Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Is Bokuto-san being difficult?” Akaashi takes in Konoha’s flushed face, the sticky sheen on his right cheek. His expression is even, because even at 22, Akaashi keeps his emotions in an iron grip. But Konoha has known Akaashi since he was an awkward first-year in high school, watched firsthand when Akaashi slipped and called Bokuto Koutarou a star to his face and then proceeded to fall head over ass in love with him, so Konoha recognizes the twitch at the corner of Akaashi’s mouth as displeasure. 

It’s funny, how in a world where Kuroo Tetsurou walks around in expensive three-piece suits and Tsukishima Kei still towers above them, Akaashi Keiji, pretty manga editor, is still more jealous of him. Kuroo centers entire media campaigns around Bokuto and Tsukishima asks Bokuto to practice with him, but it’s Konoha Akinori, a barely 180 cm tall pharmaceutical employee, who makes Akaashi sulk.

“If it makes you feel better,” Konoha says gently, drawing Akaashi in for a kiss. He opens his mouth just enough that Akaashi can taste the remnants of Bokuto’s slick on his tongue and then pulls away. Akaashi’s already blushing. “In between complaining about Miya, he did ask when you were getting here and nearly kicked Tatsun in the chest when we told him you’d be late.”

“Is Washio-san still here?”

Konoha nods and helps Akaashi strip from his outerwear, taking the time to hang up the overcoat and dark blue scarf that he recognizes as the one Onaga gifted him last Christmas. Konoha has a similar one in red. Bokuto’s was a fussy white, gold, and black one, and it was clear that Onaga spent the most on it. Bokuto loved it and wore it until summer’s peak. That sort of good judgment was the reason why Onaga led Fukurodani as captain his final year.

“Saru’s sick, but we had him on the phone earlier. Bokuto was sad, but we took care of it.” With a filthy little grin, Konoha winks. Akaashi can imagine it, Bokuto sandwiched between the two men, torn between leaning into Konoha’s particular brand of handsy cruelty or retreating to the safety of Washio’s broad chest.

The two of them walk back to Konoha’s bedroom, where Washio is gently fucking up into Bokuto, one broad hand on Bokuto’s lower back to keep him steady. Bokuto’s sobbing, soft hitching sobs, as he grinds in Washio’s lap. 

Akaashi and Konoha get a moment to admire the clean lines of Bokuto’s broad back, the way Washio’s other hand grips his ass, his fingertips dipping in and out of Bokuto’s hole as he rides out his orgasm. 

“There you go, ace,” Washio murmurs, pulling Bokuto even closer. He works two fingers into Bokuto’s ass and shifts his hands so Konoha and Akaashi can see how easily Bokuto takes him.“You’re the best, Kou. The best ace, the best wing spiker, the best omega.”

Bokuto sniffles, his face tucked into Washio’s neck. “And what else?”

“And Bokuto Beam is a super cool name that you came up with,” Konoha calls out. Looking at Akaashi, he explains, “Miya said it was stupid, so Bokuto’s been pissy all day.”

Realizing that a third person is now involved, Bokuto pops his head up and whirls around. When his eyes lock on Akaashi, he shoots to his feet and leaps towards him.

He falls short though, apparently more than a little unsteady on his feet since Konoha and Washio have been taking turns fucking him since early afternoon. “Akaashi!” He cries out, as though he slammed into the floor and not the safety of Washio’s strong arms. “Akaashi, get Samu-Samu on the phone and tell him what Tsum-Tsum said to me!”

Akaashi doesn’t smile, but his tone is playful when he says, “Of course, Bokuto-san. But I haven’t spoken to Miya-san in some time. You’ll have to wait a few minutes while we catch up. Can you do that?”

Bokuto, really too alert for someone in heat, quirks his head. His lips purse, as though he’s considering Akaashi’s words, and his gaze flickers to the cell phone in Akaashi’s hand. “Tsum-Tsum was pretty mean,” He says slowly.

“There’s a difference between being mean to tease you and being mean to hurt you.”

Washio starts to gently stroke his cock, holding the entirety of it in one palm. Bokuto’s breath catches, and he moves easily when Washio hooks a leg under his ankle and spreads Bokuto’s legs apart, exposing the pale pink of his wet cunt. 

“He definitely wanted to hurt me,” Bokuto insists, squirming back against Washio. He reaches back to tangle his fingers in Washio’s hair. “He’s malicious.”

“Just half an hour ago you were threatening to go down to Akaashi’s office yourself and get him,” Konoha teases. His narrow eyes focus between Bokuto’s legs as Washio rewards the other man for using ‘malicious’ correctly by drawing his fingers up and down Bokuto’s wet labia. Bokuto’s cock, soft against his stomach, twitches. “What were your exact words? If Keiji doesn’t show up right now, no heat sex for him, he’s going to have to sit and watch from the balcony, right?”

