And maybe he was more impatient than he realized.

But at this moment, he could wait.

So he gently intertwined his fingers with yours, the sight of your hands together warming his chest.

He squeezed once. Reassuring. Grateful.

"And..." you continued. "I'd miss you too much if I didn't go."

"Ah… I know what you mean. I'd miss you too... And you make me feel stronger when you're around."

"I feel the same. I'm... sorry I don't tell you much about my… yeah. But I want you to know, you make me happy. And comfortable."

"Don't apologize. I told you I'd wait, didn't I?"

"I appreciate that. More than you could imagine."

You looked up at him. He was smiling—that soft, impossibly kind smile that made you feel like maybe you weren't so broken after all.

"Asahi-san…" you whispered. "Can you… kiss me, please?"

Color bloomed across his cheeks. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed nervously, nodding.

And then he leaned in—

And caught your lips.

The moment your lips met, it felt like the world faded into a soft blur of warmth and sunlight. His lips were warm, tender—unbelievably careful with you. Your hand curled lightly in the fabric of his uniform shirt, and for a moment, nothing else existed but the gentle rhythm between your mouths.

But something shifted. Not in a bad way, just… in a new way.

The kiss deepened for a heartbeat longer than expected. Your lips parted just enough to breathe in each other, and instinctively, you leaned forward, pressing another kiss to the corner of his mouth.

Then, slower, more curious, your lips trailed just barely along his jaw. His breath hitched, and when you pressed a featherlight kiss beneath his ear—just there, a spot you hadn't meant to find but did—his breath caught. Sharp. The reaction was instant. He stiffened and grabbed your arms. Stopping you.

"Asahi-san?" you whispered, pulling back immediately, eyes wide. "I'm sorry—I didn't mean to—was that too—?"

He shook his head quickly, cheeks ablaze, his hand tightening gently around your arm as if to ground himself. He looked like he couldn't breathe for a moment, like your kiss had unplugged something he wasn't prepared for.

"Don't," he murmured, voice lower than before, hoarse around the edges. "Don't apologize. I just…" A swallow. His Adam's apple bobbed, his gaze dropping to your lips before darting away again.

"I'm not that innocent."

His words hit you square in the chest, and neither of you seemed to know what to do next. You were sure you were burning—you could feel the heat rise up your neck, your fingertips tingling.

You bit your lip and tried to say something clever, but all that came out was a nervous laugh that bubbled from your lips, and you looked around—at the tree, at the distant field, anywhere but directly at him.

"W-Well, good to know—?" you squeaked, though it sounded more like a question than a confession. "I mean—not that I—uh—just…"

You exhaled, flustered beyond belief, and covered your face with your hands for a second. "Okay. Okay, I didn't mean to make that weird."

"You didn't," Asahi said quickly, too quickly, his voice cracked at the end. "It's just… hard to think when you do that. I mean—when you—k-kiss me like that."

You peeked at him through your fingers, and the sight of him—all bashful and flushed and failing to meet your eyes—was too much. You giggled softly and bumped your shoulder into his.

"Maybe I'll be more comfortable kissing you in Tokyo," you said, like it was casual, even as your voice betrayed you with its tremble. "Less eyes. Less cherry trees watching. Less, uh… fear of accidentally melting my boyfriend in public."

Asahi groaned quietly, burying his red face in his hands this time. "Y/N…"

You were both a mess. And it was so good.

"Planning on kissing me like that a lot?" he asked eventually, eyes still hidden behind his palms.

You tilted your head playfully, heart pounding. "Only if you promise not to pass out on me."

He peeked at you between his fingers. "No promises."

"And... It depends on how many more weak spots I find."

"Y/N-san—!"

He said your name like a scold, face impossibly redder and hidden once again behind big, shaky hands. You giggled and leaned your head against his shoulder, proud of yourself. The air between you was warm again, softer, comfortable despite the electric charge still lingering beneath your skin.

Neither of you said it out loud, but you could both feel it.

That need—brand new, delicate, terrifying.

The rush of feeling. The ache of wanting more but not knowing how far was okay.

And just like that, Tokyo looming ahead didn't seem quite so terrifying anymore.

"Tokyo, then..." he whispered, almost to himself, like he was confirming something quietly inside you both.

The name tasted a little bitter on your tongue, but the smile Asahi gave you made even the bitterness feel sweet.

"Tokyo."

"Tokyo?!?"

You flinched at your cousin's sharp exclamation. Keishin ran a hand through his hair, tugging at his headband until it shifted off-center, and stared at you like you were the strangest bug he had ever seen in his 26 years of life.

You gave a small, nervous nod.

The unease that had been settled in your chest stirred again, curling tighter.

You said you were going to make Asahi happy. But now, staring at the pure disbelief on Keishin's face, you weren't so sure anymore.

No.

You had to do this.

Not just for Asahi—for yourself.

Because being afraid of a city had to be one of the most pathetic fears imaginable. There probably wasn't even a real phobia name for it. That's how dumb it was.

And if you wanted to go to university, you had to get over it.

Or else you never would.

"Y/N, are you thinking straight?" Keishin scrubbed a hand down his face, exasperated. "Last time I even mentioned the damn city, you nearly had a breakdown—"

"You're too loud!" you hissed, eyes darting toward the gym doors. The thuds of volleyballs and squeaking sneakers filled the space behind you, but you weren't sure it was enough to muffle this conversation. You were still just outside, after all.

"Sorry, sorry." He shook his head a little, his apology a little empty while his mind was occupied considering the situation. "But seriously. I don't think it's a good idea."

"I want to see the guys play," you said.

He raised an unimpressed eyebrow.

"You mean you want to see Azumane play"

"Too loud!"

Keishin rolled his eyes like a long-suffering older brother.

"Are you sure you'll be okay?" His tone dipped into something more serious, brows furrowed. "I don't want you screwing up everything you've worked through just to go watch Azumane—Karasuno—run around a court. You could do something better with your weekend. Like studying. Or drawing."

"I can study there," you argued. It didn't seem to convince him much. "Besides—how am I supposed to go to Tokyogeidai if I can't even get near the city?"

That seemed to catch his attention. You saw it in the shift of his posture, the pause.

So you latched on.

"It'll be for three weekends. That's it. A totally reasonable amount of time to get over my fear—or…whatever this is."

Keishin's eyes dropped to your hands.

"Still clearly affects you though," he said gently, tipping his chin toward your fingers.

You looked down.

They were shaking. You hadn't noticed.

Seriously, body. Stop betraying me.

"It's just 'cause of my parents," you muttered, arms crossing. "But realistically, there's no way I'd see them. I'd be with the team the whole time. And with you. So I'd feel safe~"

"Don't try to butter me up, kid." His eyes narrowed, but his voice softened. "I love you, but I wouldn't punch Uncle Kaiji if I saw him. He's still my uncle."

"You would, though," you said, lips curling into a knowing smile.

His brow twitched. His mouth tried not to, but the corner tugged up anyway.

"I… I would, wouldn't I?"

You nodded with an evil smile, and Kenshin had to look away to not snicker.

Classic Ukai, he thought. That evil little smile—it ran in the family. You had the same wicked curl to your lips your grandpa used to flash right before pulling off something absolutely unhinged, like slipping pepper into someone's tea or pretending to forget his wedding anniversary just to see grandma lose her mind. That smirk was trouble-coded DNA.

"Alright, fine."

Your heart nearly leaped out of your chest. You moved to hug him—but he stopped you with a single raised hand and a terrifyingly serious shadow that fell across his face.

"I wouldn't celebrate just yet, kiddo. We both know who your true final boss is…"

A shiver ran down both your spines.

Aina-san.

She had never been angry with you—but you'd seen her silent fury before. Terrifying. It could turn the whole house cold.

"H-How do you think we can convince her?" you asked in a whisper.

The two of you stood in weighted silence, like warriors strategizing before the ultimate raid. Imagining items. Thinking of spell combos. Looking for weak points.

Keishin eventually gave you a sly grin. You didn't like the look of it.

Not one bit.

"Maybe… you should introduce her to the real reason you want to do this."

Your cheeks flushed instantly.

"You mean…"

"Bring man-bun for dinner," he said, utterly smug. "Once she meets him? I promise it'll be easier to win her over. My mom's a total sucker for romance."

"You're having way too much fun with this."

"Nah." He stretched his arms over his head. "But I will, once you bring him over."

"You're cruel, Kenshin."

"I'm sorry."

"You're not."

"You're right. I'm not." He gave you a wink before jogging toward the gym doors. "Now go home and study. I gotta get back to the team."

You hovered near the kitchen doorway, clutching the strap of your bag with both hands. The scent of soy sauce and grilled eggplant lingered in the air, curling with the steam, but your nerves had wiped away any real appetite.

Your aunt stood at the stove in her usual apron, humming something off-key, her hair twisted into a loose bun that swayed slightly with each movement. She didn't look over when she spoke—maybe because she already sensed you standing there.

"What's wrong, sweetheart?" she asked gently, stirring the pot with practiced ease, her voice warm and steady.

You swallowed. "Can I… um. Bring someone over for dinner?"

Her hand paused mid-stir. Slowly, she turned toward you, one brow raised. There was a beat of silence—and then, that smile.

"Oh?" she said, sing-song. "Is this the friend you made the lucky charm for?"

Your cheeks burned instantly. You stared at the floor, nodding once like a guilty little kid caught sneaking sweets.

She let out a soft, delighted laugh and set the spoon down, drying her hands on a towel as she walked over to you, footsteps light but quick with excitement.

"You should've asked sooner," she said, cupping your cheek like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Her touch was cool and comforting. "Of course he can come. What night were you thinking?"

"…Friday?" you mumbled, barely above a whisper.

"Perfect." She grinned. "I'll make something special. Ooh—does he like pork belly?"

You blinked. "I… I think so?"

"Great. I'll find out for sure when I grill him." Her eyes sparkled with mock menace, then softened when she caught the panic blooming across your face. "I'm kidding, baby. Mostly."

You buried your face in your hands. "This was a mistake."

"No, this is adorable," she said, wrapping you in a one-armed hug and kissing the side of your head. "I'm so happy for you. I was wondering when you'd ask. I've been dying to meet your boyfriend."

"Wait… you knew?"

She pulled back just enough to look you in the eye, smug as ever. "Sweetheart, I knew the second you started coming home humming Yutaka Ozaki."

"I-I did not," you argued, voice high and face fully red.

In response, she hummed a few soft bars of I Love You, wrapping her arms around herself dramatically and swaying her hips like a love-struck teenager.

"Haaah… young love," she sighed wistfully.

You groaned in protest and stormed off down the hall. She just laughed, loud and delighted.

"Looking forward to meeting him!" she shouted after you, then resumed humming and swaying as she stirred the pot again.

Just then, your uncle ducked his head into the kitchen, a paperback novel tucked under one arm.

"What are we humming for?"

"Y/N-chan is bringing a boy over for dinner~" she chirped, practically glowing.

Your uncle's glasses slid halfway down his nose. He blinked over them.

"A...A boy?"

Aina nodded with a smile that was somehow both proud and smug.

"I haven't seen her this happy since… ever. It's been a year since she came to us, and that smile…" Her gaze softened, and she turned back to the pot, as if the food might hold the answer to her worry. "The fact this boy pulled that out of my Y/N-chan instead of me…"

She trailed off, her eyes narrowing at the sizzling eggplant like it had offended her. Then she turned sharply to her husband, who straightened like a soldier under her command.

"Dress accordingly. And tell our son I want to know everything he knows about this Azumane Asahi."

He raised his hands in mock surrender, a small amused smile tugging at his mouth. "Honey, you're scary."

"Just looking out for her," Aina said, folding her arms.

Your uncle walked in and gently wrapped his arms around her from behind. She exhaled and leaned back into his chest, and he pressed a soft kiss to her temple.

"Remember she's her own person," he murmured against her hair. "Don't scare the poor boy away, yeah?"

"That's not—" she sighed. "I know. It's just... I never had to do this with Keishin. And Y/N is... special, you know? What if this doesn't work out and she goes back to that dark place?"

He didn't respond right away, just held her tighter.

"I think you've done enough that she won't ever go back there," he said quietly. "Not fully. Not with how far she's come."

Aina pressed her lips together. Her eyes were misty, though she'd never admit it out loud. Her hands stayed still, folded over her husband's arms like she was anchoring herself.

"I just want to protect her," she whispered.

Your uncle smiled, warm and gentle.

"You always wanted a girl," he murmured.

Aina looked down the hall. Out the window, at the old kura storehouse. Her chest rose and fell with a quiet breath.

