Hq Bokuto - Blog Posts

4.5.25 - Bokuaka day! ◝(ᵔᗜᵔ)◜

Bokuto and Akaashi in maid outfits ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡

Bokuaka Fukurodani Edition ◉ ‿ ◉

If you look closely, you can see the paper texture on Bokuto and Akaashi :]

The idea of helping you out with your assignments let Bokuto smile brightly. The usual meeting up in your regular café with Bokuto, Kuroo and Akaashi is only with two people today. But as the time goes on and the day ends with Bokuto on your side, you saw your progress of typing only one sentence for your upcoming seminar. A sigh escapes out of you, but you'll let the fact, that Bokuto and you only chattered and drank coffee, slight.

You call it a day, but at least you got a great time discussing.. 'important' things.

on a completely unrelated note, does anyone remember this bokuto x reader smau from like 2021/22 where they were roommates and youtubers, yn was a daily life vlogger or something and bokuto was like a fitness vlogger - there was only a few chapters i think but i LIVED for it

i remember specifically they were planning a collab and their fans ship them-and in one of yn’s previous vlogs bokuto’s seen for a bit eating cereal without wearing a shirt and his fans we’re going crazy ab it i have screenshots too if that helps

happy bokuto day 🦉

Festival 🎆🎇

i hc that bokuto watched the Care bears as a kid, and honestly still does (the older version not the new one) for at least reasons.

if he’s feeling nostalgic

and

its a comfort series to him; it makes him feel all fluffy

i feel like, if they weren’t in the same series, bokuto would be an oikawa kinnie.

for the sole reason of [superiority + inferiority complex]

Oh my god I fcking love Kōtarō Bokuto

✩⁺₊✩☽⋆𝕲𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖊𝖗𝖇𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖉 𝕳𝖔𝖚𝖘𝖊⋆☾✩⁺₊✩

✩⁺₊✩☽⋆𝕭𝖔𝖐𝖚𝖙𝖔 𝖝 𝕽𝖊𝖆𝖉𝖊𝖗⋆☾✩⁺₊✩

The kitchen was warm, the scent of cinnamon and sugar strong, a welcoming scent. The lights on the tree flickered, colors dancing against the ornaments. The world outside was cold, snow slowly beginning to fall, a barely there dusting coated the ground. Inside was warm, yet far less quiet than outside. Bokuto was knee-deep in a gingerbread house mess, his half empty wine glass abandoned on the kitchen counter. Candy wrappers littered the floor around where he stood. Your fiance had a childlike smile on his face, tongue poking out from between his lips as he concentrated. Both of you had flushed cheeks, the bottle of wine you had opened for dinner was empty now, and you two were enjoying the free time the holiday season gave you.

He decided this freedom meant you two should build a gingerbread house— though you’d say his energy had shifted as the building went on.

You watch him, giggling as he held the piping bag awkwardly, not used to having to hold something so precariously. The frosting application was anything but neat; messy but screaming enthusiasm. 

The walls of the house were all tilted at different angles, some candy scattered around the house, around the floor, everywhere truly. 

“Ko,” You called out, hiding your smile behind your wine glass, “You may be overdoing it with the frosting.”

He looked over at you, grinning, “I’m just testing it out,” He squinted down at the walls, the frosting nearly dripping from how much he was using, “Want to make sure everything sticks. This is a very delicate process, you know.”

You crossed your arms, leaning your hip against the counter, “Delicate, huh?”

He nodded, poking softly at one of the walls to adjust it, and you both watched as it grew more lopsided. He pulled his hands away before the whole thing collapsed. 

“It’s modern.” He said, voice completely serious as he stared down at the sweets.

You started laughing, leaning against him, moving to wipe off the frosting that was leftover on his cheek, “Modern?”

“Yeah, modern houses have like… weird shaped walls, and windows.”

He turned to you, eyes bright, cheeks red as he smiled, proud of the house he had quite literally thrown together. 

“I don’t think modern houses look like they’ll collapse if you breath too hard near them.”

He laughed, full bodied chuckles leaving his mouth, unbothered by the truth behind your statement, “It’s supposed to look like that, that’s true modern housing.”

Kotaro turned, rummaging through one of the many opened bags of candy, “I think it just needs more candy,” He stated, “The more candy, the better!” 

He pilled gumdrops and chocolate pieces into his hand, popping a few pieces into his mouth, before turning to you, holding his hand out. He looked like a kid in a candy store— which, looking at the kitchen, was exactly what he was.