Konoha sneaks a glance at Akaashi, catching the flash of something in his eyes as he tilts his head. Akaashi is unflappable until Bokuto enters the room, his incandescent eyes and loud voice disorienting any and all around him. Most people fall to Bokuto, eventually, Konoha knows.

“If you don’t go fuck him right now,” He says, not unkindly, “I’m going to fuck him again, and you won’t get a turn until after Washio.”

. . . 

Fukurodani, like other powerhouse sports academies, was unique in the sense that it encouraged its students to join and remain in at least one club activity during their high school years. Such clubs functioned as platonic packs, preparing students for the more complicated hierarchies and dynamics that existed outside family structures. 

Sports teams, in particular, served as safe learning environments for many students, allowing them to build an array of bonds and work in a cohesive, supportive unit, preparing them for the societal realities that awaited after school. In general, club packs lasted only as long as high school, and people would move between packs as relationships grew or ended. 

Fukurodani, however, boasted to its incoming students that they would build packs that would span decades and continents. The boast was not a lie; the headmaster was a former member of the judo team who still bonded yearly with his former packmates, one of whom was a former Olympian and another who was teaching judo to children in Spain. 

To Akaashi, from a traditional background--alpha/omega, male/female coupling--Fukurodani was curious and a little unsettling. He was visiting solely for its volleyball team, a historic powerhouse that was the first to allow omegas into leadership roles. Although the current captain was a beta, Sasaki was quick to make clear how the team worked to its prospective members. 

“Bokuto Koutarou,” Sasaki said, pointing to a strong-looking boy with a lively, impatient face, calling for a toss. The prospective members watched, stared as Bokuto lept into the air, his body bowing back, arm flinging forward to strike the ball through three blockers. Bokuto, a fixed point, suspended in midair, and Akaashi, pulled into his orbit. Neither the slam of the volleyball against the gymnasium floor nor Bokuto’s buoyant, boastful laughter, couldn’t break Akaashi’s focus. “He is our ace and omega. If you think you can’t play alongside him next year, please find another club.”

Akaashi accepted the invitation to Fukurodani before leaving its campus that afternoon.

. . . 

Akaashi scents him first, nuzzling the pretty line of Bokuto’s throat, biting into the tendon that strains under his lips. It pleases him when Bokuto tips his head back and whispers, “Keiji, Keiji” over and over while Akaashi laps at his sweat-slick skin. 

As much as he hates being late to pack bonding, especially when Bokuto is sliding into his heat, he’s glad that the medicinal scent of Bokuto’s blockers is gone away. He’s glad he can’t taste Atsumu’s caramel-sweet scent or Sakusa’s vetiver one. As much as he likes Hinata, Akaashi hates when sunflower-bright notes interrupt the woodsy smell of Bokuto’s skin. 

Akaashi hates any reminder that Bokuto can move easily between them, that he has other friends and loves who can ask things of him. That Bokuto can--and has--nested with Atsumu and then showed up at Fukurodani bonding with his inner thighs reeking of Miya Atsumu. 

(That night was one of the few where the entire team was together and they had taken advantage of it. Bokuto wore their releases  for the entire time, and they had sent him back to the Jackals so marked up that even Bokuto, who learned shame late in his life, had changed in a toilet stall for several days.)

When Akaashi finally sinks into him, feeling the squelch of Konoha and Washio’s come before he hears it, Bokuto kisses him. “Gently, Akaashi,” He demands. “But not too gently.”

Akaashi pins his wrists down and rolls his hips, mesmerized by the way Bokuto looks at him, eyes blown and face flushed. It should be a filthy sight, combined with Bokuto’s full mouth and pinched pink nipples. He’s always been responsive and eager, on and off the court, and Akaashi kisses him carelessly, easy and wet.

“If you had shown up at my office,” Akaashi says, trying to catch his breath while Bokuto clenches around him. “I wouldn’t let you leave. I’d fuck you over my desk until you cried.”

Bokuto laughs. “On the latest copy of Zom’bish?” 

“Obviously he’d move it first,” Konoha says lazily, sipping beer with Washio. “Udai would probably lose it if he had to redraw everything because Akaashi’s weirdly obsessed with making Bokuto squirt.”

“Be nice,” Washio scolds, comfortably naked while Konoha is still in his boxers. He gives Akaashi a warning look when Akaashi thrusts just a little too hard and Bokuto yelps. 