"I have one," she said softly.

He nodded, hugging her a little closer. "You do."

Next chapter↪

tags. @strxnged; @frankoreoz

[inkpetrichor]

Nasty Dog! | Kuroo Tetsurou x f!reader

6.- Part six

masterlist here<3

cw. MDNI. fem! reader. delinquent! reader. use of yn. rumors. punching(?. a little blood. lemme know if i missed anything! wc. 5.3k an. i changed the dividers (｡•̀ ,<) lemme know what you think<3

Emi wore a satisfied smile as she paced with her arms behind her back like a proud army general.

"So. Since I basically did all the work, it's safe to say I'm the MVP in this situation. I expect you to take me to a Korean BBQ or an all-you-can-eat as a thank-you. Either is fine."

Kuroo snorted. You rolled your eyes affectionately.

Emi scrunched her nose like she'd just realized something.

"Wait... If the three of us go, I'll be third-wheeling the entire time. Forget about it."

"It's okay," Kuroo said, chuckling. "You guys can go. I don't wanna get between a girls' outing. Girls are scary."

You sighed and gave your friend a fond, grateful smile. "Thank you, Emi. You're the best."

A mischievous glint crossed her eyes, and in less than a second, she threw her arms around your face, rubbing her cheek against yours like an elated kitten.

"There she is~ My soft Y/N. Thank you, Kuroo, I missed her~"

Kuroo let out a small laugh through his nose. "I missed her too."

"You guys are having too much fun with this," you groaned.

"Of course we are~ You're so cuteee~"

Kuroo raised a brow. He wasn't sure if he should be jealous or just weirded out.

Then the bell rang.

And as you said goodbye to Emi, your eyes lingered on her.

You really looked at her this time. The kind of look that made everything else slow down for a second.

Her uniform was a little rumpled like she'd slept in it. Her hair wasn't done the way it usually was, no clips, no little ribbons. Just messy.

And those eyes—

Unfocused, ike she'd dropped into a darker thought without meaning to. Red-rimmed like she hadn't slept at all.

She looked… tired.

Not just sleepy, but worn. Like her night had been long and unforgiving.

Your stomach twisted.

"All good, babes?" you asked, gently.

"Yeah... it's just…"

She glanced at Kuroo, then back at you. That alone said enough.

"Hebinuma?" you asked, your voice sharper now.

She didn’t answer right away. Just gave you a weak little smile—the kind that tried to be reassuring but never made it past her lips.

"It's all good, Y/N. Don't worry."

But you knew her better than that.

You knew the way she got quiet when she didn't want you to fight someone. When she was trying to protect you instead of the other way around.

And you hated that she thought she had to.

You weren't stupid. You half-expected Hebinuma to retaliate after what happened on Monday.

But if she was taking it out on Emi—

That was a whole different kind of war.

"We'll talk about it at lunch, alright? Rooftop."

"It's not necessary, I—"

"See you at lunch, babes."

You turned without giving her a choice.

Kuroo followed close behind you like a shadow, silent.

But from the tightness in his jaw, you knew he noticed too.

Your fingers curled into fists inside your blazer sleeves.

You already knew Hebinuma's M.O. Whispered rumors. Smiles with knives behind them.

You just didn't know yet what she'd said, or what she'd done—but you had a feeling this time, it wasn't going to be as easy to get her to stop.

You tried to shake it off as you headed to your next class, but the pit in your stomach wouldn't quit. Emi's expression was making you nervous. And if Hebinuma was involved again, it meant things were already worse than she was letting on.

You didn't like walking into situations blind. You liked knowing where the punches were coming from.

So, when you ducked into the girls' bathroom before going to class, you weren't expecting to find answers—

But you sure as hell weren't expecting this either.

"...I mean, c'mon, how else do you explain it? She's dumb as bricks, a problem kid, and suddenly top of her class? Does so good she gets transferred to Class 5?"

"Guess tutoring her came with extra credit."

The words hit you like ice water down your back.

"Yeah, and extra trouble. I bet she's just using him. Poor Kuroo."

"Why would he screw around with someone like her?"

"Yeah, I thought he was responsible, more mature than that."

"Well, you can't blame him. I bet Y/n forced herself on him or something."

"I know right? What a little slu—"

Your steps echoed too loud on the tile as you entered the bathroom. The girls looked up, faces blanching just a little when they saw you—but they didn't bolt. Not yet.

The silence that followed was somehow funny.

"Oh, don't stop on my account," you said coolly, leaning against the edge of the sink. "I was just starting to enjoy the fucking fanfiction you're writing about me."

One of them tried to scoff like she wasn't scared.

"If it's not true, then why so defensive?"

You smiled. The kind that didn't touch your eyes.

"Sweetheart, if I were being defensive, you'd be on the floor."

That shook them. Not completely—but enough.

"I—I'm just saying, it's suspicious. The way you suddenly got all smart? Sounds like a setup to me."

"Oh, so I can't study hard and get laid? Damn. Set the bar a little higher for yourselves—maybe you'll have both too."

They blinked, caught off guard. The other one opened her mouth, probably to say something even dumber.

You stepped forward.

"I don't care what you say about me," you said, voice low and razor-sharp. "But the second you drag Kuroo into it, we've got a problem."

They didn't reply.

"You wanna hate me? Fine. Get in line. But the next time I hear you dragging his name through your pathetic little tongue—"

You leaned in close, gaze flat, unblinking. Then slowly, almost gently, you raised your hand and pressed a single finger to your lips.

"I'll give people an actual reason to talk about you next. These rumors will make sure your dentist gets a bonus this month."

"We— we didn't start them," one of them stammered.

"I know, love. I know exactly who did. But you're spreading them. And that's enough reason to beat the shit out of you too. So keep your mouth shut before I punch it closed."

That was the last straw.

They practically scrambled past you, one of them muttering, "Let's just go before this bitch goes crazy…" under her breath.

Everyone knew it—your punches were somehow infamous. And you and the guys were the only reason why no other school ever touched a hair on a Nekoma kid's head. Even rival schools avoided causing problems when they saw the uniform.

They weren't about to be next.

You didn't follow them. Just let the silence settle.

And then stared at your reflection in the mirror, jaw clenched.

You didn't care about rumors. You never did—at least, not when they were about you.

But you were a little scared Kuroo might.

It was the first time the locker room felt tense before a practice.

The air was thicker than usual—shirts half-on, sneakers squeaking against the tile, the usual chatter muted into uneasy glances. Kuroo was mid-change, shirt in hand, when Yaku spoke—too casual, like he didn't realize he was lobbing a grenade.

"They're saying she's fucking with you for grades, man. That you're—what was it?—letting her 'suck her way to straight A's.' "

The words landed with a dull thud.

Kuroo froze, shirt bunched around his elbows. For a moment, he just stood there—chest bare, breath caught somewhere between inhale and exhale. Then, slowly, he pulled the shirt over his head. Deliberate. Like forcing his body to keep moving would keep his mind from spiraling.

Kenma looked up from his phone, voice flat. "The internet says stupid stuff every day. Doesn't mean it's true."

"No," Yaku added, watching Kuroo's back carefully, "but it does mean people are talking. And if the principal catches wind of it..."

Kai let out a low whistle as he laced up his shoes.

"Nekomata might hear of it too."

"He won't." Kuroo's voice finally cut through—quiet, but heavy. It didn't have its usual edge. It wasn't enough to shut anyone up.

No one argued. But the silence that followed was loud in all the wrong ways.

Yamamoto shifted beside his locker, scratching the back of his neck.

"Not that it's any of our business, but, uh... you like her, right?" he asked, tentative.

Kuroo blinked, like the question had caught him off guard. Or maybe like he couldn't believe it needed to be asked.

"I mean, for real. It's not just... a thing."

Kenma, still scrolling, glanced up again. "He cried about her on the train, Tora."

"Bro." Kuroo groaned, burying his face in his hands.

Yaku snorted.

"You what?!"

"You little snitch," Kuroo muttered, voice muffled through his palms.

Kenma shrugged, like it wasn't news. "Just letting them know it's serious. Might be good if the school knew that too."

Kuroo exhaled slowly and sat on the bench, elbows on his knees. The room moved on around him—laughter, chatter, the shuffle of shoes and bags—but he didn't join. He just stared at the floor, quiet, distant, like he was watching something fall apart in slow motion.

Serious?

That wasn't even close.

He hadn't even told you yet—not the full weight of it. Not how serious he really was about you.

But now, people were dragging your name through the mud. Twisting everything into something cheap. And that—

That made his blood boil.

Not just because they were talking about you—though that alone was enough to push him close to the edge.

But because they were talking about him, too. About who he was. What kind of captain he was. What kind of man.

And the worst part?

He did care. More than he wanted to.

He hated that it mattered. But it did.

He knew how fast things could spiral when it came to reputations, especially at a school like Nekoma. A captain entangled in scandal, even just rumor-level bullshit—it wasn't a good look. If the administration started asking questions, if Coach Nekomata caught wind of it...

That thought made his chest tighten. He admired Nekomata too damn much.

That man had believed in him. Pushed him. Trusted him. Kuroo had spent years trying to live up to that trust—on the court and off it. And now this stupid rumor had the power to smear all of that.

He wasn't afraid of being misunderstood by random classmates.

He was afraid of disappointing someone who mattered.

You wouldn't care. He knew you wouldn't. You never seemed to care about rumors, not the ones about you at least. As long as they were nice to Emi, most people in Nekoma were safe from your fury and your fists. Even the ones who whispered of you.

If it were reversed, you'd punch someone in the teeth and tell them to choke on their own gossip.

And maybe that was the part that got under his skin most of all—that you would throw a punch for him in a heartbeat, tear someone down with that sharp tongue of yours, just so they didn't talk about him anymore.

But he didn't want that—not this time.

He didn't want to see your knuckles bloodied, or your name crawling through whispers and smirks in the hallway because of him.

And there was also the weight of his own shallowness pressing on his shoulders.

You didn't care about your image. You never had.

But he did. And that difference between you—that you were willing to be hated and he wasn't—it made him feel like a coward.

You weren't bulletproof, even if you acted like it.

But he definitely wasn't.

And the fact that he cared about some stupid rumor made him feel weak. Selfish. Small.

He wished he could be more like you—unbothered. Untouchable.

But he wasn't.

You inhaled the smoke deep into your lungs, let the wind steal it from your lips as you exhaled.

You'd missed the rooftop. Missed the loud crowd of boys too. But Emi was nowhere to be seen, and that made your stomach twist.

"So let me get this straight," said Taiga, popping his gum. "They're saying you fucked your way to a better GPA?"

Kiba narrowed his eyes. "Who exactly said that? Give me names. I'm not asking twice."

"It's Hebinuma," you said simply, lighting a second cigarette, and holding the flame a little longer than you needed to. "Classic Hebinuma shit. Whisper campaign, fake sweet voice—and I think she's harassing Emi again. With the pictures."

"Not the fucking pictures again," groaned Taiga, leaning in. "Didn't you make her delete that shit when you beat her up in first year?"

You shook your head. "Don't know if she really has them this time. But Emi's not answering my texts. Anyone heard from her?"

Kiba shook his head, slow. "She's spooked. And if she's spooked, it ain't good."

"Oh, hell no." Taiga turned to the others. "Y'all remember when she pulled the same stunt with Sato's cousin? Almost got the girl expelled. The teachers called CPS."

Inuzuka nodded solemnly, Junpei, on the other hand, didn't even look in Taiga's way. His jaw tight as he stared at a spot on the floor, eyes narrowing like he was thinking about something and his thoughts were too loud to hear the conversation at hand.

Kiba cracked his knuckles. "We gonna pull up or what?"

You exhaled, smoke drifting slow and steady. "Not yet."

Taiga tilted his head. "Yet?"

"If we move too fast, she'll know we're onto her," you said. "Let her talk. Let her dig herself deep. Then we bury her."

That made him grin. "It's kinda cool when you get all schemy."

You smirked, but it didn't reach your eyes.

"She messed with Emi," you said. "She dragged Kuroo. This is personal now."

"Is it true, though?" Junpei's voice came out too sharp.

His gaze flicked to you, then snapped away like it burned to hold. His posture was locked tight—arms crossed, shoulders drawn in—like he was trying to contain something ugly. Anger, maybe. Or jealousy. Probably both.

"You with the nerd?"

It wasn't a question. It was an accusation.

You nodded, calm. "We're dating. Yeah."

"You? Dating?" Taiga whispered with a crooked grin. "That wasn't on my bingo card."

