Archive of Our Own ^beta

You’re not sure when it started to change.

Maybe it was the way Kuroo stopped texting “you up?” and just let himself in, like weekend nights were something the two of you had already signed a quiet contract for.

He still brought food sometimes, still complained about class, still let his bag fall by your desk before finding you in bed like the usual.

It’s always been easy with no questions, no promises, just the familiar burn of his touch and the warmth that lingered long after.

Lately though, his hands don’t move the way they used to. They stay, press, remember. His kisses drag slower, softer. And you catch yourself thinking that maybe the line you drew together a few months ago—the one that said this isn’t serious, we’re just blowing off steam—is starting to fade.

He doesn’t say anything after, he never does. He pulls out of you and tosses the condom in the trash before he gets dressed while you pull the blanket up, the silence between you comfortable but too careful.

“Same place tomorrow?” he asks, like it’s a meeting you both pretend isn’t personal. He was talking about your usual weekend bar hangouts with other friends.

“Yeah,” you say. “But I might bring someone.”

That gets a raised eyebrow. “The guy from this morning?”

“He has a name, you know.”

“Don’t know. Don’t care.”

The corner of your mouth lifts. “You’re awfully nosy for someone who doesn’t.”

He exhales through his nose, halfway to a laugh, halfway to a sigh. “If you’re seeing someone, why are you still calling me up?”

You tilt your head, smile lazy and sharp. “Maybe I just like the way you fuck when you’re jealous.”

It wasn’t a lie. He does fuck you differently when jealousy gets under his skin. He becomes rougher, needier, like he’s trying to prove something neither of you are allowed to say.

And it makes you wonder: if it hurts him this much, why hasn’t he ever stopped you?

He freezes, eyes flicking to you, caught off guard. You swear his ears turn red before he looks away, mumbling something you don’t catch.

Then he leaves anyway, the door closing a little too loud, like punctuation on a sentence neither of you knows how to end. You just lay back down and stared at the ceiling, head full of thoughts.

You started seeing Atsumu Miya a week ago. He’s the kind of easy that doesn’t hurt. He texts good-morning, holds your hand in public, makes you feel like maybe affection doesn’t have to be complicated.

But when he kisses you, you still taste Kuroo on memory.

Atsumu doesn’t deserve to be a distraction, but that’s all he is—a way to convince yourself that what you have with Kuroo isn't real.

Saturday night at the usual dive bar, you walk in hand-in-hand with Atsumu. The air hums with music and chatter, the faint scent of beer and smoke clinging to everything.

Kuroo’s already there. He is leaning back in his chair, beer in hand, pretending not to notice you until your laughter cuts through the noise. Then his head turns, slow, like he’s been expecting you all along.

His eyes linger. One heartbeat, two. He takes a swig from his bottle, throat working as his gaze drifts to the blond guy beside you. Atsumu, bright and easy, the kind of person who doesn’t carry ghosts around.

Kuroo studies him like he’s trying to find the crack—something wrong, something less. His eyes narrow just slightly, a smirk ghosting on his lips like he’s biting back something cruel.

Then his gaze flicks back to you. You’re leaning into Bokuto’s hug, laughing, unaware or maybe pretending to be. When you straighten, Kuroo’s eyes sweep down your figure and back up, slow, deliberate. The kind of look that's already stripping you naked in his mind.

For a second, you almost forget Atsumu’s hand is still in yours.

You tug at Atsumu's hand as you introduced him to your friends.

“Didn’t know you were bringing someone!” Bokuto exclaims, eyeing Atsumu.

You smile. “Last-minute decision.”

Atsumu grins easily, the kind of confidence that comes from being liked without trying. “Heard so much about this crew,” he says, tone light, extending a hand across the table. “Atsumu Miya.”

Bokuto shakes it enthusiastically. Akaashi offers a polite nod. Kuroo doesn’t move.

He just leans back, arm slung over the back of his chair, eyes fixed on Atsumu like he’s dissecting him. “Oh, you’re her current plaything,” he says finally, his voice smooth but threaded with something sharp.

You shoot him a look that says don’t start. He only smirks tipsily.

Atsumu chuckles, still polite. “Guess I’ve been mentioned.”

“Briefly,” Kuroo replies. “Didn’t know you’d be sticking around this long.”

The table goes quiet for a moment too long. Even Bokuto senses it, his hand frozen around his drink.

You sip your beer, pretending not to notice the way Kuroo’s eyes follow every movement.

“You know, I didn’t realize I needed your approval when I bring someone,” you say lightly.

He tilts his head, smiling that familiar, infuriating smile. “Didn’t say you do. Just surprised, that’s all.” His tone softens just enough to sound casual, but his gaze is heavy. “You don’t usually do repeats.”