“You promised you wouldn’t mention that again!” Bokuto whines, giving Konoha a betrayed look as he digs his nails into Akaashi’s shoulders. “Akinori, you traitor.”

Konoha smirks.

. . . 

Akaashi introduced himself as a setter and an alpha, and then breathed out in relief when no one raised an eyebrow or looked a little too long at his fair features. He’s used to people giving him curious side-eyes, wondering how someone with such pretty hands and pretty features could be an alpha. 

In fact, he didn’t get any more attention until Bokuto meandered over, a little hesitant and bashful. “Akashi-kun,” He said, making Akaashi wish that was his name. “Will you stay after practice and set for me? Just for a lil bit.”

One of the other second years, who Akaashi remembered as being called Konoha, made his way closer, one hand reaching out to pull away Bokuto. “Stop bothering the first-year,” He said, his cool narrow eyes flicking over Akaashi. “It’s never just a lil bit with you, anyways.”

“It’s Akaashi,” Akaashi corrected. He doesn’t look at Konoha, focused on the hopeful little smile on Bokuto’s face. “And, I suppose I could. Just for a bit.”

Bokuto beamed at him, and Konoha sighed. 

“You asked for it, Akaashi.” His gaze was considering, though, cutting over Akaashi and then Bokuto before he turned away. “Come on, ace.”

(They practiced for two extra hours after practice, Bokuto thoughtlessly demanding toss after toss while Akaashi guzzled down cold water. When Akaashi’s next toss came just a little too slow, Bokuto turned on him with wide eyes. “It’s so late!”

“Whose fault is that, Bokuto-san?” Akaashi tried to steady his breathing but had to sink down into a squat. Bokuto pulled him back up, taking a deep breath that Akaashi is quick to mimic. 

“Let’s get home,” Bokuto said instead. “Otherwise you’ll only be able to do 99 tosses instead of 100.”)

Once Bokuto took note of him, so did the rest of the team. Bokuto proclaimed that Akaashi’s tosses were the best, “after yours, Sasaki-san,” with a bashful glance at their captain, Sasaki. Soon, Akaashi is made semi-regular, invited to team scenting sessions. As students, the sessions are always platonic, with self-supervision to prevent underage mating. 

Bokuto pulled him right into his club room nest, throwing his arms around Akaashi’s shoulders and pulling him close. Sasaki was always at his back, and Akaashi rotated with Konoha for the warm spot against Bokuto’s chest. 

Sasaki seemed undisturbed by Bokuto’s interest in the new setter and instead indulged him when Bokuto praised Akaashi or clung to him. Konoha, on the other hand, refused time and time again to stay after practice for more practice but gave Akaashi distrustful looks whenever Bokuto made clear his favoritism. 

“Don’t take it the wrong way.” Sarukui patted Akaashi on the back. He nods at where Konoha is chasing a wailing Bokuto around the ball cart while Shirofuku laughs. “Despite how he acts, he’s very protective of our ace. Last year, Sasaki got injured in the quarter-finals and Bokuto went into heat before our semi-final match. Konoha was the only one around. He took care of Bokuto and got him to our game, his own scent patches on Bokuto’s neck. We won, and Ko’s been protective of Bo ever since.”

Akaashi watched as Konoha finally caught Bokuto and swung him around, barely getting the larger boy off the ground. 

. . . 

Konoha’s not the same sour-faced boy from Akaashi’s first year at Fukurodani, so he lets Akaashi knot Bokuto first and instead holds his hand. He kisses Bokuto when he wails, Akaashi’s knot fitting into him perfectly. He strokes Bokuto’s cock and kisses his temple.

“We couldn’t ask for a better omega, could we, Haruki?” Konoha directs his question to his cell phone propped against the pillow, where Komi looks a little besotted. 

“Komiyan,” Bokuto tips his head back, cheeks still wet with tears. He looks as close to wrecked as he can. “When are you coming home?”

“I miss you, too, Bo.” Komi’s in a hotel room, somewhere in Okinawa, filming a horror movie for the next few months. He’ll probably miss Bokuto’s next heat, and definitely the next two pack bondings. “When’s your next match over here? I’ll come to you.”

Bokuto nods sleepily, squirming a little and frowning when Akaashi’s knot catches at his tender opening. 

. . . 

Bokuto is, probably, not a good omega by traditional standards. He’s very bad, in general, at the whole secondary sex thing, to be honest. 

In high school, he would forget his patches frequently. While they weren’t required, it was generally considered good practice to have everyone smelling the same on a sweaty volleyball court. He would also be terrible in keeping track of his heats, most likely because his heats were on the mild end of the spectrum. He could still play matches, even high stakes ones, and stay in top form, but the moment they would end, Bokuto would cling and perhaps be faster to tears, especially if a  teammate refused to hear about the newest owl fact he learned. The only other difference was that Bokuto would be very agreeable and sweet during his heats, actually doing as he promised and not the exact opposite.