“Alright,” You took one last swig of your wine, putting the glass down as you took a few pieces from him, “Let’s add some more candy.”

You both dove in, bodies pressed against each other as you began covering every bare inch with some type of candy. The frosting was still dripping down the walls, the roof pieces barely holding onto each other. Chaotic doesn’t even begin to describe the mess that this ended up being; if you stepped back and glanced at it you doubt you’d even be able to have known this was a gingerbread house.

You found a kitkat, breaking it apart as you set it up, trying to make some funky roof piece, but it ended up falling over. Now it just looked like two logs hanging on for dear life.

“Not bad!” Ko leaned over, nodding approvingly at your addition, “If we add more frosting we can layer the candy too.”

He grabbed the pipping bag, looking far too determined. You could smell the inevitability happening.

“I think we should leave it be,” You tried sounding more serious, but the laughter broke each word, and you couldn’t stop him even if you wanted to.

He squeezed the bag, a pile of frosting landing on top of the kitkat pieces, “See? It just needed a special touch—”

In slow motion you two watched as the kitkats fell onto the counter top, followed closely by the roof pieces, chocolate pieces and gumdrops following piece by piece. The four walls stood, barely, for all of a few seconds before they collapsed on each other. 

You two stared at it, not even in shock, before you started laughing. Loud snorts leaving you, your eyes tearing up as he joined you. It was just a gingerbread pile at this rate, and with the sheer amount of frosting on it, you wouldn’t even consider it edible anymore. 

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” He started, still giggling like a schoolkid, “We can rebuild it from the ground up.”

You shook your head, wiping some of the fallen tears from your cheeks, “I think we should call it.”

He didn’t argue, too busy grinning at you, your laughter, unbridled and unrestrained was one of his favorite sounds. He knew that later he’d playfully grumble and complain when he had to clean, wiping the dried up frosting from the counters and throwing away all the candy he could have eaten later. 

But that was future him’s issue, now him got to enjoy the glow of alcohol in your cheeks, and the way the tree lights made your eyes look like they held galaxies. He wrapped his arms around your waist, your body still trembling from how hard you laughed at the mess you two made, feeling your warmth against his.

“I love you,” He mumbled, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, the smell of your shampoo mixing with the sweet scent of the wine you two had gone through, just so you that it made his heart hurt.

“I love you too, Ko,” You pressed closer to his chest, “Even if your gingerbread house skills are subpar.”

“Subpar?” He pulled back, a faux offended look on his face, “I’ll have you know I’m the best decorator on the Jackels!”

A/N: sorry I hated this >.<

★﹒₊‧they guys that fall for the silent type so when u start rambling on about something, weather it's something exciting or a shitty day at work/school, they pull away from whatever they're doing no matter how important bc hearing you talk is their most favorite thing in the universe.

↻ bokuto, oikawa, kurro, yamaguchi, hinata, noya, makki, <3

POKÉMON x HAIKYUU

I made these doodles a while ago, giving (almost) each team's captain a signature Pokémon!

I had a lot of fun making these and will probably do more of those in the future~

@bokuakaevents2025 Late submission: Day 4: Canon verse: Confession with the help of MSBY or Fukurodani

Plz enjoy the lunch of angst and fluff served to ya. If ya like the lore hintings, I might just do a fic for it then :3

Hoho Ic yall love in the moment one!! I'll share the link as soon as I complete :3

Chat what do yall want?

In both options both of em are in luv already!!:-D

Chat what do yall want?

In both options both of em are in luv already!!:-D

Heh random afternoon doodling Lil cutie Bokuto<3~

Original art (OG credits : @suncelia-art)

Hear me out. Giving bokuto or ushijima their first bj in their early 20s. They’re just so busy all the time and once they finally meet you, how do you think It would go down?

You've been heard and its fantastic lolol

I hope you enjoy my love <333

--

Anon Ask: Bokuto (NSFW)

The door creaked open, and Bokuto stepped inside with a quiet, exhausted sigh. His duffel bag was slung over one broad shoulder, and his varsity jacket hung haphazardly off him, half-zipped like he hadn’t even bothered to fix it. His hair was still damp from a post-practice shower, curling slightly at the ends, and the faint scent of soap and something distinctly him wafted across the room.

When he spotted you sitting cross-legged on the edge of his bed, his whole face changed. The tension in his shoulders softened, and a slow, sleepy smile spread across his lips.

