Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The key turned in the lock, allowing Bokuto and Akaashi to step into Kuroo’s apartment.

“It’s already pretty late, and it’s really hot, so let’s hurry up, Bokuto-san. I want to go home,” the dark-haired boy said.

“Mm-hmm,” Bokuto agreed. “You go grab whatever Kurobro asked for, I’ll go get some water.”

Akaashi just rolled his eyes. He warned him. Told him not to eat that salted peanut ice cream yet – to wait until they got home. But of course, no one listened to him. And now, the entire job of picking up Kuroo-san’s things – since he’d unexpectedly decided to crash at their place tonight – fell on him. But whatever. No point arguing. So he headed toward the bedrooms while the older one made his way to the kitchen.

Seeing the closed door, Bokuto – without a second thought – grabbed the handle and pulled, absentmindedly humming the tune that had been stuck in his head all morning. And, apparently, had come back to haunt him again in the evening. He carefully shut the door behind him, finally turning his attention toward the kitchen – and froze.

In his life (and in TV shows), Kotaro had seen a lot of things. Sad things. Funny things. Scary things. And, of course, erotic things. He’d even seen Kuroo in a "sexy nurse" costume once – and to this day, he still wasn’t sure which category that belonged in. To be fair, the heels did make his bro’s strong, volleyball-trained legs look amazing. Gotta give him that.

But nothing in his past experiences could have prepared him for what he saw in his bro’s kitchen. Standing there was Kuroo’s boyfriend. And no, it wasn’t like Kenma’s presence alone was shocking – though, to be fair, seeing him here, right now, was definitely unexpected.

It was just that his entire appearance was…

Well.

Let’s just say it was a lot to take in.

Kenma stood with his back to the door, headphones on – completely unaware of the intruder. His hair, once just brushing his shoulders, now fell all the way to his shoulder blades. The faded dye job leaving only the tips blonde. It was tied into a loose, low ponytail. And perched atop his head… cat ears. The headband was hidden so well by his hair that, for a second, it almost looked real. Like Kenma had somehow grown them himself.

A ribbon was tied around his neck. And below that… the curve of a bare back, with more delicate little ties at his waist. And the only thing thicker than those ribbons…Was the fluffy, two-toned tail swaying gently between his slim, tempting legs. Legs that would look so damn good resting on a volleyball player’s broad shoulders. Especially wrapped in those pure white knee socks.

The tail’s color matched Kenma’s hair perfectly – jet black, fading to blonde at the tip. And where it started… oh, fuck. The base of that tail disappeared between two absolutely perfect ass cheeks. Bokuto’s fingers twitched. He wanted to touch these cheeks. To grab. To squeeze hard enough to make Kenma whimper, then soothe with slow, apologetic strokes. And the urge to bend him over the table to spank him until his ass turned red and warm was almost too much to handle.

And to top it all off – that little kitten was swaying to the music in his headphones. Wiggling his cute little ass and his tail flicking along like it was a part of him.

Bokuto’s brain screamed at him. Leave. Open this door. Then the front door. Then get the fuck out of here. Move to a different house, a different district, a different country, hell, maybe even a different planet. Just—forget this. Right now.

Because if he didn’t?

He’d never be able to look Kuroo in the eye again without feeling crippling guilt.

And he’d never be able to look at Kenma again without instantly getting hard as a rock.

He should move. He needs to move. He reminds himself. But his body won’t listen. His feet won’t budge. His eyes won’t look away. The only thing he can do is let out a shaky, breathless “…Fuuuck.”

And Kenma reacts. He jerks in surprise, spinning around so fast that one of his white earbuds slips free and clattering into a metal bowl on the counter. His eyes go wide. His fingers grip tight onto the edge of the counter behind him.

And somehow Bokuto gets even harder. If that’s even possible. Because now, he sees it.

The apron.

Short. So fucking short. Black, trimmed with delicate ruffles – just barely covering Kenma’s crotch. The kind that immediately brings to mind those erotic maid videos. You know? Where they tilt their heads so sweetly and purr “What would you like, Master?”