"Yeah, well, add it then," you snapped defensively, a little sharper than you meant to.

Junpei muttered something under his breath and stood, movements jerky. The scrape of his chair echoed against the rooftop concrete.

"This is some bullshit," he spat. Bitterness dripped from every word. He didn't wait for a response—the door slammed behind him before you could even open your mouth.

Inuzuka, always the little bitch, followed after him without a single word.

You watched them go, brow raised, then looked to Taiga and Kiba for answers.

Taiga snorted and looked away.

Kiba, easier to break, sighed under your stare.

"I don't think he ever got over you," he admitted.

"Bullshit. That was forever ago. And it was once," you said, frowning.

"Yeah, well. I don't know." Taiga stood up, smiling. "But he's been like this ever since the rumors started. All pissy and weird," he added, mockingly. "Dude's acting like someone stole his bike."

"Well sounds like a him problem." You stretched your arms overhead, the weight of everything still thick on your shoulders. "I've got my fair share of shit going on. Let me know if Emi shows up or texts back."

You stubbed your cigarette out against the concrete with a practiced twist of your boot, the embers dying without a fight. Grabbing your bag, you stood, the familiar heaviness settling back in your chest like an old friend.

You needed to find Kuroo.

He was probably still at practice—but you had to see him. Had to know if he'd heard. What he thought. What he felt.

And what the hell you were supposed to do next.

You found him behind the gym, the quiet sound of water hitting plastic the only sign of his presence. He lifted his water bottle to his lips just as your gaze found his, and he looked up before you even spoke.

You crossed your arms, leaning against the wall with a playful smile, but the edge of concern was still there in your eyes—no matter how hard you tried to hide it.

"Aren't you supposed to be playing?"

He smiled, lifting his bottle with a casual shrug. "Water break."

The air between you thickened, heavy with things unsaid. You sighed, tilting your head slightly as your gaze searched his face.

"You heard, didn't you?"

He nodded, his expression unreadable at first. Then, finally, he spoke. "Yeah. Team told me."

"I didn't do it for grades," you said—too fast. "Not that it matters, 'cause—well. It's true. I did get better because of you. And we are fucking."

A dry laugh slipped from his lips. He looked... tired. Not angry. Just a little worn down, like the weight of everything had been sitting on him since morning.

"I know you don't care about rumors," he said, rubbing the back of his neck, gaze drifting to the ground. "But... I kinda do."

You knew it—of course you knew it—but hearing it out loud still added a layer of complexity to the situation you hadn't anticipated.

"Right," you murmured, your voice softer now. "You want me to fix it?"

He looked up then, meeting your eyes with that sharp, perceptive gaze of his—like he already knew where this conversation was headed.

"Does it involve you beating people up?"

"...Dumb question."

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck again before glancing away. But when his eyes returned to yours, there was something gentler in them. Resignation, maybe. Understanding.

"Then don't," he said, low. "It's fine."

You stepped closer, heart drumming. Both his and Emi's dismissal bothered you.

It hurt for them. And it was your fault. Why were they trying to protect you?

"It's not fine," you said firmly. "It affects you... Then I gotta fix it."

He looked at you—really looked. Like he did the first time he touched you softly. Like he was seeing past your walls, past your usual sharp edges, down to something raw and unguarded. 

It made your chest tighten.

"I just... If you beat them up, you kinda confirm it. And I don't want people thinking that's all this is."

Without thinking, you reached up, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth.

"You think I'd let people reduce you to that? Some idiot with a good dick and answers to a math test?"

He raised a brow, lips quirking into a half-smirk. "I mean... I am both of those things."

"Yeah, but you're also way more." You said it like it was the most obvious truth in the world. No hesitation. No bullshit.

Then you got on your tippy toes and pressed your lips to his. Soft, steady.

And when he kissed you back, it was slower than usual. Deeper.

Like he needed to believe you. Like he was searching for reassurance in the way your lips met his.

You let him take the lead, let him pour whatever worry or doubt he had into the kiss—and you gave it back, steady and sure, hoping it was enough.

It lingered, soft but weighted, until the sound of footsteps echoed from the gym.

You stepped back, instinctively raising a hand to your lips.

Yaku's head popped out.

"Oi, we're startin'—Oh. Hi, Y/N."

"Hey, Yaku. Practice going alright?" 

Your voice came out gentler than he expected. Yaku raised a brow, clearly surprised, but just nodded—something like quiet understanding flickering in his eyes as he glanced between the two of you.

You turned back to Kuroo, your gaze steady.

"I'll fix this. Won't punch through it, just... Don't let it mess with your head. Keep the blood flowing." You winked, and the smile he gave you was a little steadier this time—lighter. "See you after practice?"

He nodded.

You turned to Yaku. "Good luck at practice."

"Thanks. Bye, Y/N."

As you walked away toward the school gates, your phone buzzed in your pocket.

Kenkiba: We found Emi. She's at the karaoke.

You didn't even hesitate. Without replying, you turned on your heel and began walking, your steps purpose-driven, each one taking you closer to whatever came next.

Manekineko Karaoke was a worn-down joint tucked between a dentist office and a pawn shop, with faded idol posters on the glass door and a neon cat sign that flickered like it had asthma. It was nothing special, but it was yours. Cheap, close-ish, and full of booths with busted mics and shitty acoustics that never stopped your crew from screaming their lungs out on bad days.

Taiga found it first, back when he got dumped and tried to drown his heartbreak in three straight hours of UVERworld. The staff didn't card, didn't care who came in or how loud you were, and they had decent fries. It became the spot—a place for hiding, healing, or hiding the healing.

Your boots thudded against the pavement as you crossed under a viaduct, hoodie pulled low. The 40-minute walk gave you space to think, but not much comfort.

Rumors weren't new to you. You'd been called worse than a grade-chasing slut in far less creative ways. What scraped at your nerves now was that Kuroo seemed to care, and how exactly was Emi involved. 

Sweet, soft Emi who didn't lie unless to save her life (or yours) and didn't have the stomach for fights.

Hebinuma knew exactly where to stab. She never aimed to kill—just to make it bleed slow.

That thought made you pick up your pace.

By the time you reached the karaoke, the sky was softening into early evening gold. The guys were already outside, loitering by the railing.

Emi was there, clinging to Kenkiba's arm a little too tightly, her smile small and her eyes unreadable. Her usual brightness was dimmed—like someone had unplugged a light behind her ribs.

But your gaze locked instantly onto Junpei.

Taiga and Inuzuka were hauling him out between them like dead weight, arms slung across their shoulders as he mumbled into the collar of his shirt.

"C'mon man, it's like 5 p.m. still..." Inuzuka grunted, sweat clinging to his brow.

Inuzuka rarely talked, but when he did, it was with a quiet disdain—like he'd already figured out how the scene would end and wasn't impressed. 

He was Junpei's ride-or-die, had been since middle school, when Junpei moved in next door and taught him how to shoplift.

They'd been sprinting barefoot, running from cops through rice fields ever since. But lately, even Inuzuka seemed worn thin with his bullshit.

Kenkiba spotted you approaching, relief flooding his face like he'd been waiting for backup.

"Oh, Y/N. Help us out with him, would you?"

You didn't move.

"Who let Junpei drink?" you asked, voice flat, your expression twisting in disgust.

Taiga shot you a look, frustration crackling in his jaw. "Hah?! What are you on? He was like this when they got here."

"Yeah, Y/N," Kenkiba added quickly. "You know we don't let him."

Inuzuka let out a long sigh. "I tried to stop him. But I'm not his babysitter. Let him fuck himself up if he wants."

You rolled your eyes, approaching.

It wasn't exactly a secret that Junpei had a problem. 

His dad owned a liquor store, the kind where you could slip a bill across the counter and walk out with a bottle of shochu and no questions asked. Alcohol had earned him his spot in the gang years ago when he'd rocked up to a fight against a group of fuckers three years older than the rest of you. Buzzed out of his skull and still knocking a dude's tooth out with a tire iron while laughing his ass off.

But these days, it was less cool and more... sad.

Junpei's feet stumbled to a stop when he heard your name. The guys thought it was just the alcohol slowing him down and gave him a gentle push. But he didn't budge. His head lifted. His eyes locked on you.

There'd been one time.

A night when you were bored, and he was kinda charming—in that cocky, dangerous way that made girls overlook the stink of liquor on his breath. He wasn't ugly, and you were curious—but once was enough.

You'd seen the red flags even through the haze, decided he was more trouble than he was worth, and moved on like it never mattered.

You thought he had, too.

He hadn't.

"...Fucking hell," he slurred. "There she is. Queen bitch herself."

You narrowed your eyes, unmoving.

"You think you're better than everyone, huh?" he sneered, barely upright now, spit gathering in the corner of his mouth. "Fuckin' that nerd. Used me once n' tossed me. Typical."

Your jaw flexed. Patience running thin.

"Women like you..." he said, pointing at you lazily. "They'll ruin your fucking life. Can't trust any of 'em. Only out for themselves, only ever fucking to climb. Used me, and now she's got her claws in that poor idiot, Kuroo."

Then his hand swung toward Kenkiba, who stiffened under Emi's hold.

"You better watch out too. Especially with these two—Emi and Y/N? They're just a couple of sluts."

Alright.

"Oh, now you fucked up," Taiga deadpanned, ducking under his arm and letting go of him at the exact moment you moved. Practiced ease.

Your fist cracked into Junpei's face like thunder.

It was a perfect punch—your father taught you how to rotate from the hips, how to square your stance, how to find the angle between pain and power. 

But in your anger, you misjudged the follow-through. The crack of your knuckles against his chin was clean, sharp—satisfying. But the skin split open across them, and you could feel you'd fucked up a finger or two, the pain blooming hot and fast.

Junpei crumpled to the pavement, stunned into silence. Unable to stand.

"Knock out~" whispered Taiga with a smirk. Inuzuka elbowed him.

Blood smeared faintly across your knuckle, and your chest heaved.

"You piece of shit," you spat, flexing your hand and wincing slightly at the sting. "You don't EVER talk about Emi like that, you hear me?! Call me whatever the fuck you want. I've heard worse. But say her name like that in front of me again and I'll fucking kill you."

You turned your glare on Kenkiba, still frozen, Emi gripping his sleeve.

Your voice didn't rise. It dropped, dead serious.

"And if I ever hear you let anyone talk about her like that in front of you," you growled, voice low and deadly, "I'll kill you too."

Kiba blinked.

Then nodded.

No one moved for a beat.

Then, with a collective sigh and the clumsy coordination of boys who'd done this a dozen times before, they went about the business of dragging Junpei's limp ass off the ground.

"Jesus, he's heavier than he looks," Taiga muttered, rolling his shoulder.

"Fat with disappointment," Inuzuka deadpanned, grabbing Junpei by the collar and hauling him up like a sack of rice. 

Kiba stepped in without a word, and between the three of them, they propped Junpei up and shuffled him toward the railing, depositing him gently against the wall like setting down a drunk friend at a festival.

Junpei groaned low in his throat but didn't stir.

Emi let out a shaky breath.

You turned to her, your voice still edged but quieter now.

"Has Hebinuma been bothering you? Yes or no."

Emi hesitated. Her fingers twisted in the hem of her cardigan, knuckles white. Then, with a reluctant nod, she spoke.

"Yeah... Not directly, but the whispers are hers. Same crap as last time, just louder."

Of course it was. That snake didn't have the guts for a frontal assault—just the poison to slip under skin and rot you from the inside.

"And the pictures?"

She hesitated again before nodding, avoiding your eyes. "She sent them to me yesterday. Just sent them... To remind me they exist I guess..."

"Fuck, man. Where does she fucking keep them?" Taiga muttered, joining the conversation.

You sighed, pressing your tongue to the roof of your mouth.

"Can you hang in there for a little while?" you asked her, tone surprisingly soft. "I'll handle it. Just not with fists this time."

Kiba cocked a brow. "Since when do you care about that?"

You didn't look at him. "Just trust me."

His frown deepened. Kiba had always been your watchdog, ready to bare teeth for you even when you didn't ask. Especially when it came to Emi. But after a beat, he exhaled through his nose and gave a short nod.

Emi nodded too, quicker. "I can handle it," she said, then looked at you with the ghost of a smile. "If you're handling it too."

You met her gaze. "I am."

The promise sat heavy between you.

You turned to Kiba. "Can you walk her home?"

"Obviously."

Then to Taiga and Inuzuka. "Can you two take him?" You jerked your chin toward Junpei, who had slumped over against the wall like a passed-out raccoon. "I don't care if he drools on your jackets. Just make sure he doesn't choke on his own tongue."