"Hey," he said, voice rough and warm from hours of practice. "Didn't expect you to wait up."

You shrugged lightly, trying to keep it casual even though your heart squeezed at the sight of him—tired, flushed, and somehow still so beautiful. "Missed you," you admitted.

His smile deepened, fondness glowing in his golden eyes. Dropping his bag by the door, he kicked off his shoes with a lazy nudge and trudged over to you.

The mattress dipped under his weight as he collapsed beside you with a soft grunt, leaning heavily against you. His head found its way to your shoulder, his body curling toward you instinctively, seeking your warmth like a magnet.

"I'm so tired," he mumbled, words slurring slightly against your shirt.

You threaded your fingers through his damp hair, nails scraping lightly against his scalp. He melted instantly, a low, content hum vibrating from his chest.

"Poor baby," you teased gently, though your heart ached with how worn down he was. He always gave everything—on the court, in class, with his teammates. There was never anything left for himself.

He huffed a quiet laugh against you. "Missed you too, y'know."

You smiled, pressing a soft kiss to the crown of his head.

For a while, you just sat there, letting him soak in your presence. You could feel the weight of his exhaustion, the way his body sagged against yours, trusting you to hold him up.

After a long moment, you shifted slightly, your hand trailing down from his hair to cup his cheek, tilting his face up to look at you.

His eyes were heavy-lidded, lips slightly parted. So open. So vulnerable.

You leaned in, kissing him softly at first, your lips brushing over his in a slow, lingering touch. Bokuto sighed into your mouth, his large hands finding your waist, gripping you gently like he couldn’t bear not to touch you.

The kiss deepened naturally, lazy and warm, until you were shifting to straddle his lap, feeling the solid weight of him beneath you. Your hands slid down his chest, over the faint ridges of his stomach, until they hovered at the waistband of his jeans.

When your fingers brushed the growing tent forming there, he gasped softly against your mouth, hips jerking up slightly into your palm.

You pulled back just enough to look at him—his cheeks flushed, pupils wide, breathing shallow.

The thought struck you all at once. A way to take care of him. To give him something back.

"Let me take care of you tonight," you whispered.

Confusion flickered across his face. "You don't have to—"

You silenced him with another kiss, even deeper this time, pouring everything you felt into it—all the longing, all the tenderness, all the need.

When you pulled back, his breath caught audibly. His pupils were blown wide, cheeks flushed a soft pink.

You slid off the bed and knelt between his legs, resting your hands lightly on his thighs.

His breath hitched. "Wait—you… you don't—"

"I want to," you murmured, voice steady, fingers tracing slow circles against the thick muscle of his thighs.

Bokuto looked like he wanted to argue, but the words caught in his throat. He nodded instead, swallowing hard.

You reached for the button of his jeans, popping it open with deft fingers. His breathing grew ragged as you tugged the zipper down, his cock straining against the fabric.

When you freed him, he was already hard, twitching slightly under the cool air and your intense gaze.

You smiled up at him—gentle, reassuring—and leaned in to press a soft kiss against the head of his cock.

He gasped, his hips jerking slightly before he forced himself to stay still, fists clenching in the blanket.

"Holy shit," he whispered, voice barely a breath.

You took your time, trailing kisses down his length, licking slow, teasing stripes along the underside. Every little sound he made—the sharp inhales, the choked-off moans—made your stomach flutter.

When you finally wrapped your lips around him, sinking down slowly, his whole body shuddered.

"F-Fuck…" he whimpered, head tipping back against the bed, throat working as he swallowed thickly.

You set a slow, steady rhythm, bobbing your head while your hand stroked what your mouth couldn't reach. Your free hand stayed firm on his thigh, feeling every tremor, every tiny twitch.

Bokuto was a mess almost immediately, biting his lip hard enough to turn his knuckles white, trying desperately to keep quiet. His hips jerked despite himself, tiny, helpless movements you easily accommodated.

When you glanced up at him, the sight nearly undid you—his flushed cheeks, the glassy sheen in his eyes, the way he looked at you like you were something holy.

"I'm gonna…" he panted, voice breaking. "Gonna cum… if you…"

The desperate edge in his voice made something snap inside you.

You moaned softly around him, then picked up the pace—bobbing your head faster, taking him deeper with each stroke. Your hand worked in tandem with your mouth, twisting gently at the base as you sucked harder, tongue flicking against the sensitive underside.

Bokuto cried out, head falling back against the bed, chest heaving with ragged breaths. His thighs tensed under your palms, muscles trembling as he fought to keep himself grounded.