Atsumu hums, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Guess I’m special then.” He squeezes your hand under the table, not as reassurance—but as performance. And it works, because Kuroo’s jaw flexes just slightly.

You can feel the electricity coil between them with Kuroo’s smirk getting tighter, Atsumu’s grin getting wider, your pulse beating too fast in your throat.

When Kuroo finally looks away, it’s only to take another sip of his beer, his voice deceptively casual. “Enjoy it while it lasts, Miya. She gets bored easy.”

You laugh, sharp and low. “You’d know.”

The air stutters around the table. Kuroo looks at you then and it’s the first time all night his grin falters.

You take another drink to hide your smile.

The night stretches easy after a few rounds. The table’s louder, laughter spilling over old stories and half-finished jokes. Someone orders another bucket. Bokuto’s already singing along to a song he doesn’t quite know the lyrics to.

Kuroo’s at the bar now, leaning in toward some girl with a smile that looks too practiced. You tell yourself you don’t care, even when your stomach twists a little watching her touch his arm.

Atsumu catches the direction of your gaze. He doesn’t say anything at first—just takes a slow sip of his drink, watching you over the rim of his glass.

When he finally speaks, his voice dips low, almost drowned by the music. “I already knew, y’know.”

You turn to him, caught off guard. “Knew what?”

He sets his glass down, eyes steady on you. “That you weren’t really mine. Not even from the start.”

You open your mouth, but he cuts you off before you can find the words. “It’s fine,” he says, smiling faintly. “I was just havin’ fun too.”

You blink, then laugh softly, a little guilty. “That obvious, huh?”

“Pretty much,” he says, shoulders relaxed. “You look at him like you’re tryin’ to remember somethin’ you already know by heart.”

You drop your gaze to your drink, tracing the rim of the glass with your finger. “Guess I’m terrible at pretending.”

“Nah,” he says, leaning a little closer, the edge of his voice turning gentle. “You’re just honest without meaning to be.”

You glance back at Kuroo, who’s saying something to the girl that makes her laugh too loud. That laugh grates—too bright, too fake. You know it because you’ve heard the real one.

Atsumu follows your gaze, then hums. “Y’know,” he says, tapping his fingers against the glass, “I could help with that.”

You raise a brow, curious. “Help with what exactly?”

He tilts his head, a slow smirk curving his mouth. “Makin’ him jealous.”

You laugh, breathy and incredulous. “You sure you wanna play that game?”

He shrugs easily. “Why not? I like a bit of mess. Besides,” his tone softens, “it’s not like I expected somethin’ serious. Just thought maybe I could help you get what you actually want.”

You stare at him for a moment, something heavy and fond flickering between you. Then you smile, small and real. “You’re too good at this.”

“Or maybe,” he says, voice dipping lower, “I just know what it’s like to want somethin’ that ain’t yours yet.”

When his hand brushes over yours again, it’s not a promise, but an understanding and a plan.

Across the bar, Kuroo looks up just in time to see you smiling at Atsumu. And the glass in his hand stills midair.

He watches you laugh, head tilted back, eyes bright under the bar’s low light. The kind of laugh he used to earn without trying. Now it’s someone else sitting close enough to catch it, Atsumu’s arm draped casually across the back of your chair.

Kuroo’s jaw tightens around his next drink. He tells himself it doesn’t matter. That you were never his to begin with. That you made it clear what this was.

But it burns anyway—sharp and ugly, spreading through his chest every time Atsumu leans in, every time you don’t pull away.

He’s only got half of your heart, he thinks bitterly, fingers tightening around his glass. ’Cause I’ve got the other part.

He can still feel your warmth, your voice, the ghost of your breath against his skin. The way you’d whisper his name like it meant something. The way you’d look at him after, like you were waiting for him to say it back.

And maybe that’s what haunts him most is that he didn’t. That he couldn’t.

Now you’re here, smiling at someone else, and he’s still pretending he doesn’t care while every nerve in his body screams that he does.

Why don’t you just say goodbye now?

It's only a matter of time now.

He turns away, tries to drown the ache with another mouthful of beer, but it’s useless. He couldn't focus on what the girl in front of him was saying. He just nods as if he understands.

He could try—God, he’s tried—but no one else feels like you.

In a city full of lonely people, he just wants you all to himself.

And when your laughter drifts across the room again, it feels like a cruel reminder—you were never his, but he’s already yours.

Maybe he just doesn't know it yet that you were just waiting on each other.

"You're not really listening to me, are you?" the girl asks, her tone tight with annoyance.

Kuroo nods absently, eyes flicking somewhere past her shoulder. She follows his line of sight and scoffs, rolling her eyes before walking off, muttering something under her breath. He doesn’t even notice.