Inuzuka gave a slow shrug and a click of his tongue. "We got him."

"Yeah," Taiga added with a grunt, already moving to lift Junpei again. "We'll dump him on his front porch and ring the bell. Let his old man deal with him."

Inuzuka turned to you, honest. "I'm sorry about him, Y/N."

You gave a short nod, flexing your bruised hand once before tucking it into your hoodie pocket.

"I gotta go back to school," you said, already turning toward Nekoma.

Emi blinked. "You're going back?"

You just nodded.

Didn't say who you were going to see. Didn't have to.

"Stop dodging my texts. I worry about you."

Emi snorted, but her eyes were warm, her smile fond.

"That's rich coming from you, bitch."

You walked off without waiting for goodbyes, footsteps steady as you descended the narrow stairwell. The sky above was deepening, the early gold fading to bruised lavender.

Your hand throbbed, blood sticky on your knuckles.

But your thoughts were already somewhere else. All the way back to Nekoma. Back with him.

Kuroo was leaning against the school gates when you got back. Long legs crossed at the ankle, earbuds in, his phone in one hand. His bag sat at his feet, hair damp and messy from a rinse after practice, collarbone peeking where he'd unbuttoned the top of his shirt. He looked like he'd been there a while.

He looked up the second your boots hit the pavement.

Relief flickered across his face, then settled into something gentler. Softer.

"You're late," he said, voice casual.

"Sorry," you muttered, rubbing the back of your neck. "Shit came up."

He pushed off the gate and started walking beside you like it was second nature, hands shoved into his pockets.

"How's Emi?" he muttered, already knowing what the 'shit' was about.

"Better."

"The rumors?" he asked quietly, not looking at you.

You exhaled through your nose. "Still flying, apparently. I'm still trading blowjobs for extra credit."

Kuroo gave a small shake of his head. "People are idiots."

You didn't say anything. The silence stretched between your footsteps, broken only by the soft scuff of your boots and the squeak of his sneakers.

After a beat, he glanced down—and stopped walking.

"What the hell happened to your hand?"

You froze.

You shifted to hide your knuckles, but not quick enough. He caught your wrist before you could hide it, fingers wrapping gently around it. 

Your knuckles were split open, dried blood flaking at the edges. The base of your middle and pointer finger was starting to bruise.

"It wasn't because of the rumors," you said quickly. "I promised I wouldn't fight over that shit. And I didn't."

His eyes flicked up to your face. "But you still hit something."

"Someone."

He didn't ask who. Didn't press. Just looked at you for a long moment—eyes sharp, mouth set—and exhaled through his nose like he was counting backwards from ten.

"Come on," he murmured, thumb brushing lightly across the bruised skin. "Let's clean this up."

Next chapter↪

tags. @themoreeviltwin @taylordenae @rhea-sylvea @iluvikeu @tgnvhp @adangerousbalance @orphicarchive @tammytaamm @iluvmusicxoxo @rvm1ne @kuzoq @espressocandies @ashley95943734 @jayathelostdragon @kyokoyya @crystal-lilac @kuzuven0208 @lblackwood @evilari111

[inkpetrichor]

Do and Miya Osamu series next and my life is yours ☆〜（ゝ。∂）pretty please and thank you

You're on, anon.

[inkpetrichor]

Hi can I please added to the tag list for the Kuroo story! Love it so much! 🩷

Absolutely! Thank you so much for your message I'm glad you like the series UvU

See you next Wednesday! ૮꒰ ˶• ༝ •˶꒱ა ♡

[inkpetrichor]

Nasty Dog! | Kuroo Tetsurou x f!reader

5.- Part five

masterlist here<3

cw. MDNI. fem! reader. delinquent! reader. use of yn. smoking. cursing. angst. hurt/comfort. smut. p in v. unprotected sex. creampie. lots of dirty talking. absolute filth but kinda cute(?. lemme know if i missed anything<3 wc. 5.6k an. enjoy! as usual, comments are appreciated<3

Tuesday painted the sky outside your window gray—not stormy, just... blank. The kind of sky that felt like waiting. Another day you had to skip. You had half a cigarette left and no lighter, which somehow felt symbolic.

"Come to me when you're ready to actually talk feelings..."

You weren't ready. And you couldn't blame him.

You couldn't blame him for wanting more—wanting something real. For having the spine to say this isn't enough when it would've been easier to keep things messy and half-lit like you always did.

He had self-respect. He knew what he deserved. And deep down, you admired that about him.

And you wanted him. God, you wanted him. Not just in your bed, not just in passing—you loved him. You didn't know when it started, only that it had sunk in slowly, like ink through paper. But when he asked for your honesty, for something real, the words just wouldn't come.

You didn't know how to say I love you without feeling like you were standing on a ledge with your chest cracked open. You'd never been taught how.

It was like trying to have a conversation in a language you'd only just started learning—fumbling for the right words, terrified of saying the wrong ones.

And now here you were, half a cigarette in hand, no lighter, and no clue how to stop ruining things before they could ever really begin.

Then your phone buzzed.

Emi <3: sorry babes, had 2 give u a lil push (˶ > ₃ < ˶)♡ : ???

Before you could type out a proper what the fuck, there was a knock on your door.

And you knew. You just knew.

That knock wasn't generic. It wasn't a neighbor or delivery guy. It was three short raps, one beat slower than the others.

The same rhythm he'd used a hundred times before. He'd come over so many times it became second nature. Familiar. Specific... Him.

Your chest tightened painfully, like something inside you had braced for impact without warning.

You opened the door.

And there he was.

Kuroo Tetsurou's tall frame stood in your doorway like a memory come back to make you suffer, looking thoroughly unimpressed. His arms were crossed. His shoulders slouched. There was no smug glint in his eyes—just quiet frustration and something heavier under it, like disappointment dressed in black and red.

You stared.

He stared back.

"What are you doing here, Tetsurou?" you asked, voice dull. Tired. Like you were already too exhausted to handle whatever this was going to be.

He shrugged slightly, but it was half-hearted.

"Emi came up to me today... With that mutt of hers. What's his name again? Ki... something?"

"Kenkiba," you muttered, a half-smile twitching at your mouth despite yourself.

"Right. Him." He squinted like the memory annoyed him. "He was giving me the stink eye the whole time she talked. Didn't blink once. I thought he might bite me."

You huffed out a scoff, dragging a hand down your face.

"Sounds like him."

Silence bloomed for a second—thick and humid. Not hostile, just... heavy.

"She told me not to give up on you," he said softly after a beat.

Your throat tightened. Closing around words you weren't ready to speak. You looked away from him.

"And?" you asked, voice thinner than you meant.

Kuroo tilted his head. His gaze swept over your face like he was trying to read something in between the fine lines of your exhaustion.

"Still figuring it out," he said simply.

The honesty made your stomach twist. You'd missed that. His way of speaking plainly, even when the truth was sharp.

You sighed, long and quiet, and stepped back. "Come in, make yourself at home. You know where everything is anyway."

Kuroo didn't say anything. Just stepped inside like he always used to do—quiet but present, all warmth and height and gravity. The air felt heavier with him in the room, but it wasn't unpleasant.

It was familiar.

And dangerous.

He glanced around your tiny entryway like it was both a crime scene and a memory. His fingertips grazed the edge of your shoe rack like touching it might tell him if things had really changed. You didn't move. You barely breathed.

You weren't ready for this conversation.

But you'd left the door open anyway.

The living room was dim, cozy in that lived-in way—shadows pooling in corners, the soft hum of the TV playing some sitcom rerun you hadn't bothered turning off. A half-finished drink sweating on the coffee table. Folded blankets no one used. Familiarity buried under the dust of everything you hadn't said.

Kuroo sat opposite you at the dining table, fingers idly drumming against the wood while you picked at a loose thread in your sleeve. A glass of water for each of you.

His eyes flicked toward your couch, then quickly away.

You broke the silence first, eyes still fixed on the thread in your sleeve.

"How was practice?"

Kuroo leaned back slightly in his chair. The sharp tension that had hung in the air earlier began to loosen a little.

"Yaku lost a bet to Lev."

That got your attention. You raised a brow, lips twitching.

"Had to wear one of Lev's hoodies for the whole practice," Kuroo continued, almost fondly. "Looked like a pissed-off gremlin drowning in beige fleece."

You snorted, the image so vivid you could practically see it.

"He threw his shoes at you?"

"Twice," Kuroo said with a weary sigh. "Once for laughing, once just because I was there."

A real smile curled on your lips this time. Small, but it warmed your face.

"I like Yaku."

"He likes you too," Kuroo replied. "In a scary, sorta fan way. He's rooting for you. And, weirdly enough, also slightly afraid of you."

You were about to fire back something snarky when—

Creaaak.

The door to your dad's room swung open, slow and yawning like it resented being disturbed.

It was like the sound and smell of conversation had dragged him from his nap. You stiffened, eyes flicking to the hallway.

Kuroo went still.

It hit him all at once—how quiet this house had always been. Empty whenever he came over. Just the two of you. Always careful. Private. The unspoken rule had been: no family, no interruptions.

Now there were footsteps. Heavy ones. Presence.

This wasn't just anyone stepping into the room. This was your father—and it was the first time either of you had ever been this close to the other's home life. Kuroo felt it like a shift in pressure, like the air had gone thick.

He sat up straighter, instincts clicking into place like armor.

Your father emerged from the hallway, slow and deliberate. He shuffled out in sweats and a grey tank top that had seen better days, scratching his belly like a bear half-disturbed from hibernation.

Kuroo shot up from his seat. His posture went ramrod straight and his eyes widened.

The man was huge. Not just muscular—solid. Towering. Heavy hands, boxer's shoulders, a chest like a steel barrel, and a scowl carved into his face like a statue that had never known joy. He looked like he could knock out a grown man with one hand and still make it home in time for dinner. Kuroo felt like a goddamn pair of chopsticks next to him.

And the look your dad gave him?

Like he was already imagining what it'd feel like to snap him in half and make a wish.

"Dad. Kuroo Tetsurou. Kuroo Tetsurou. Dad." you introduced lazily. Too casual in his opinion.

Kuroo scrambled to his feet and bowed, polite and slightly terrified. "Nice to meet you, sir."

Your dad grunted. Not a word. Just grunt.

"He's my tutor," you said, arms folding across your chest.

Another grunt. Slightly lower.

"And the guy I'm in love with."

Silence.

Your dad's eyes flicked wider—just a twitch—but in his world, that was basically a scream. He looked at you, then back at Kuroo, who was now staring at you like you'd grown a second head.

Did you want him to die? Because he was pretty sure that's what you were going for.

Then your dad squinted. His chin tilted up ever so slightly as he peered at Kuroo through his lower lashes, expression calculating now. Something in his gaze sharpened—predatory, maybe. Appraising.

Kuroo could see the resemblance.

"Are you the guy my daughter cried herself to sleep over the other day?"

Your eyes flew open, panic shooting through you.

"Da—"

"What do you do for a living?" he cut in.

You blinked. Panic changed to cringe. 

What the fuck was that question?

Kuroo stammered. "I—I'm a student, sir."

"And?"

"He's the captain of the volleyball team," you said quickly, rubbing your temples in secondhand embarrassment.

Your dad's brow twitched. He didn't say anything, but the surprise was there—buried beneath his blank expression.

"And top of his class," you added.

"Top of your class?"

"Top of my class, Sir."

Your dad grunted again—less annoyed this time. Thoughtful, maybe.

Then, without another word, he reached out and grabbed your glass of water off the table, downed it in two massive gulps.

You scowled. "I was drinking that, thank you."

If he heard, he ignored it. He wandered into the kitchen and the faucet creaked awake as he filled the glass under the sputtering tap. His free hand patted at his pockets.

Then, without so much as a glance, he tossed something in your direction.

You caught it mid-air, reflexive.

Your fingers closed around the shape before your brain caught up. The feel was familiar—rectangular, thin, slightly glossy. You looked down and gasped. Audibly.

A pack of cigarettes.

But not just any. The cigarettes—the most expensive ones the local konbini carried, the ones you only ever admired from behind the counter like they were luxury perfume.

"I saw your report card, kiddo. You've been doing great," he muttered, not looking directly at you as he set the glass back down on the table with a clink. His eyes flicked to Kuroo next. "I guess I gotta thank you for that too. Though I assume since you play sports, you don't smoke."

"No sir."

"Good. Maybe you can get her to quit that bullshit too."

You rolled your eyes, a wry little grin tugging at your mouth. "What will you give me when I don't smoke and still do well in school?"

