KNB Daiki Aomine

The first time Daiki Aomine truly saw you, it was through a veil of contempt.

Teikō’s corridors, late afternoon light slanting through high windows like judgment. You were small, hurrying, arms full of student-council printouts. You collided with him—barely a bump against the wall of his chest—and the papers exploded between you like startled birds.

He looked down at the mess, then at you.
 A slow, cruel smile curved his mouth.

“Careful, titless. Some of us actually have places to be.”

His voice was velvet over broken glass. The hallway laughed with him, because Aomine Daiki was already a god at fifteen—five-foot-nine, sun-browned skin, navy hair perpetually tousled as if he’d just rolled out of someone’s bed or someone’s nightmares. He stepped over your scattered papers without helping, grinding one beneath his sneaker for good measure.

From that day forward you became his favorite pastime.

He never bothered learning your name. You were simply “oi, four-eyes,” “mosquito-tits,” “the walking virginity advert.” He’d knock your books from your arms just to watch you scramble. Pour milk down the back of your uniform while you stood frozen at your locker. Pin you against the wall with one hand splayed beside your head and whisper, loud enough for his friends to hear, “Bet you’ve never even been kissed. Bet you touch yourself thinking about guys who’d never look twice.”

He told the entire basketball team you were desperate, that you’d begged him in the equipment room. Told the girls you were jealous of anyone with actual breasts. He left tampons in your desk with notes that read “For when you finally bleed, princess.”

You learned to make yourself small. To take the long way around buildings. To eat lunch in empty classrooms so you wouldn’t have to feel his eyes dissecting you like prey.

And years passed. You thought distance had mercy.

Then you transferred to Tōō, and there he was again—taller, sharper, more dangerously beautiful. The first day he leaned back in his chair, legs spread wide, gravure magazine open on his desk, and when you walked in his gaze cut straight to you. “Well, fuck me,” he drawled. “Titless's back.”

You didn't understand at first. Because you even changed physically meanwhile—removed your glasses, took care of your skin and hair, even managed to gain enough weight so you could have actual tits.

But his cruelty still refined itself into something surgical. He’d wait until you were presenting in class, then mutter just loud enough: “Sit down, nobody wants to hear from the discount honor student.” He photoshopped your face onto porn stills and set them as his phone lock screen for a week. Once, after you scored highest on a physics exam, he cornered you in the stairwell. “Must be nice,” he said, voice low and venomous, “knowin' the only way a bitch like you will ever matter is on paper. Real world’s gonna fucking eat you alive, sweetheart. Guys want tits they can grab, not a plank with opinions.”

You hated him with a purity that felt holy.

Until the night everything cracked open.

Winter Cup preliminaries. Tōō had annihilated their opponent—Aomine scoring eighty-seven points like it bored him. The gym emptied. You stayed behind, collating stats under fluorescent lights that buzzed like dying insects just because Momoi had—strangely—asked you.

He appeared in the doorway, still in his sweat-drenched jersey, hair sticking to his forehead. For once the smirk was gone. “You really are a fucking slave,” he said. Not a question.

You didn’t answer.

He walked closer, footsteps echoing. Stopped just short of the scorer’s table. “Y'know... I heard you cryin' last week. After I told everyone you stuff your bra and finger yourself to Kagami's pics.” He awkwardly scratched his neck.

Your pen stilled.

“I’ve kinda been an asshole since we were kids, yeah,” he said quietly. “And the worst part? I was doin' this shit on purpose. Because when you looked at me—even when you looked like you wanted me dead—at least you looked. I mean... every other girl stares like I’m a fucking trophy or shit. And you... I don't know, you stared like I was a person.”

He laughed once, bitter.

“Pretty fucked up way to say I liked you, huh?”

Silence stretched, thin and sharp.

Then he turned and left you alone beneath the humming lights with a small 'forget it'.

After that, the torment stopped as abruptly as a guillotine falling.

He still skipped class, still slept on the roof, but whenever your eyes met he looked away first. The absence of cruelty felt louder than the cruelty itself.

Weeks later, storm season. You emerged from the science building into a downpour that felt biblical. No umbrella. You were halfway across the courtyard when footsteps pounded behind you.

Daiki skidded to a halt, soaked in seconds, and threw his club's jacket over your head. It swallowed you—warm, racking of his cologne and clean sweat and something uniquely him.

“You trying to get pneumonia?” he growled. You tried to hand it back. He stepped away, hands jammed in his pockets, rain streaming down his face.

“... I’m... sorry,” he said. The words sounded torn out of him. “...For every single thing I ever did or said. You didn’t deserve any of it. I was… weird.”

Thunder rolled overhead.

“Aomine-kun,” you said.

He froze.

You stepped forward until the rain no longer touched you—only the heat radiating from his body. “I forgave you weeks ago,” you whispered. “I was just waiting for you to deserve it.”

That day, something shattered behind his eyes.

And Daiki Aomine—the boy who once believed tenderness was weakness—fell so completely he never stood up again.

⸻

The apartment door barely closed that he was already on you, backing you into the wall with the same predatory grace he used on court, only now—it was worship instead of violence.*

“Couldn’t think fuckin' straight all day,” he breathed against your throat, hands already sliding under your shirt, palms hot and calloused. “Coach screamed at me for missing shots and all I could think about was comin' home and eatin' the fuck out of you.”

He smelled like the court—sweat and rubber and adrenaline—and beneath it, the faint trace of the berries body wash you bought him because you loved how it lingered on his skin. At twenty-one, he was a fucking god among men: six-foot-six, shoulders broad enough to block out the light, every line of muscle carved from years of ruthless training. Yet when he looked at you, his eyes were soft, almost frightened, as if you might vanish at any second.