Oh, he’d tell him exactly what he wanted.

For the whole. Damn. Night.

Kenma stares straight into Bokuto’s eyes. And Bokuto—yeah, his gaze must be absolutely wild right now, raw and burning with want. And judging by the way Kenma’s eyes flicker downward—slowly, deliberately—to the very obvious problem straining against Bokuto’s pants… yeah. That checks out. And then he just… keeps looking.

So now they’re standing there. Kenma staring at Bokuto’s hard-on. Bokuto staring at Kenma staring at his hard-on. Another few lines and this would start sounding like a damn nursery rhyme. The kind with a catchy rhythm. Like that one about Jack and his house. If only it wasn’t so damn filthy.

This is the part where he should walk away. Before it’s too late. But he can’t. Bokuto’s eyes stay locked on him, drinking in every detail, every inch, like he’s burning this moment into his memory.

And Kenma? Kenma doesn’t look like he minds. In fact, he looks like he finds this… interesting. Then, from the fallen earbud, in the dead silence of the kitchen, came a song:

“When you came in, the air went out.

And every shadow filled up with doubt.

I don't know who you think you are,

But before the night is through,

I wanna do bad things with you.”

And that’s when Bokuto realizes – It’s already too late. The line has been crossed, the point of no return long gone. There’s no way he’ll ever be able to look at Kenma the same way again.

And then those memories surface. The taste of alcohol. The feel of soft lips. The glow of club lights flashing behind closed eyes.

And just like that, he’s sinking even deeper, like quicksand.

And what’s the number one rule when you get caught in quicksand?

Right.

Don’t struggle.

So he doesn’t.

He takes a step forward—tiny, barely noticeable. And Kenma’s head snaps up, his expression completely unreadable.

But the sounds from the hallway yank him right back into reality. Reality, where Kenma is still Kuroo’s boyfriend. And Kuroo is still his best friend. The realization hits harder than a bucket of ice water, and before he can make an even bigger mistake, Bokuto bolts. He stumbles out of the kitchen, slamming the door behind him without daring to look back at what he’s leaving inside. Presses his back against it, gripping his bag just low enough to hide the very obvious problem still straining in his pants.

And thank god—because in the very next second, Akaashi appears.

Bokuto swallows hard, then plasters on the biggest, fakest grin of his life. “Akaashi! Hey!”

Akaashi narrows his eyes, watching him with clear suspicion.

Then he leans in way too close, sniffing the air. “Bokuto-san,” he says, voice flat. “Did you again mistake vodka for water and drink it? Have you learned nothing from last time?”

“What?! No! Of course not!” Bokuto practically yells. “I just—uh—I just wanna go home! You got everything? Cool, let’s go, let’s go right now.”

Akaashi eyes him for another long second, debating whether to check the kitchen and see what fresh hell the older man just got himself into.

But then he decides—not his problem. If Kuroo finds out, he’ll deal with it. If he doesn’t find out, well… that just means someone did a damn good job covering it up.

Honestly, Kuroo had only himself to blame, should’ve just gone home instead of insisting on crashing at their place. So what if he had morning plans nearby?

Besides, Keiji can already feel the headache forming from dealing with two way-too-hyperactive idiots.

Which is why his eyebrows shot up in surprise when, the moment they got home Bokuto barely even greeted Kuroo before disappearing straight into his room. And from the way Kuroo stared after him he was just as confused.

And Bokuto?

Bokuto was never a good liar.

He never liked lying, never saw the point. He always preferred the truth.

But tonight. Tonight, with sheer determination, he decided to at least try.

He tried – jerking off – picturing Kenma, burned into his memory.

He tried – jerking off – imagining how things would’ve gone if he’d been alone, without Akaashi there.

He tried – jerking off – telling himself it was just for one night. That he’d get it out of his system, let it go, forget.

But in the end…

Bokuto Koutarou had never been a good liar.