"Good point," he murmured, almost to himself.

Then he looked at Kuroo, giving him a jerk of his chin.

"Sit down, son. This ain't the military. Just don't make her cry again or I'll make you wish it was."

Kuroo nodded so fast he almost gave himself whiplash.

"Yessir."

He sank back into his seat with zero resistance, spine still straight as a rail, like he didn’t trust gravity not to betray him.

Your dad grabbed his battered bomber jacket from the hook by the door, slinging it over one shoulder. It looked too light for the weather, but that was just how he was—too stubborn to feel the cold.

"I'm going out. Go ahead and have dinner without me," he said gruffly, hand already on the knob.

Then his eyes slid to Kuroo. A pause. Then back to you.

"Behave."

You raised a hand in a lazy salute, leaning back in your chair.

"Have fun~"

He grunted once—final, almost fond—and shut the door behind him. The lock clicked into place with a soft metallic snick.

Silence.

Kuroo let out the longest exhale of his life.

"Are you insane?! He could've killed me with a flick of his pinky."

You burst out laughing. The sound cracked out of you, light and sudden.

"But he didn't. Relax—he's harmless."

"Uh, yeah. I don't believe you."

"Tetsurou."

"Y/N."

You sighed, brushing a hand through your hair.

"Follow me, please."

You stood and padded toward your room, feeling his presence shuffle behind you—socked feet brushing over the floor, quieter than usual. When the door clicked shut behind him, you went straight to your bag, kneeling beside it with shaky fingers.

Not from fear.

But from the crushing awareness that you'd said it.

That you loved him.

Out loud.

In front of your dad. Like a lunatic.

Your hands trembled as you pulled a box of chocolates from your bag and turned, holding it out.

Kuroo blinked down at the box like it had materialized out of nowhere. His brow furrowed slightly as he glanced between your face and the glossy packaging, confusion shifting slowly into something quieter. Curious. Guarded. Like he was afraid to hope.

You cleared your throat and dropped your gaze to the floor.

"I, uh..." you started, voice barely above a whisper. "You said... you wanted, like—a cute confession. Like in the movies. With chocolate... And a letter... n' shit."

He stared at you, eyes unreadable. You kept yours fixed on the floor like it might open up and swallow you whole.

"So," you said quietly, forcing the words out before they slipped away, "here's the chocolate."

Kuroo looked down at the box in his hands, fingers twitching like he didn't know whether to laugh or hug you.

You kept talking, like if you stopped you'd fall apart.

"I… I didn't write a letter because that's stupid, and I'm not good at feelings. You know that. But I thought maybe you'd… I don't know. You'd get what I mean if I just… if I just showed you."

Your breath hitched. The pressure in your chest was building—tight and relentless behind your ribs.

"I didn't mean to hurt you, Tetsurou," you said, finally looking at him just to look down again, running away from the intensity of his golden, honeyed eyes.

You blinked rapidly, trying to keep it back, but the heat of guilt and shame stung anyway. The tears came fast—hot, unwelcome, and traitorous.

"I just— I didn't want to fuck it up. That's the only thing I knew from the start. That if I let it get serious, I'd do something stupid and mess it all up. And then you'd leave. And I thought it'd be easier to keep it simple and just not... not feel so much."

Your voice broke and you squeezed your eyes shut.

The tears spilled over.

"I didn't mean to hurt you," you said again, softer now. A whisper, like the truth had grown too heavy to speak at full volume.

Kuroo's voice met you like a steady anchor—

"But you did," he said softly. Not sharp. Not angry. Just real.

You looked up slowly, the shame burning hot behind your eyes.

He was already watching you.

"I know," you whispered.

He took a breath. Slow. Full of something more than just oxygen.

Then came that smirk—that lopsided, him kind of smirk that made your heart stumble. The one you'd missed like hell.

His golden eyes scanned your face, and he still hadn't let go of the chocolates. They hovered between you like a fragile offering. A truce.

"You really thought I meant the chocolate part?"

You let out a wet, broken laugh. "I panicked."

"God," he muttered, stepping forward.

Then he kissed you.

Warm hands slid up to cradle your face, thumbs brushing over damp cheeks as his mouth found yours—soft and grounding. Not desperate. Not hurried. Just full. Steady. Like he was trying to tether you to him, to the now, so you'd stop spiraling through everything you'd been afraid of.

You clung to his shirt like it was the only solid thing left in the world. Your lips parted beneath his with a quiet, gasping sob.

"I'm sorry," you breathed into him. Again and again. Each one more cracked than the last, as his mouth moved from yours to your cheek, to the corner of your eye.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"

"I know," he whispered, pressing his forehead to yours. "I know."

He kissed the top of your head, fingers trailing down to your hips, grounding you with quiet presence. Holding you there. Steady.

"I love you too, by the way," he said. Soft. Firm. Impossible to mistake.

You froze.

"It was quite ballsy to say it in front of your dad," he added, voice nearly a whisper.

You looked up at him, nose pink and eyes red and blotchy. "You love me?"

"Yeah," he said like it was obvious. "Why else would I put up with you acting like my feelings were a math problem you could ignore into submission?"

You shoved his chest, still crying but laughing now too, emotions a tangled mess in your throat.

"You're such a dick," you sniffled.

"And you are too," he said, pulling you into another kiss. "Now shut up and let me hold you before I cry too."

You kissed like you had all the time in the world.

No more frantic hands or clashing teeth. No power games. No pretending you didn't care.

It was just you, and Kuroo, and the quiet press of his lips against yours.

You felt him sigh into it, like kissing you brought him some kind of peace. Like it was relief. Forgiveness. Home.

His lips trailed along your jaw, slow and reverent, rediscovering you inch by inch—re-memorizing every part of the map he’d gone too long without touching.

"I missed you," he breathed, voice cracking like the words were breaking out of him whether he wanted them to or not. A truth he needed to say aloud.

You hated how much that made your throat close up. Your hands curled around his shirt, pulling him closer without even realizing it. Not desperate. Just... greedy. Needy. Because you'd missed him. Because you loved him. Because you needed him. And he felt so fucking good—solid and warm and real—breathing against your mouth like he needed you just the same.

"Tetsurou..." you muttered, tugging at his hair, breath skimming his cheek. "You make me so fucking soft, it's disgusting."

That got a low laugh from him, warm against your skin. "Guess we're both disgusting, then."

But you weren't. Not with how his hands moved—gentle, steady, worshipping. Hands sliding up under your shirt, fingers slow and sure as they brushed across your stomach, your ribs, the curve of your breast. Not groping. Savoring.

Not with how gently he pushed you onto your bed. Soft like a whisper, smiling into the kiss when you pulled him by the collar of his shirt on top of you like you couldn't be apart from him for longer than strictly needed.

Not with how you kissed him back, mouth parting with quiet need, teeth grazing his lower lip like a silent promise. He tasted like the ghost of salt and sweetness. Like missing someone so badly it hurt.

You kissed him harder. Deeper. Tongues tangling like you were trying to swallow each other whole. When you ground your hips up against him, you felt how hard he already was, thick and twitching against your thigh.

He groaned into your mouth, hands sliding down to hook under your thighs.

"You're shaking," he murmured, lips brushing the shell of your ear—almost shy, like he didn't want to scare you off with how soft you suddenly felt.

"I know," you whispered, breath hitching as your hips rolled against his. "I just don't know how to do this when it feels this fucking real."

He brushed his thumb along your cheek, down to your jaw, tilting your face up before dipping to press his mouth to your collarbone. Each kiss was barely there at first—featherlight—until his teeth scraped your skin and he growled against it.

"Then don't think," he said, voice rough. "Just let me make you feel good. Let me ruin you a little more."

You exhaled hard, like you were exorcising fear. Then you nodded.

Clothes came off slower this time, but not without heat. He stripped you like he wanted to remember how every inch of you felt beneath his hands.

His mouth left a trail down your chest, sucking your nipple into his mouth until your back arched off the bed. You whimpered, and when you tugged his hair, he groaned—eyes fluttering shut like the sound of your need physically hurt him. He didn't tease—he devoured.

"Look at you," he rasped, forehead pressed to the center of your chest, voice breathless and thick with hunger. "You're so fucking beautiful like this. I like it when you're all tough and bratty—but this?"

His hand slipped between your thighs, fingers gliding through your slick folds as he kissed your sternum.

"This is gonna fucking ruin me."

You swore under your breath, face burning, but you didn't stop him. Your legs opened wider—offering, surrendering.

When he finally pushed into you, it wasn't exactly gentle, but it was sweet. Slow, deep, intentional. A filthy stretch that filled every inch of you and made your mouth fall open in a raw, aching gasp.

"Oh—fuck—Tetsurou—" you choked, nails clawing into his back, dragging down his sweat-slick skin.

"You feel that?" he groaned, cock grinding in deep with one thick, steady thrust. "So fucking deep… Christ, you're gripping me."

Your walls clenched reflexively around him and he stuttered forward, a broken sound ripping from his throat.

You whimpered, eyes rolling back as your legs locked around his hips, pulling him impossibly closer.

"You feel... you feel so good, I can't—"

"You can," he muttered against your mouth, voice wrecked. "You're fucking perfect around me. So wet—fuck—so wet for me I can hear it. Just take it. Let me give this to you."

He was right. You could feel it—could hear it—the obscene, slick sound of him fucking into you, each thrust louder, wetter, drawing filthy friction from your swollen, aching cunt. You were soaked, stretched around him so perfectly it felt like your body was made to be ruined by his.

His hips moved in long, grinding thrusts—intentional, filthy in their closeness. His pelvis dragged against your clit just right, every stroke hitting that spot that made your voice break, made your moans crack into desperate little gasps of his name.

"Tetsurou—please, don't stop—"

It wasn't about power tonight, or payback, or pushing limits. It was about closeness. Forgiveness. The way your hands trembled in his hair as he kissed your tears away. The way you clung to him like he could patch up everything you didn't know how to say.

"I've got you," he panted, one hand gripping your thigh, the other planted beside your head. His hips slammed deeper now, still controlled, but with a force that made the bed creak. The air was sticky with sweat and sex.

"Not going anywhere. Gonna make you come—hah, fuck—gonna come so hard you forget what you were crying about."

You whimpered something wrecked and incoherent, and his rhythm faltered for a heartbeat.

"Say it again," he gasped, fucking you harder, faster. "Say my fucking name while I make you come."

"Tetsurou—please, please—fuck, I'm gonna—"

He caught your face, fingers firm on your jaw as he kissed you like he needed your breath to survive.

"Come for me, baby. Let me feel it. Let me have all of it."

And you did. You came with a sob into his neck, shattering around him, nails digging into his back as your body locked down on him, trembling so violently he had to pin your hips to ride it out. But it wasn't enough—not with the way you pulsed around him, hot and wet and pleading.

He cursed—loud, low—and shoved in deep. Once. Twice.

Then he followed with a strangled groan.

He buried himself to the hilt, cock throbbing in thick pulses as he spilled inside you. His mouth was at your throat, panting, praising, kissing the slick skin beneath your jaw.

"Fuck—fuck—" he groaned. "You feel too fucking good—I can't—can't let you go—"

You held him like an anchor, legs still trembling around his hips, breath shallow and stuttering.

His cock twitched inside you with aftershocks, and he didn't pull out—not yet. He just stayed there, forehead resting against yours, one hand stroking your thigh like it was the only way to keep breathing.

Every thrust, every kiss, every shaky breath felt like a thread stitching two bruised hearts back together.

You stayed like that for a while—tangled, breathless, still joined at the hips as the air slowly cooled around you. His weight pressed into you, grounding, comforting. Like he was trying to hold every broken piece in place with nothing but skin and closeness.

Your hands combed through his damp hair, fingers lazy and loving, like you needed something—someone—to hold onto.

Because you did.

"You're everything I was scared to want," you mumbled into his hair, voice low and raw, scraped clean by everything he'd just pulled out of you.

He smiled—not smug, just soft—and pressed a kiss to your neck.

"You've always been mine," he murmured. "You were just too damn stubborn."

He rolled to his back, bringing you with him, bodies still warm and sticky. You settled on his chest, legs tangled with his, cheek resting over his heart. It was still beating hard, like maybe he hadn't quite come back down yet either.

His fingers lazily traced shapes on your hip while your hand lay flat against his chest, feeling the slow, steady rise and fall.

You weren't used to this.

The silence that didn't need to be filled.

The peace after the wreckage.

But you were quickly learning to crave this part just as much as the rest of him.

He shifted slightly, the arm around you tightening—not possessive, not afraid. Just anchoring.

