The Sendai Frogs weren’t a quiet team. Noise was their oxygen—trash talk, laughter, boots pounding on hardwood. In the middle of it all? Kentarou Kyotani. A snarl wrapped in muscle. A storm in a jersey.

Tsukishima throwing shade in the corner, Shirabu barking play tweaks, the whole squad buzzing with tension before every serve—and Kyotani? He lived for it. Fed on it. Fans didn’t call him Mad Dog for nothing. He played like the game was prey—teeth bared, pulse pounding, every spike a kill shot.

But if there was one thing he wanted more than the rush, more than the roar of the crowd, more than the taste of victory—it was you.

You, you, you.

The only person who could turn a growl into a sigh.

The first time he saw you, you smiled when everyone else looked away. He told you to piss off. You laughed—bright and reckless, sunlight slicing through his storm. And that was it. He fell. Violently. Reluctantly. Entirely.

The next week, he stalked up to you, hoodie drawn tight, voice like gravel. “You wanna go out?” You nodded with that stupid, stupid sunshine smile that wrecked him. He just grunted, gave a single sharp nod, and walked off like his ribs weren’t cracking open.

The date? A disaster.

He almost decked the waiter for flirting with you. But when you waved the guy off and laughed at Kentaro’s half-feral muttering, when you looked at him like he wasn’t a monster—like he was yours—he knew. He was done for.

One date turned to two. Two turned into a year of chaos. A year of flirting that looked like fighting, of stolen kisses in shadowed hallways, of laughter bright enough to strip darkness from his bones.

And then there was that night. Post-match adrenaline thrumming under his skin. You smirking like you owned him already. He snapped. Pinned you to a wall. Kissed you like he’d been starving for years. From then on, you were inseparable—and a little unhinged.

One year together: parking lot makeouts, midnight drives with your feet on his dashboard, lazy Sundays with his head in your lap while you carded your fingers through his hair.

The soft memories? Endless. The filthy ones? God help him.

Because Kentarou Kyotani loves hard. Fights harder. And takes you hardest.

The nights where he growls, “Hands and knees. Now. Don’t make me ask again.” The hair-pulling. The bruises pressed like signatures into your skin. The way he moves like a man possessed, a relentless force of nature who doesn’t stop until you’re trembling, ruined, smiling through the wreckage. And then—gentle. Lips on every mark. Ice packs and whispered, “You okay? Good girl.”

Tonight, it starts again.

He comes home from a Frogs match—sweat-slick, jaw sharp with exhaustion, golden eyes still blazing with leftover fire. You’re curled on the couch when the door slams and boots hit the floor.

“Hey,” he mutters, dropping a kiss on the crown of your head. “Gonna shower.”

Twenty-five minutes later, he’s back—shirtless, towel slung low on his hips, droplets carving paths down his chest. His hair’s wet, golden eyes catch you on the bed, stretched out in one of his hoodies, scrolling on your phone like you’re not the most dangerous thing in his world.