Chapter Text

Bokuto was heading to his precious bro’s apartment all by himself. He and Akaashi had thought it over, and Akaashi decided it would be smarter to split up - while one of them went to Kuroo-san’s place to grab his stuff, the other would hit the store and buy some groceries, since their fridge was practically empty, and constant food delivery was way too expensive for students.

And since Keiji couldn’t trust Bokuto-san with such an important task as grocery shopping, he was sent to his best friend’s apartment under the perfectly reasonable excuse of, “Well, you’re best friends, after all.”

And if his former captain messed up somehow, Akaashi would simply say, “Well, you should’ve stayed home, Kuroo-san,” with a slight touch of triumphant pettiness. Like a true, loyal friend. A friend who just wanted to get home quickly and rest but was now forced to spend much time for way to home, because of his friend. And now Keiji is very pissed at this friend. So if something goes wrong he’ll be a little bitchy, thank you very much.

Also, whatever happened - not his problem, not his fault.

And so, the moment he escaped Keiji’s ever-watchful gaze, Fukurodani’s former ace did what any reasonable person would - he immediately devoured the salted peanut ice cream that Akaashi had explicitly told him not to eat yet. It was delicious. And way too salty. Now he was dying of thirst, so his first stop in the apartment was, obviously, the kitchen for some water.

He walked in and completely froze.

The sight before him was something else. The kind of thing that could leave anyone stunned. The kind of thing that hit you to the point of losing your breath.

Kenma. Kuroo’s boyfriend. Bokuto’s best friend’s boyfriend, he reminded himself.

And yet, standing there in the kitchen, he couldn’t ignore the fact that Kenma looked like a living erotic fantasy. It wasn’t even just the revealing outfit, no. What really got the blood pumping it what was hidden.

His brain had had already waking up his lower part because of this view. And as if it wasn’t enough some oddly questions were popping up in his mind generating all sorts of fantasies.

Like… if he stroked those cat ears on Kenma’s head, would he purr like a real kitten? They looked way too realistic.

Or if he used his teeth to slowly peel off those white knee socks, would Kenma be impressed by the sheer passion?

And what if he replaced that two-toned tail in that cute little ass with his own cock how would Kenma moan then?

Somehow, Kenma must have sensed something was off, because he suddenly turned around. And just like that, Bokuto had a brand new question on his mind. What would it take for Kenma, standing there in that adorable maid apron, to look at him and say, “What would you like, Master? Dinner, a bath… or me?”  And the Bokuto’s choice would be obvious.

Food wasn’t gonna help with the problem in his pants. A bath - sure, maybe an ice-cold one - might do the trick, but only not for long. Not when this sweet little kitten was still hanging around. So yeah. There was only one real option.

And they stood there. Frozen. Staring each other down. Kenma, gripping the counter behind him, locking eyes with Bokuto - watching, reading him, understanding. Because Kenma was smart, observant. He could definitely see it. The sheer, overwhelming lust in Bokuto’s gaze. And fuck, it was too much for him to handle alone. Way too much. He needed to share it.

Time moves slowly. Or maybe it’s stopped entirely. Though, judging by the music drifting from the metal bowl behind the younger man, time is still ticking it’s just that the two of them, standing there in the kitchen, seem to be the only ones caught in slow motion. Or maybe even left behind entirely.

And then, Kenma breaks the staring contest, conceding defeat. Though really, the only one truly defeated here is Kotaro. Kenma’s gaze drops - to zipper of former captain. And Bokuto’s eyes follow Kenma’s face down. Straight to his lips. Soft. Tempting. The taste of them still lingering in his memory. A long, long time ago - back when Kuroo didn’t even know Kenma yet - Bokuto got lucky enough to taste them. And god, how he regrets letting his chance slip away.

The urge to feel those lips again is too strong. Fighting it? He failed. (Did you even try?) So he gives in.