Atsumu’s lips hover close to your ear, his voice a low hum beneath the music. “Now laugh again,” he murmurs. “He’s lookin' at me like he wants to murder me right now.”

You bite your lip, trying to suppress it, but the laugh bursts out anyway, your laugh all bright and shameless. You hit Atsumu’s thigh in mock amusement, like he’s just said something brilliant, and he plays along perfectly, tossing his head back in laughter.

The performance feels ridiculous and exhilarating all at once. You can feel Kuroo’s stare from across the bar. His gaze sharp, unblinking, and heavy.

It’s the kind of look that crawls across your skin and sets your pulse racing even when you’re pretending not to care.

Atsumu leans in again, voice dipped in a grin. “Yup, he’s comin’ over. You’ve got, like, three seconds before I get decked.”

You barely have time to react before Kuroo’s already at your side, his hand curling tight around your wrist.

“Can I borrow her for a sec?” His voice is deceptively calm, but his eyes were like wildfire.

Atsumu just smirks, raises both hands in surrender. “Be my guest, man.”

Kuroo doesn’t wait for a reply. He pulls you out of the bar, past the crowd and into the narrow alley beside it. The air outside is cooler, but it does nothing to soothe the heat rolling off him.

“Are you fucking with me?” he snaps, stepping closer. His voice is low, dangerous in that way only jealousy can make it.

“What?” you ask, all innocence and provocation.

“You really like that guy?” His tone cracks—more desperate than angry.

“What’s it to you, Kuroo?” You throw the question back at him, daring him to say what you both already know.

“I—” He stops, dragging a hand through his hair, pacing once before turning to face you again. His eyes catch yours, sharp, unguarded. “I thought that was our thing.”

You furrow your brows, though you know exactly what he means—you flirting with him when you’re drunk, crossing lines neither of you were supposed to, clinging to him like you always would, pretending it didn’t mean anything in the morning.

“Don’t think I don’t see the way he looks at you?” Kuroo goes on, his voice trembling between anger and ache. “The way he touches you like—” He cuts himself off with a heavy sigh.

He runs a hand through his hair again, breath uneven. “I see you laughing with him, and it’s like—fuck—it’s like I’m losing something I never stopped wanting.”

You start to say something, but he steps closer, the space between you shrinking fast. His voice lowers, rough and breaking.

“I don’t wanna kill my time with somebody else,” he says. “Dancing in the dark with people who aren’t you, pretending I’m fine—fuck, I’m not. I just want you. All to myself.”

Your pulse pounds in your ears. “You don’t get to say that after everything—”

The air between you tightens, electric. You can smell the rain, the faint thump of music leaking from inside, the sharp sound of your own breath.

And then he’s kissing you all angry and desperate, like he’s trying to make up for every night he didn’t say a word. His mouth moves differently this time, not out of habit or heat, but meaning. It isn’t just lust anymore.

He’s finally kissing you like he means it.

You’re not sure how you end up at his place—maybe it’s the pull of the kiss, or the way his hands never let you go—but suddenly clothes are being stripped away in quick, clumsy motions, each one landing somewhere you don’t care to find later.

You hadn’t even said goodbye to Bokuto, Akaashi, or Atsumu. Maybe you’ll text Atsumu a thank-you later.

All that really matters now is Kuroo’s hands tangled in your hair, the sound of your breath between kisses, and the soft click of your bra clasp as it comes undone.

"You're going to regret teasing me tonight," he growls against your throat, his breath hot.  

You laugh, breathless, tilting your head to give him better access. "Prove it."

He doesn't hesitate.  

In one fluid motion, he drops to his knees, his hands sliding up your thighs before yanking your skirt up and your panties down in one sharp tug. The cool air hits your bare skin just before his tongue licks a slow, filthy stripe through your folds, humming when he finds you already dripping.  

"Fuck," he mutters, his breath ghosting over your clit. “Already this wet just from pissing me off? You really were serious when you said you like it when I fucked you jealous."

You gasp as his tongue flicks over your clit, the sensation sharp and electric. "Kuroo—"  

"No," he interrupts, pulling back just enough to blow cool air over your throbbing flesh. "You don't get to come yet." 

His hands grip your thighs, spreading you wider as he leans in again, his tongue dragging through your slick in slow, torturous strokes. He licks into you like he's savoring the taste, his nose brushing your clit with every pass, but never giving you the pressure you need.  

"Please," you whimper, your fingers tangling in his hair.  

"Please what?" he taunts, his breath hot against your skin.  

"Let me come." 

He chuckles, dark and low, before sucking your clit into his mouth hard and just long enough to make your knees buckle before pulling away again.  

"No." 

You groan, frustration coiling tight in your stomach as he stands, his lips glistening with your arousal. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes locked on yours as he unbuckles his belt with deliberate slowness.  