"Your dad really threw me under the bus, huh?"

You snorted softly. "Yeah. He has a gift for timing."

"He said you cried over me..." His voice was quiet, careful.

You paused, then sighed. "I did."

He nodded slowly, eyes fixed on the ceiling like he couldn’t quite face you yet. "I cried too. The day at the beach."

You looked up at him. "You did?"

He gave a low, humorless chuckle. "Got on the train home, sat down, and just—bam. Tears. Like an idiot." He finally glanced at you, lips tilting into a crooked smile. "I didn't even make it one stop before some old lady handed me a tissue."

You couldn't bring yourself to laugh, even though he grinned like he wanted you to. The moment felt impossibly softer as your fingers curled gently in the hair at the nape of his neck.

"I'm sorry," you murmured. "I didn't mean to make you feel like that."

"I know." His voice was barely above a whisper. "I get it now. Why you pulled away. I wish you hadn't, but... I get it."

A beat passed. Then a little fire reignited in you, sparked by the memory of a certain someone perched all too comfortably on his arm.

"You're lucky you're cute, though," you grumbled.

He raised an eyebrow, smile faltering slightly. "Yeah?"

You squinted up at him. "Otherwise I'd still be mad about you flirting with Hebinuma like it was your fucking job."

His grin returned in full force. "Okay, in my defense—"

"There is no defense."

"—I never touched her."

"You didn't need to. You let her touch you. Let her put her dirty paws all over you."

He laughed. "Alright, alright. Guilty as charged. But, for the record..." He leaned in, brushing his nose against yours, voice dropping into a teasing whisper, "You made it so easy to make jealous~ You looked so pretty... all mad and possessive like that."

You tried to roll your eyes but ended up burying your face in his neck instead. "Ugh. That's disgusting."

"You love it."

"...Maybe."

He kissed the top of your head, fingers smoothing gently down your back.

"Don't gotta pretend anymore, y'know. You can just be soft with me."

You let out a slow breath against his skin. "You make it really hard not to be."

"Good."

"I can say cheesy shit and not immediately shove you away to preserve my street cred."

Kuroo gave you a dangerous grin. "Oh really? Try."

You hesitated. "Don't laugh."

"I won't."

You narrowed your eyes, skeptical. "...I... I like you."

He snorted immediately at how absurdly difficult that had been for you—especially considering you'd just said you loved him.

"Fuck you! You said you wouldn't laugh!"

"I'm sorry!" he cackled, then tackled you with kisses, smothering your face as you flailed, trying to push him off, while he sang in a childish voice like he was teasing you at recess. "You like me~ You like me~ You liiiike me~"

"I'm gonna punch you in the ribs."

"You liiiike me~"

"I'LL BITE YOU."

He rolled onto his back, still grinning like a fool, pulling you with him so you ended up half on top of him again. You let your head drop onto his shoulder with a long, dramatic sigh.

"You're the worst," you muttered.

"You're in love with the worst, then."

"...Unfortunately."

He turned his head to look at you, gaze soft—like you were the only person who had ever mattered. His thumb brushed your cheek, grazing the skin beneath your eye.

"I love you too."

Your breath caught a little.

"I know," you whispered.

He kissed you again—slow, unhurried. Like he had forever. Because maybe now, he did.

No more pretending.

No more hiding.

No more guessing.

Just his fingers tangled with yours, your limbs intertwined beneath the sheets, the distant hum of the street outside, and the quiet, sleepy freedom of knowing you could love each other out loud now.

And god, did it feel good.

You nestled closer into Kuroo's chest, and he let out a little hum of satisfaction, arms tightening around you like you were something precious. You were still a little sweaty, tangled in the sheets and each other, but neither of you moved to clean up just yet.

He kissed your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth—small, lazy things, like he finally had the time to show you how much he liked having you like this. All his.

You tilted your head, catching his mouth with yours, slow and indulgent.

You shifted slightly, letting your leg hook over his thigh again, the closeness grounding you. "You really cried on the train?"

"Like a baby."

"...Fuck. That makes me wanna cry all over again."

He smiled, and this time, it was quieter. Realer.

"Don't. I've got you now. And if you cry again, your dad will kill me... Speaking of your dad killing me—we should probably get dressed before he gets back."

"I kinda don't wanna move, though," you groaned, burying your face in the crook of his neck.

"We also have to clean up. And you need to pee. Friction during sex pushes all kinds of bacteria into your urethra and you could get a nasty UTI—"

"Tetsurou. I know. You say it every time."

"It’s ‘cause every time, you don’t wanna let go! And seriously, your urethra needs—"

"I’ll go if you stop saying urethra."

"Real mature, Y/N. It's simply a body part. Nothing to be ashamed of," he mocked with that signature grin.

You groaned and stood up, tugging on the long t-shirt you used as pajamas.

When you came back, he'd put on pants and even made your bed. He was scrolling through his phone, looking as beautiful as usual.

"Don't leave yet..." you murmured.

His eyes lifted, widening slightly.

"You wanna... cuddle with clothes on or something?"

His surprise melted into a sly smile, but there was a warmth behind it that was unmistakable.

"Cuddle? With clothes on? We're moving a little too fast, Y/N. I don't know if I'm ready for that yet," he teased.

"Shut up."

You flopped next to him, your arms immediately winding around his torso, pressing your cheek to its rightful place on his chest.

"Wanna watch the first season of Death Note?"

"I can't, unfortunately. I gotta get home—and I doubt your dad would let me stay. But maybe..."

"Maybe?"

"Maybe you could come home with me tomorrow. After practice. I know it's not a Thursday but..."

The unsure way he said it hurt you. Like he still didn't quite believe he could ask for things—didn't trust that you'd say yes.

You hugged him tighter, arms looping around his waist, and pressed a kiss over his heart without even thinking. It caught him off guard.

You didn't notice. You were too busy leaving more soft kisses along his chest, murmuring apologies into his skin.

"Thank you. I'll be there," you whispered.

Your voice was the softest he'd ever heard. And somehow, it made something settle in him. Like everything was finally clicking into place.

He hugged you back with a labored sigh.

Like he could finally stop holding back.

Like he could finally hold you how he'd always wanted—without worry.

For the first time, you walked him to the door and said goodbye with a long kiss, followed by many smaller ones he scattered across your face like the first one wasn't enough.

"See you tomorrow. Stop skipping class. Things are getting a little harder lately, and if you miss too much you could fail the exams."

"I guess you'll have to put me up to date with the contents."

"Thursdays after class?"

"After practice." you corrected. He smiled.

"After practice."

You watched him go, your hand lingering on the doorframe even after he disappeared down the stairs. For a long moment, you didn't move—just stood there with your lips still tingling and your heart still echoing with his laughter.

Something in you had finally unraveled tonight. Not in a bad way. Just… looser. Lighter. Like you could finally breathe.

You shut the door softly behind you, the apartment unusually quiet as you padded back into your room. Kuroo's scent still clung to your sheets—warm laundry and a hint of sweat—and you smiled into your pillow before flopping down on it like some idiot in love.

Because maybe you were. Maybe it was stupid. Maybe it was dangerous.

But it felt good. And for now, that was enough.

But peace, as always, was temporary. The whispers crawling through Nekoma's halls were growing fangs—sharp with rumor, slick with malice. And somewhere in the dark, a ghost stirred, reanimated by a snake with a grudge.

And this time, she wasn’t coming for you directly.

Next chapter↪

tags. @themoreeviltwin @taylordenae @rhea-sylvea @iluvikeu @tgnvhp @adangerousbalance @orphicarchive @tammytaamm @iluvmusicxoxo @rvm1ne @kuzoq @espressocandies @ashley95943734 @jayathelostdragon @kyokoyya @crystal-lilac @kuzuven0208

[inkpetrichor]

Literal goosebumps at your writing💜 i love it.

Thank you sm QvQ

[inkpetrichor]

Nasty Dog! | Kuroo Tetsurou x f!reader

4.- Part four

masterlist here<3

cw. MDNI. fem! reader. delinquent! reader. use of yn. smoking. cursing. angst. jealousy. mentions of bullying. mentions of fights/bruising. arguing. hate-kissing. suggestive. smutty. lemme know if i missed anything<3 wc. 5.8k an. i love y'all <3 i'm so sorry about last week's chapter TTvTT i swear we'll have a break from the angst soon. i loved your comments sm tho i appreciate you so much(♡)

When your alarm went off the day after the beach, you didn't even look at the screen. Just slammed your hand down on it, rolled over, and buried yourself deeper into the blankets.

The air felt too cold, or maybe it was just your skin, stretched too tight from keeping yourself together.

Your dad knocked once before cracking open the door.

"You goin' to school?" he asked, voice rough from sleep, like gravel under boots.

You didn't answer. Just curled in tighter on yourself, face hidden in the dark cocoon of your bedding.

He paused. Then just closed the door and walked away, heavy steps fading into the distance. 

He didn't ask again. It wasn't the first time you'd had a rough day and decided to sleep it off before going back to school. That tough girl image of yours took its mental stability to keep, so whenever you were feeling a little out of your game, you always chose to avoid school altogether. Too dangerous to show up to a hostile place without a hostile mask to hide behind.

But this time, that hostile, untouchable girl who smirked at chaos and could spit teeth like words was gone. You couldn't find her. Couldn't even imagine putting her mask back on.

You always kept in touch with Emi, though, even on your worst days. You'd be lying if you said you weren't a little protective of her. And without you around for the scary dog privileges, she'd have to either stick to Kiba and the rest or expose herself to bullies and mean bitches who wanted to retaliate against you but didn't have the balls to pick a real fight.

The worst one of them was Hebinuma Mizuki from class 3. A sensitive topic for Emi you had to fix more than once in the past.

So you texted Emi with all the strength you had left.

: Not going to school today. Stay out of trouble for me babes.

Emi <3: eh??? wdym???

Emi <3: i need 2 kno about yesterday! ( • ̀ω•́ )✧ did u tell him u like him or what???

Reading that hurt. You put the phone away before it buzzed again.

Emi <3: did he fuck ur legs out and that's why u won't come 2 school? (≖⩊≖)

Emi <3: wait, r u actually sick? want me to go care for you babes? (ㅅ' ^ ') (ㅅ' ^ ')

You stared at the messages for too long before replying.

: I'm okay Emi. See you on Monday. Stick by the guys.

Emi <3: did Kuroo do smth 2 u? ( ˶°ㅁ°) !!

Emi <3: if u don't answer i'll make the guys beat him up (ง •̀_•́)ง

: I'm fine, Jesus. Just fuck off.

Emi <3: fuck u </3

: Sorry babes. See ya Monday.

Emi <3: </3

You dropped the phone on the bed. The silence that followed was loud, thick. You wandered to the kitchen like a ghost and tried to avoid looking at the couch.

You failed.

That damn couch. A place of memories—too good, too vivid. A blur of messy hair, clever eyes, and long limbs draped in teenage carelessness.

Your stomach turned. You grabbed the ashtray and a fresh pack, and took it all to your room.

The smoke felt hollow that Friday.

And when Sunday came along, you hadn't said a word to anyone since that last text. You hadn't even put on real clothes.

And then, the doorbell rang.

Your dad answered it, and his gravel voice softened just a touch. 

"Shiromaru," he greeted.

You didn't need to see her face to know Emi blushed.

"Good morning, sir."

"You alright? That girl still bothering you at school?" he asked.

"No, sir. Not since Y/N beat the crap out of her."

He looked toward the hallway, where you were standing in the shadows.

"Good," he said. "Look after your friends, kiddo."

You nodded faintly, and then he was gone, headed off to a fight—or whatever it was he did in his spare time.

(Probably debt collecting, although you knew better than to ask.)

After saying goodbye with eyes that lingered just a little too long, Emi entered the house, her expression changing from cheerful to stern in two seconds flat.

She stepped into the hallway, all electricity and fight in her pink jacket and messy space buns.

"I brought you cheap beer and rented the first season of Death Note," she said, lifting a konbini bag. "Also, I need to yell at you for ghosting me. I get that you have these days but a text or a call wouldn't hurt, you bitch."

As soon as she saw your face, something in her switched. The light dimmed.

"Got any cigarettes?"

You just nodded and she breezed past you, right into your room like she belonged there.

(She kinda did.)

"Good. I'm staying over."

"What about school?" you asked, voice scratchy.

"My uniform's in my bag. I don't think your dad cares. Oh also," she glanced over her shoulder with a wicked little grin, "he gets hotter every time I see him, What's up with that?"