He unfreezes and he is taking a small step forward. Kenma lifts his gaze from Bokuto’s crotch, eyes locking onto his once more. But he does nothing. Doesn’t stop him. Doesn’t say a word.

And now, they’re so close. Bokuto reaches out Kenma’s cheek by his hand. And just like a cat, Kenma leans into the touch. Slowly, sedately, Bokuto’s hand slides down to the nape of his neck. He leans in, still, no resistance.

And then, finally, he claims those lips.

He kisses him like a starving man at a billionaire’s banquet - desperate, hungry, yet savoring every second. He wants to take his time, to relish the taste, to make it last. But at the same time, he’s not about to waste a single crumb of this rare indulgence, because he knows - this is his only chance. He tastes strawberries and whipped cream. Sweet, intoxicating.

And then Kenma’s hands on his chest. Feeling, exploring, sliding over hard muscle as he presses closer. Closer. Like he wants to melt into him. To disappear inside. But really, they’re already drowning in each other.

Bokuto’s hand slides lower, trailing over soft curves before settling on plush, round cheeks. His fingers wander, brushing against the plug nestled snugly inside. He tugs it out - just a little - just enough to let his fingers slip into that warm, stretched entrance, playing with the toy, teasing. Kenma shivers against him, body pressing even closer, trembling from the sensation. Bokuto grips the plug again, testing. Just how well had this little slut prepared himself? He pushes it back in, fucking him with it, slow and deliberate. Kenma whimpers, pulling away from the kiss with a shaky breath, forehead dropping against Bokuto’s chest. His delicate fingers clutch desperately at his shirt, gripping like a lifeline.

Bokuto doesn’t care where the plug lands when he tosses it away. Maybe the sink? Doesn’t matter. What does matter is that Kenma is already so perfectly open, so slick and ready, that the moment Bokuto thrusts two fingers inside, he knows - he can’t wait any longer. His cock is aching, throbbing in the painful confinement of his jeans. And fuck! He needs to feel those velvet walls clench around him.

One hand still gripping Kenma’s waist, he struggles to shove his pants down one-handed, but it’s awkward, frustrating. Hard to focus with this much want clouding his mind. And then Kenma helps. Slender fingers work at his jeans, unbuttoning, sliding them down just enough to free him, but no more. Bokuto won’t let him.

His hand tilts Kenma’s chin up, forcing him to tear his mesmerized gaze away from his cock. And then he kisses him. Deep, slow, and filled with the promise of so much more. And Kenma? Kenma eagerly accepts.

Finally pulling his hand away, Bokuto grabs Kenma with both hands and lifts him onto the counter. He steps between his legs, spreading them wide as far as they’ll go, almost forcing him into a split and presses the swollen, deep-purple tip of his cock against that perfectly open entrance.

And then, he thrusts in. One sharp, unceremonious movement. Because he somehow knows Kenma doesn’t need him to be gentle. Doesn’t want him to be. A long, throaty moan spills from Kenma’s lips as his back arches, head tilting back and the cat-ear headband slipping off.

Bokuto catches him, hand cradling the back of his head, fingers threading through soft hair as he tugs out the tie, letting it fall loose. Then, gripping the same spot, he pulls him forward capturing swollen, kiss-bruised lips in another deep, hungry kiss. Kenma’s legs wrap tight around his waist, and Bokuto starts moving.

Slow, steady at first. But the more Kenma moans into his mouth - the louder, the needier - the faster, the rougher he gets. And when he finally pulls back, letting Kenma gasp for air, he gets his answer. If you replace the plug with a cock Kenma will moan shamelessly loud. And fuck, he sounds so damn sweet.

That sound only spurs him on. And out of “pure curiosity, nothing more, honestly” he suddenly stops. Pulls out. Kenma’s frustrated whine is almost enough to make him reconsider, but he has one more question he wants answered.

He shifts them to the side, laying Kenma flat on the dining table. And for a moment - just a moment - he lets himself take it all in.

And fuck, is it a sight to behold. His chest swells with pride because he did this. He’s the one who ruined this sweet little thing.