At another school, his mercurial attitude and temper tantrums would be shut down quickly, difficult to tolerate in alphas but downright unbearable in omegas with eyes like meteors. But at Fukurodani, Bokuto soared. The team was built to survive, and it never faltered under Bokuto’s weakness. In response, Bokuto’s shoulders never wavered even during the hardest fights. Bokuto, at his peak, was unshakable, a fixed point for his teammates to rally around. To orbit. 

As the captain and pack omega--only omega--Bokuto took the responsibility easily, but it was Konoha, as pack alpha, who properly carried it out. Even though Akaashi was vice-captain, Konoha was older and knew Bokuto for a year longer. No matter how many times Bokuto turned to Akaashi for help or love or support, no matter how mundane, Bokuto only ever turned to Konoha when it was his heat. No matter how many kisses he and Akaashi exchanged, no matter that Bokuto slept in his bed sometimes, the moment Bokuto’s heat started, he turned to Konoha. 

It hurt Akaashi in the beginning. It hurt worse when Bokuto couldn’t fix it, and Konoha stepped in, inviting Akaashi over, letting him watch as he brought Bokuto to orgasm with his fingers and his tongue, and then held him spread so Akaash could slip into him with desperate little thrusts.

“I love you, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi had whispered, even though Konoha could hear. 

Konoha had rolled his eyes and pinched the soft meat of Bokuto’s thigh. “What name do you say the most when I knot you?”

And, so quiet that Akaashi had to lean down to hear, Bokuto whispered, “Keiji.”

. . . 

Onaga arrives late with a tray of carefully sliced fruit, curry buns, and fruit pops, and looks downright disgusted as he glances from Bokuto curled up on Konoha’s bed with a tablet and phone. to Akaashi, Washio, and Konoha in various stages of dress sprawled around the room. Komi, on that cell phone, and Sarukui, on that tablet, call out in greeting to him.

“This is why Shirofuku-san and Suzumeda-san rarely come to these bondings,” He scolds. “Please clean yourself up, senpai.”

And then Onaga makes his way to Bokuto and obliges him with a kiss. “Bokuto-senpai,” He whispers, “One more kiss, and then let’s take a bath.”

“Two more kisses,” Bokuto suggests. He draws Onaga into a loose hug and gets a quick peck on the lips. “Ten more kisses, actually.”

“Come have a bath, and I’ll give you all the kisses you want,” Onaga promises. Bokuto gasps in pleasure and lets the younger man pull him to his feet. 

“You’re so generous, Wataru!” Bokuto sniffs, casting an unimpressed glance at the other three men in the room. “You know, none of them even offered me water? I’m going to die of thirst.”

“Please stop lying, Bokuto-san.”

“He had three pocari sweats.” Konoha rolls his eyes. “He even told Washio to stop fucking him and get him a smoothie. Washio came back with two, both for Bokuto.”

Bokuto acts like he heard nothing. “See, no water.”

Hiding a smile, Onaga just hefts his former captain up. “I’ll get you some water, senpai. I also bought popsicles.”

“This is why I made you captain.”

“I made him captain, Bokuto-san. You suggested a death match between him and Anahori.”

“Which I knew you’d win.” Bokuto winks conspiratorially.

. . . 

Akaashi knew he’d see Bokuto again, now that Bokuto was willing to share his heats with him, even without Konoha. He was uncertain whether he’d see his upperclassmen again. He’d have bonding sessions with his new team, but the thought of not having another one with Bokuto and the team that rallied behind him since his first year made Akaashi’s chest ache. 

He kept his concerns to himself, but Bokuto somehow addressed them anyway. 

Bokuto showed up at Konoha’s apartment in Tokyo, on a long break from the Jackals, and called each one of his old teammates and told them to bring a soft shirt or jacket because “nothing I have smells like you anymore.” 

Akaashi showed up with his old jersey and Bokuto kissed him full on the mouth. And then he did the same thing to everyone else as he accepted their clothing. When Onaga asked why, stopping him with a hand on his chest, Bokuto had just said, “So when I go back, it’s like you’re all with me.”

“Our pack is going to last for a century!” He announced, then, holding the bundle of clothes to his chest. There’s a glint in his eyes, something resolute, and it makes Akaashi’s heart pound.

“That’s impossible, Bokuto.” Shirofuku looks thoughtful, despite her teasing. She taps the corner of her mouth. “But I suppose…”

“We’ve stuck with you this long.” Konoha finishes, crossing his arms. “So why not?”