You wished you could snort, play along, curse her off—but you didn't have the strength in you. You simply walked up behind her and rested your forehead against her back.

Emi stilled.

"Hey..." she said softly. "Does this one have anything to do with the volleyball captain?"

You didn't answer. You couldn't.

Your throat burned.

Then you shook your head. Once. Then again. 

And then the sob broke out of you like a dam cracking wide open.

Emi turned and caught you in her arms.

"Babes..." she whispered, pulling you tighter. You clawed at her jacket, hands shaking, knees buckling. She fell with you onto the floor, cradling your head against her collarbone like you were something fragile.

"I fucked it up," you gasped between sobs. "Of course I fucked everything up, I—"

"What happened? You're okay. Tell me what happened."

"I... I rejected him."

You couldn't see the way her eyes widened. She stopped for a second, then continued running her hand down your back as you cried.

"I—he was so—he looked so fucking sincere, Emi. I could've just—just kissed him, said yes, anything—but I got scared. I got so fucking scared and I spat on his feelings like a piece of shit."

You couldn't breathe. Couldn't stop. And Emi, for once, was quiet.

Then—softly, "You are a piece of shit sometimes."

You laughed through your tears, a horrible wet sound.

"But you're my piece of shit," she continued. "And you can still fix this."

You shook your head.

"I don't know if he'll want to see me again. I don't even know if I deserve it."

"You don't have to know right now," she said. "Right now you just get to cry. I'll carry your pride for a while, I bet it's too fucking heavy."

Your whole body heaved. You wept like a child, for the first time in maybe forever. For the part of yourself that thought love was too dangerous. For the part of yourself that wished it wasn't.

Emi held you for what felt like hours. She didn't complain when her legs went numb from the awkward position. She didn't care that her pretty clothes were soaked in tears and spit and snot. She held you tighter whenever a particularly violent sob tore through you, and caressed your back gently when the storm seemed to calm.

You didn't notice the door creak open.

Your dad stood frozen in the doorway, broad shoulders stiff, one hand still gripping the doorframe like it was holding him upright, and there was a crease between his brows like he couldn't quite process what he was seeing.

He blinked at the two of you, his gaze snagging on your trembling form. The fists he'd taught you to throw were balled against Emi's jacket now. You were crying so hard you couldn't breathe, couldn't speak, your whole body convulsing in helpless sobs.

You weren't yelling. You weren't fighting. You weren't lashing out like you always did when something hurt.

You were... breaking.

And he didn't know what the hell to do with that.

His mouth opened, then closed. He took one step forward, like instinct kicked in—fix it, patch it up, say something—but the moment his boot hit the floorboard, he froze again. Panic flickered across his face, subtle but raw. His hands flexed at his sides like he wanted to do something, anything—but nothing about this moment was in his wheelhouse.

He looked between you and Emi, and Emi—bless her—met his eyes with calm certainty and gave a single, firm shake of her head.

And something in him seemed to deflate. His jaw clenched. He gave a slight nod, like a huge wolf backing out of a place that suddenly wasn't his territory anymore.

Then, quietly, he shut the door and walked away.

And you? You couldn't stop thinking about Kuroo. His voice an echo in your head.

"You think this hasn't already fucked me up? You think I haven't already let you get under my skin?"

He'd opened himself wide for you—heart in hand—and you'd slammed the door in his face and pretended it didn't matter.

You hadn't even kissed him goodbye. Not even a half-assed hug or a brush of your fingers. You just left him standing there in the dark, sand clinging to his shoes and love still lingering on his tongue.

You wanted to tear the memory out of your head with your bare hands. Wanted to reach back in time, scream yes, scream wait, scream I didn't mean it like that.

Throw yourself into his arms. Bury your fingers in his hair. Press your mouth to his and say everything you didn't let yourself say.

That's how it should've gone.

If you weren't so fuckin—

"Stupid..." Your voice cracked. "I'm so stupid."

Your breath hitched again, and a fresh wave of tears spilled over your cheeks. You bit your lip so hard it might've drawn blood, but you couldn't stop the ugly, shaky sob that followed.

Emi sighed, long and soft. But not annoyed.

"No, you're not," she said gently. "And that somehow makes it worse."

You hated that she was right.

Because you weren't dumb. You knew what he meant when he looked at you like that. You'd realized when his feelings started to change. You knew how much it cost him to put himself out there. To ask for something real.

And you still shut him down, because you thought it would keep things simple. Because you were scared. Because it was easier to pretend it didn't mean as much as it did.

It meant everything. And you'd thrown it away.

"I messed it up," you croaked, rubbing at your face uselessly. "I fucked up everything."

"Yeah," Emi said, not unkindly. "But you're not done yet." She shifted, legs twisted awkwardly beneath her. "Just... Can we switch positions? My ass fell asleep."

Again, it made you laugh through the tears—a short, wet snort that turned into another sob halfway through.

You nodded and finally pulled away, wiping at your cheeks with the back of your sleeve.

Emi settled against the edge of your bed, stretching her legs out with a dramatic groan and patting the spot beside her.

"C'mon. We're both a mess. Let's be a mess together."

She cracked open a can of Asahi Super Dry—half-warm, with a 50% off sticker slapped on the side like a badge of shame—and took a long, bitter swig.

Then she looked at you.

Really looked at you. Like you were a wounded dog on the side of the road. Like it broke her heart just to see you breathe.

And for once, you didn't look away.

You felt like roadkill. You deserved to.

"Okay..." she started. "Now... Why did you reject him? I thought we'd established you liked him back so... Why?"

"I just... panicked. I thought it would be easier if I kept it simple, if I didn't let it get serious." Your voice cracked on that word. "He looked... crushed. And I knew I was hurting him. I knew it and I still did it."

"You didn't mean it..." Emi said quietly.

"That doesn't fucking matter..." you sighed. "He meant it. And I threw it back in his face because I'm too fucking scared to want something good."

You sat up, hugging your knees to your chest. Your voice dropped to a rasp. "I've been wanted before. Not like that. Not like him. God, Why does he even want me in the first place?"

"Because you are way more lovable than you give yourself credit for."

You rolled your eyes at her, and her jaw tightened. Used at you flinching at affection, but still frustrated you couldn't see yourself through her eyes.

She just sat beside you, her knee touching yours, grounding you.

"'I want us to mean something.' That's what he said. And the worst part?" you whispered. "I wanted to say yes. I wanted it. I wanted to kiss him so bad it hurt. I still do. But I looked at him and I thought... 'He's going to get sick of me. He's going to see the mess I am and he's going to leave. So I'll do it first.' "

You rubbed your palms against your face, smearing the tears across your skin like warpaint. "I didn't protect myself. I just proved I don't deserve him."

"You're allowed to be scared, babes," Emi said softly.

"No, not like that. I hurt him, Emi." Your throat tightened again. "And he didn't even fight me on it. He just... believed me. Like he didn't expect anything more from me. Like he knew I'd run."

It made you feel sick. Not from pity, but from the sheer, unbearable truth of it.

You had been everything he wasn't—cold, dismissive, cruel. And he had looked at you like you were still worth wanting. Even as you threw him away.

You heard the front door creak open again.

Boots. Heavy ones. Then came a knock—two short taps, and the door eased open an inch, enough to let in the hallway light.

Your dad stepped in halfway. Held something in his hand. The plastic crinkled.

He stood there in the doorway like a man about to walk into a minefield. His face was blank, but you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his eyes flicked from you to Emi, then to the floor, then back to you. He held out the plastic convenience store bag stiffly, like it weighed more than it did.

He cleared his throat. Opened his mouth.

You knew that look. That little twitch of his jaw, the faint furrow between his brows. He was about to try and say something.

Something sincere.

And it was going to be hard for him.

So you cut him off.

"Thanks," you said softly, standing up and walking his way. "Appreciate it."

He blinked. The words died in his throat. You met his eyes—just for a second—and gave him the faintest nod. Not dismissive. Just understanding. 

I know, Dad. It's okay.

He hesitated. For a second, it looked like he might say something anyway. But then his shoulders dropped, just a touch, and he handed over the bag.

Inside were two taiyaki ice creams. 

Chocolate. Your favorite.

Emi's too, probably just a lucky guess.

He didn't say a word as he turned around, boots thudding gently down the hallway.

The door clicked shut behind him.

You stared down at the bag for a moment, throat tightening again.

Emi shifted next to you. "You okay?"

You nodded slowly. "Yeah."

Your voice cracked anyway.

Kuroo didn't expect you to show up to class. Not really.

Still, when he walked in and saw your seat empty, something in his chest twisted. A part of him had hoped—stupidly—that you'd stroll in late, toss your bag down like nothing had happened, maybe shoot him a look, say something cocky and half-dangerous, like you were daring him to still love you.

And God, he would've. 

In a second.

But instead, there was just the empty desk—the same one you'd sprawled across last week, chewing gum and tapping his pen while he tried to write, just to dodge his eyes and pretend you weren't smiling when he finally looked up.

Now you were gone.

And he was doing the one thing he swore he wouldn't: waiting for you to come back.

But you never did.

It was like you'd flipped a switch.

Back to your old self.

Bloody-knuckled. Skipping classes. Laughing too loudly with the other delinquents in the courtyard like nothing had ever happened.

But he saw it—every time your eyes met across the courtyard, or during passing period when you pretended not to flinch.

That mask.

The one you wore so damn well.

And the crack in it. 

He could always tell when it did. That half-second flicker in your gaze, like your heart stuttered. Like maybe you were sorry. Like maybe you wanted to say something. Like maybe you still felt it, too.

He hated it.

Because he still did.

Still loved you, like a fool with no survival instinct.

And just when it started to dull—when he could almost convince himself it didn't ache every time he heard your laugh or every time Yaku asked if you were coming to class, when he could almost push you out of his thoughts—

Hebinuma Mizuki showed up.

Perfect timing.

Too perfect.

Silky black hair. Sweet voice. Honeyed everything. Everyone loved her. Teachers beamed. Classmates melted.

Still, something about her scratched under his skin.

He'd heard the rumors—and remembered that one time he asked.

"Bitch had it coming."

And somehow, that stuck with him more than any answer would've.

Because if there was one thing he knew by now was that nobody got under your skin without earning it.

She'd been circling ever since you'd vanished. Suddenly, she was all about school spirit, popping up outside the gym during practice. Offering water bottles with a sugary smile and leaning too close when she talked to him, giggling like she couldn't help herself.

It was annoying. He knew what she was doing.

But he let her do it anyway.

Yaku noticed first.

"You sure Y/N's okay?" he asked, tossing him a towel during water break. "I haven't seen her in class since Thursday."

"I don't know," Kuroo muttered, drying his neck. "Why don't you ask her? You two get along."

Yaku raised a brow. "You get along even better."

Kuroo didn't respond.

"I think it's because of Hebinuma hanging around you so much," Yaku added, not looking at him as he stretched out his legs. "Maybe that's why she won't talk to you anymore. Y/N hates her guts. Always has."

Kuroo cracked a humorless smile. "Interesting theory."

But he knew better.

It wasn't Hebinuma.

It was the beach. It was the silence. It was him avoiding you out of pride and pain. It was you avoiding him right back because you were too much of a coward to face him head-on after he'd laid himself bare for you and got nothing but sand in his teeth for it.

He knew you hated Hebinuma. Of course he did.

Still didn't stop him from letting her hover. Didn't stop him from letting her touch his arm when she talked. Or fake laugh at his dryest jokes. Especially when he could feel you watching.

Especially when he wanted you to watch.

It happened right after practice, one lazy Friday.

Hebinuma had "accidentally" waited until practice was over, until the sun was casting long shadows across the front of the gym. She bounced toward him with that same cutesy walk, giggling about how she'd love to support the team, maybe become their new manager—

And then, Kuroo felt it.

Like static electricity on the back of his neck.

He turned.

You were standing a few meters away, bag slung over one shoulder, hair a mess like you'd just fought someone and won. A faint bruise blooming along your jaw, and your eyes—

Murderous.

It was the look of someone who'd come to apologize. Someone who'd worked up the nerve, finally. And walked right into a punch to the gut.

You looked at Hebinuma like she was trash on the sidewalk.

Then you looked at him.

Like he was worse.

He arched a brow. A challenge, maybe.

You just sighed. Disappointed. Furious. Tired.

Then turned without a word, slipping a cigarette from your blazer pocket, exhaling smoke into the sky like you needed somewhere to put the quiet fury.

Hebinuma kept talking, oblivious or pretending to be, tugging at his sleeve as she rattled on about her "manager application" and how Coach Nekomata was being soooo picky.