"My turn," he murmurs, pushing you onto the bed.  

You don't resist.  

He strips off his pants, his cock already hard and leaking as he kneels over you, his thumb brushing your lower lip. "Open."  

You open your mouth at command, your tongue darting out to lick the bead of precum from his tip before taking him into your mouth. He groans, his fingers tightening in your hair as you suck him deep, your tongue swirling around the head before pulling back to nip at the sensitive underside.  

"Fuck—" His hips jerk forward, his cock hitting the back of your throat. "Just like that."  

You hum around him, the vibration making his thighs tremble, but just as his breathing starts to quicken, he pulls out with a sharp tug on your hair.  

"Not yet," he pants, his voice rough. "I'm not done with you."  

He flips you onto your stomach, his hand pressing between your shoulder blades to keep you down as his other hand slides between your thighs, fingers slipping through your slick before pushing two inside you without warning.  

"You love this, don't you?" he murmurs, his lips brushing your ear as his fingers curl just right.

"You love knowing I can't fucking stand the thought of anyone else touching you." 

You moan, your hips rocking against his hand, but he slows his pace, his fingers moving in lazy circles that aren't quite enough.  

"Kuroo—" 

"Beg," he interrupts, his voice a dark whisper. "Beg for it." 

"Please," you gasp, your fingers twisting in the sheets. "Please let me come."  

He chuckles, his breath hot against your neck. "Since you asked so nicely."  

His fingers speed up, his thumb pressing hard against your clit as he fucks you with his hand, his pace relentless. The orgasm crashes through you like a wave, your body clamping around his fingers as you cry out, your vision whiting out at the edges.  

Before you can even catch your breath, his cock was already pressing against your entrance.  

"One more," he growls, his voice wrecked. "Come with me this time."  

He pushes inside you in one brutal thrust, his pace punishing from the start, each snap of his hips driving you higher. His hand slides between your bodies, his thumb circling your oversensitive clit as he pistons inside you. When you started to clamp against him again, he slowed his pace, his hands moved to both your breasts as leverage as he buried himself to the hilt, hitting your cervix. 

You were always careful whenever you fucked, but tonight, it was as if he wants to claim you by doing it raw. 

And it feels different. Not because you can feel his cock in its raw glory but because he was also moving differently—more freely. 

He flips you onto your back, claiming your lips in a deliberately slow kiss. Savoring your lips like he’s never kissed you before. 

He lines himself up again, this time he sets a slower and steady pace when he enters you. His hands find your face, caressing it gently as he looks at you. 

He doesn’t gaze at you like he usually did, it was fuller now. More affectionate and fearless. 

Like he’s not afraid to let his feelings slip out anymore. 

“You’re beautiful.” He whispers, “I want you all to myself.”

His thrusts slow to an almost unbearable drag, each deep roll of his hips pressing his bare skin against yours in a way that makes your breath catch. 

"Look at me," he murmurs, his voice rough with something more than lust.  

You gaze up at him, eyes expecting. His eyes are darker than you’ve ever seen them, pupils blown wide, but there’s no smirk, no playful glint. Everything was just raw, unfiltered. His thumb brushes your lower lip, trembling slightly, like he’s afraid to say what comes next.  

"I don’t want to share you."  

The words hang between you, heavy and real. No teasing. No take-backs. Just the truth, finally spoken aloud.  

You swallow hard, your fingers tightening on his shoulders. "Then don’t. As long as you tell me what I wanted to hear for so long, I’m all yours.” 

He exhales sharply, his forehead dropping to yours as his hips press forward, burying himself to the hilt. "Fuck—" His voice cracks. "I’m done pretending this isn’t everything."  

His mouth finds yours again, this kiss slower, deeper, his tongue sliding against yours like he’s trying to memorize the taste of you. When he pulls back, his breath is uneven, his hands framing your face like you’re something precious.  

"Tell me you’re mine," he whispers, his voice breaking. "Not just tonight. Not just in secret."  

You arch into him, your nails scraping down his back as you meet his gaze. "I’ve always been yours."  

A shudder runs through him, his hips stuttering as he presses deeper, his cock twitching inside you. "Say it again."  

"Yours," you gasp, your legs wrapping tighter around his waist. "Only yours."  

He groans, his entire body tensing as he spills inside you, his release hot and endless, his forehead pressed to your shoulder as he rides out the waves. You follow moments later, your body clamping around him as pleasure rips through you, your cry muffled against his skin.  

For a long moment, neither of you moves, still joined, his breath hot against your neck.  

Then, slowly, he lifts his head, his thumb brushing your cheekbone. "No more hiding," he murmurs, his voice raw. "No more pretending."  

You nod, your fingers lacing through his. "No more."