Kenma’s dark hair, streaked with blonde at the ends, sprawled across the white tabletop. His chest rises and falls, breathing ragged and heavy, his kiss-swollen lips slick with saliva. So tempting, begging to be claimed again.

He looks like a masterpiece. Like something painted by a master artist. A master artist who happens to be incredibly depraved.

Kenma reaches for him. Bokuto takes his hand, fingers lacing together, while his other hand grabs a slender leg.

Without breaking eye contact, he bites down on the band of Kenma’s knee socks and slowly pulls it off, letting his tongue linger in brief, teasing licks before resting that leg on his shoulder.

Kenma doesn’t look away either.

His hungry gaze tracks every movement, eyes burning with something so filthy, so desperate, that Bokuto can clearly read in them "Come on. Fuck me. Fuck me harder, rougher, faster."

Maybe he’s imagining it. Maybe not. But when the second leg settles onto his other shoulder, Kenma finally shows, that he can't wait anymore. He tries to sink down onto Bokuto’s cock himself, rubbing against him, searching, but it’s not working.

And when he fails, he pouts, lips pursing in the most adorably frustrated expression. It’s fucking hilarious. Bokuto wants to laugh. But he can’t. He can’t wait either. And he sure as hell isn’t about to make his kitten wait any longer.

Tight, velvety walls clench around him, like they’d missed him like they’d been lonely without him. He sinks in to the full length. Kotaro leans down to capture those still-pouting lips, folding Kenma in half to penetrating even deeper inside.

It isn’t discomfort for Kenma. On contrary he kisses back eagerly, moaning freely into Bokuto’s mouth, unashamed.

Bokuto pulls away, and those gorgeous legs wrap around his waist again. Fuck. He almost groans in frustration. If only he weren’t so clothed. If only he could feel bare skin against skin. His fingers tighten around Kenma’s waist as he starts to thrust, driving into him, taking his time to enjoy it.

Enjoying the sight of Kenma, clinging desperately to the hem of his apron, crumpling and yanking it up, revealing his leaking, aching cock.

Enjoying the sounds Kenma makes. So loud, so shamelessly filthy, loud enough that the whole damn street could probably hear him, despite them being on the third floor.

Enjoying the rhythm of the table pounding against the wall - sometimes a slow, steady elegy, sometimes a brutal, erratic heavy metal solo.

God, he hopes the neighbors won’t complain.

He’s right on the edge. And judging by the way Kenma trembles beneath him, he’s probably there too. So Bokuto’s large hand wraps around the leaking cock peeking out from beneath the apron, stroking just a few times.

And then:

“Kou” Kenma comes, painting an abstract masterpiece in white streaks across the black fabric of his apron. Bokuto doesn’t even get a chance to admire it before his own release slams into him. The way Kenma’s walls squeeze around him, pulsing, clenching. The sheer, mind-wrecking realization whom this tight, perfect little hole belongs to. It all sends him straight into the hardest orgasm of his life.

.

.

Bokuto stares at his hand, covered in cum.

The bed is a mess of crumpled tissues.

Outside, the night is silent.

His friends are fast asleep, blissfully unaware of his emotional and physical torment.

Tomorrow, Kuroo will greet him like always. Ask how he’s doing. Chat with him like nothing ever happened. Because for Kuroo, nothing did happen. And not even for a second will he suspect that his best friend is capable of something so… disgusting.

Bokuto thinks he should probably send Akaashi’s parents a thank-you card for raising such an amazing, intelligent, and wise son, who saved Bokuto from making the biggest mistake of his life.

Then maybe buys Akaashi his favorite fancy chocolate, picks up a good book, and just says thank you.

Akaashi, of course, won’t get it.

And he’ll never know that one simple decision saved Bokuto’s friendship with Kuroo.

Saved Kuroo and Kenma’s relationship.

And after that?

Bokuto figures he should probably stay as far away from Kenma as possible.

For at least… a year.

Give or take a decade.