Yaku wandered over, towel draped around his neck. Watched the scene like a car crash. Then muttered behind him, just loud enough:

"Are you trying to piss her off?"

"Maybe," he answered.

And it kept happening.

Hebinuma showing up during lunch with bentos "for the team," but handing his first. Laughing too loud at things he didn't say, brushing imaginary lint off his uniform.

Always conveniently when you were close enough to see it.

Kuroo never stopped her.

Didn't really encourage it either.

But he let it happen.

Because he knew what it looked like. Because of the way your jaw would tense when you saw it, because of the way you'd flick your cigarette a little harder or shoulder past him in the hallway with an empty glare ahead.

Because it felt like punishment. For both of you.

Because he didn't know how else to make you feel it.

And maybe, deep down, he wanted to see how long it would take before you snapped.

Because that tension—him pretending he didn't care, you pretending you didn't hurt—it couldn't hold forever.

And Kuroo, for all his logic and control, knew one thing for sure:

The longer you stretch a spring, the harder it snaps.

"How dare he?!" You paced like a caged animal, fury coming off you in waves.

Emi leaned back against the wall, dragging deep on her cigarette, eyes narrowed. "Yeah, he lost points from me too, hanging around that bitch."

"How fucking dare he?!" you snapped again, spinning toward her, jabbing the air with your finger. "You know what? I'm glad it's her. If it was any other girl, maybe I'd be sad. But this?" You scoffed. "This just pisses me off. And I can deal with angry way better than I deal with sad."

"We know that." Emi took another drag, exhaling smoke through her nose. "Wait... So you're not scared they'll actually date? Everyone thinks they're already a thing. Maybe they are."

You shook your head, taking one last hit of your cigarette before grinding it out under your boot like it owed you something.

"Nah. Tetsurou is smart. Way too smart. He probably sees right through her..." You hesitated, then started pacing again. "But the fact that he does see through her and still lets her do her little act? Still lets her put her hands all over him? That pisses me off even more."

"So? What're you gonna do?"

You stopped. Crossed your arms. "...I don't know."

Emi rolled her eyes, tossed her cigarette to the ground, and grabbed your shoulders.

"You talk to him! March up and say, 'I was scared. I was a coward. Please forgive me. I love you.' Then you date him. Boom!" She spun away, arms wide like she was directing a play. "Jesus, I'm glad you're not all sad and mopey anymore, but these fights you've been picking lately? They're scrambling your brain."

"I hate being in love, dude. That shit's gross. Makes me all sappy and soft."

"It also makes you cuter~"

You grunted. She just laughed, slinging her arms around your neck and rubbing her cheek against yours like an annoying cat.

"I'm joking~ You've always been soft and cute." Then she shoved you away with a grin. "Now go. Do the one part of a relationship you've been avoiding like a complete dumbass: communication."

You sighed, dragging a hand down your face before heading toward the gym.

It was Monday now, and almost two weeks of this stupid dance was enough. Enough missing him. Enough pride swallowing. Enough pretending.

You waited for the final bell. Waited for that slow burn of guilt and longing in your chest to get hot enough to move you—but not so hot it turned into something reckless.

You were ready to talk. To say something. Anything. Mostly sorry.

You were.

Until you saw who he was talking to.

Hebinuma fucking Mizuki again.

Your skin crawled the second her voice floated toward you. Your blood turned to boiling tar.

You didn't hesitate.

"Tetsurou," you called out, voice sharp like a whipcrack—more warning than greeting.

Both of them turned. You walked straight up, eyes locked on her like a loaded gun. Hebinuma flinched.

"Don't pet every stray puppy you see," you snapped. "That one's got mange."

Kuroo blinked like he had to double-check what you just said. Hebinuma did too—twice—then plastered on a tight, fake smile.

"Oh, L/N-san. No need to be so hostile..." she cooed. But her jaw was tight. One eye twitched. Sweet as arsenic.

"Hebinuma," you said flatly, folding your arms. "That one's off-limits."

She blinked—slow and fake, like a dumb deer. Then you saw it—the flicker. That glint in her eye.

"I didn't know you two were..." she started.

"We're not." Kuroo cut in—too fast.

Your jaw locked tight.

Hebinuma smiled, sharp now. "Be careful, Kuroo-san. Her and her friend—"

"What's that about my friend?" you snapped, stepping forward.

She flinched, but kept going.

"I'm just saying..." She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear with mock innocence. "Being seen around girls like her could tarnish his reputation."

The fury in your chest flared red-hot.

"Worry about your own business," you growled, "and get the fuck out."

Her voice shook a little, but again, she continued. She seemed braver than usual—like she thought Kuroo might protect her. 

(She was wrong.)

"Ah, L/N-san... Why are you always so mean? We used to be good friends in junior high~"

Your voice sliced through her fake sweetness.

"I was never your friend, you nasty bitch. Don't tie my name to yours. And take a few steps back before I catch mange, too."

Her smile cracked. Red bloomed across her cheeks—anger or humiliation, maybe both.

She opened her mouth, but you were already moving in her space. Eyes narrow.

Nose inches from hers and heat rolling off you like a flame about to catch.

"Scram," you said, low and deadly. "Just seeing your face pisses me off. Or do you want a little reminder of first year?"

Her pupils shrank. 

There it was—fear. 

But instead of answering, she looked at Kuroo like he'd save her, like he might step in.

He wasn't even looking. One hand was pinching the bridge of his nose like you were giving him a headache.

(You were.)

She shook her head with a huff and stomped off, perfume lingering like rot under flowers.

You turned to Kuroo with a smirk tugging at your lips.

He didn't return it.

Still rubbing his temples, he looked at you like you'd just insulted his mother in front of a teacher.

"I was looking for you," you said casually, ignoring the thundercloud over his head.

You jabbed a thumb toward where Hebinuma had vanished. "Since when do you hang out with bishoujos? That's not like you."

"What are you doing here?"

Your smirk faded. And you nodded slowly toward him. "I get it, you're pissed."

"Yeah! I'm a little pissed," he snapped. "She could've been Nekoma's manager."

You frowned. That's not exactly what you were thinking he was pissed at. 

"You guys don't need a manager. You're cool. You've always handled it."

"What would you know?"

"Whoa. Attitude." You raised both your hands like you were surrendering. "Sorry I scared your little fan. You wouldn't want her around anyway if you—"

"My what? Wait. Are you jealous?" His eyes widened, faking surprise. "Is that why you barked at her and scared her off?"

"Not entirely," you shrugged, smug.

"You're not even denying it."

"I don't share, Tetsurou."

"You can't monopolize me."

"I can try~"

"I don't get it," he muttered. "We make out, we sleep together, we do everything couples do—but when I actually ask you out, you reject me. Then you show up and threaten a girl who breathes near me. What the hell am I supposed to make of that?"

He moved closer without thinking. You didn’t move back. Not even an inch.

You crossed your arms, glaring off to the side. "Honestly? She's just a bitch. That's ninety percent of it. But yeah, her batting those fake-ass lashes at you and putting her hands all over you? That did set me off a little." 

Your fingers twitched as you glanced toward where Hebinuma had left, jaw clenched. "I'm getting pissed again. I might go back and—"

Kuroo's hands gripped your shoulders, firm and sudden, shaking you just enough to snap your eyes back to his.

"Stop. Stop doing that."

"Doing what?"

"Trying to punch your way through every emotion."

"I don't do that."

"You do."

"I don't—"

"Fuck's sake!" He groaned, dropping his head like you were physically draining his soul. "Why do you even hate her so much? What did she do?"

"She's using you," you snapped, not really answering the question. "She knows I'm into you, and she's gonna use you to piss me off."

"Well, joke's on her, then. You're not that into me anyway. You rejected me, remember?"

"She's using you," you repeated.

"And you're not?"

You froze.

You could've apologized right there. That was the whole reason you came.

But the image of Hebinuma touching him—her claws on his arm, her voice in his ear—was still stuck behind your eyelids.

"Okay, well, she's using you in a gross Machiavellian way. I'm using you in a cute Ayn Rand way."

"You hate Ayn Rand," he snapped.

"Exactly," you muttered.

He stared. "You know what? It doesn't matter. You're giving me a migraine. Just... leave me alone."

He turned on his heel, the movement sharp.

Your jaw locked. You threw a silent apology to Emi and stepped forward, forcing the words out.

"She's a bully. Hebinuma."

He didn't turn. But he paused.

"She used to bully Emi in junior high. Still spreads rumors about her. Just 'cause she's a gyaru. Just 'cause she's jealous. I know she looks sweet, but she's poison."

Your voice had dropped—lower, honest. It hurt to say, to tell on Emi. But it was the only way to reach him.

You exhaled sharply. "Ask Kenma. She tried to make his life hell in his first year too—for a while. I bet he could smell her a mile away and that made her uneasy. Good luck he didn't give a fuck... Ask him if you don't believe me."

Another pause. He stopped. Shoulders tense. Then turned—just enough to glance at you over his shoulder, jaw ticking.

"I also thought there was something off about her. She's fake."

You scoffed. "Then why would you even consider letting her hang around you like that? Are you trying to piss me off?"

He rolled his eyes, but there was no real heat behind it.

"Not everything is about you, Y/N."

"If it's about you, I want it to be."

That stunned him. Just for a moment.

"Let's do it," you said. "The dating thing. The... feelings n' shit."

He turned the rest of the way. His brows drew together sharply. His mouth parted, then clamped shut again—like he couldn’t decide if he should laugh or scream. Like he couldn't believe your audacity.

"That's your confession?"

You stepped closer before your brain could stop your feet, pulse punching behind your ribs. "Take it or leave it."

His eyes flicked over your face like he couldn’t decide where to settle—your mouth, your eyes, your mouth again.

"Okay. I refuse then." His voice was low—dangerously low. “You show up, bark at some girl like I belong to you—and then what? Drop half a confession like it’s supposed to fix everything?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The air between you buzzed, charged and heavy. His chest rose and fell, uneven. The heat building between you turned suffocating.

His gaze dragged back to your lips. Just for a second.

But it was enough.

"If you think that’s how you make it up to me for breaking my heart, think again. I want an apology. A real one. Then a cute confession. Like in the movies. With a letter and chocolate and shit."

"Am I a clown to you?" you hissed, lip curling.

"Oh, shut up."

You grabbed his tie at the same time he surged forward, and the kiss landed like a spark in dry grass.

Instant. All-consuming.

You gasped into it, hands fisting his shirt like you'd been drowning and just found air again. He groaned, hand sliding to the back of your neck, holding you there, mouth hungry against yours.

Tongues clashed. Teeth grazed. You didn’t even know what the hell you were doing—just that you had to. That his mouth was fire and yours was gasoline.

You kissed like enemies. Like neither of you wanted to give in first, breathing each other in like poison you couldn’t help drinking.

His breath hitched when you tugged at his tie and bit down on his bottom lip—not enough to hurt, just enough to piss him off. He shoved you back a step, crowding you against the brick wall behind the gym. His lips chased yours again, hungrier, messier. His hands slid under your shirt, palms hot, fingers splaying across your spine like he needed to hold something solid or he’d fall apart.

He pulled back just enough to growl, "I’m still mad at you."

"I know," you whispered. "I'm mad at me too."

Your hands tangled in his hair, dragging him back down. You were breathless. Shaking. But you didn’t stop. Couldn’t.

He kissed you like a grudge—like he didn’t know whether to devour you or destroy you. All frustration and bruised ego and unspoken need.

The kiss slowed—only slightly. Still desperate, still angry, but now there was something else slipping between the cracks. Something vulnerable.

He broke away again, panting. His forehead pressed against yours. His hands were still on your waist like he couldn’t bear to let go, even if he knew he should.

"I want more than this," he said, voice raw and breaking.

You shut your eyes.

"I’m trying," you said, barely audible. "I came here to try."

Your lips were swollen. So were his. Your whole body thrummed, screaming at you to pull him back, to fix it the only way you knew how.

But he didn’t kiss you again.

He stepped back—like it hurt to do it—and dragged in a breath.

Then he looked at you. Long and hard. Like he was reminding himself of the reason he was so mad at you.

"I’m not your outlet," he said hoarsely. "You don’t get to use me every time you’re bored or jealous or scared to feel something real. Come to me when you're ready to actually talk feelings…"

His voice cracked. Just barely.

"Figure your shit out. I'm tired, Y/N."

And just like that, he turned.

You didn’t stop him.

Your breath left you in a slow, broken exhale. Your mask slipped. Shoulders sagged.

"Right."

Next chapter↪

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