"F-Fuck, baby…" he gasped, voice cracking, hips jerking up despite himself. "I'm… I'm—"

With a shuddering groan that was almost a whimper, Bokuto came hard, hips stuttering helplessly as he spilled hot and heavy into your mouth. You swallowed carefully, easing him through it, the sounds he made—broken, vulnerable—searing themselves into your memory.

You kept your movements slow and gentle until he sagged back against the bed, completely spent, every muscle in his body quivering with the aftermath.

When you finally pulled back, wiping the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand, you looked up at him through your lashes.

He stared down at you like you’d personally rewritten the laws of physics, wide-eyed and flushed, chest still rising and falling rapidly.

"You're…" he croaked, still breathless. "You're amazing."

You climbed back onto the bed, and Bokuto immediately dragged you into his arms, cradling you against his chest like he never wanted to let you go.

"Stay," he whispered, voice raw.

"Wasn't planning on leaving," you murmured against his skin, pressing a kiss to his racing heart.

He held you tighter, burying his face in your hair, soaking in your warmth, your presence—everything he’d missed without even realizing it.

And for once, there was nowhere else either of you needed to be.

Rivalry: Iwaizumi Pt. 3 (NSFW)

The overhead lights in your office buzzed faintly, casting a sterile sheen across your desk, your tea, your meticulously arranged files. Every folder sat aligned at a perfect angle, every spreadsheet tabbed and color-coded to hell and back. You had done it all this morning, trying to distract yourself—trying to settle your mind with clean lines and predictable logic. The problem was, your hands weren’t moving. Your cursor blinked on the empty field of the player report form, waiting for an input that wasn’t coming.

You were still in last night’s gym.

You could feel it—his hand at your waist, his breath ghosting along your neck, the focused burn in his eyes like he’d been trying so hard not to look and failing anyway. That single brush of his fingertips over your lower back had lingered longer than it should have. You’d felt the press of his palm even after the janitor’s voice startled you both apart.

You clicked your pen hard against the desk, leaving a dent in the paper beneath it. No. You are not spiraling over Iwaizumi Hajime’s fucking triceps. This wasn’t high school. You didn’t have a crush. You had standards—and a job to do.

So why the hell couldn’t you stop replaying how his eyes had dropped—not to your clipboard, not to your notes—but to your mouth, right before the door opened?

Another sharp click. Another unfinished line of text. The memory flushed through your chest like static, and you were just about to stand and walk it off when a knock sounded on your door.

It was brisk. Familiar. Firm.

You barely managed to school your features into something neutral before the door cracked open—and there he was.

Iwaizumi Hajime, looming like a storm cloud, his Olympic-branded laptop tucked under one arm. His shirt sleeves were rolled to the elbows, veins tracing his forearms like tension maps, his jaw tight, unreadable. He didn’t say anything at first, just stepped inside your office with the restrained efficiency of a man too used to high-stakes situations.

“I’ve updated the training program,” he said, voice rough and clipped, as if last night hadn’t happened. “Based on what you showed me yesterday.”

He moved toward your desk, tilted the screen toward you. The moment the spreadsheet opened, your eyes skimmed the rows—and your stomach tightened.

Komori’s lateral sequences had been scaled down. Hyakuzawa’s overhead load was decreased. Flexibility modules were individualized. The wording was precise. The ratios were accurate.

You couldn’t believe it.

“It looks… solid,” you said, cautiously. “You actually listened.”

Iwaizumi’s mouth quirked. “I always listen.”

“You just don’t usually believe me,” you muttered, fingers tapping the edge of the keyboard.

He shrugged. “I believe you when you’re right.”

You were about to fire back when the door slammed open.

“Whoa—no yelling?” Bokuto’s voice rang out with playful disbelief as he peeked in, already grinning.

Behind him, Yaku gave a nod like he’d seen this coming from a mile away. “Told you they’d mellow out eventually.”

You crossed your arms, glaring. “What the hell are you two doing?”

“Seeing if the explosion already happened,” Bokuto chirped, eyes darting between you and Iwaizumi. “But this? You’re practically cozy. Suspicious.”

“Get out,” Iwaizumi growled, his voice all grit and warning.

“Wait, are you two—” Bokuto began.

“Absolutely not,” you cut in, sharp enough to decapitate.

Yaku raised a brow. “You’re denying it a little too fast, Doc.”

Iwaizumi’s glare could have melted iron. “Say one more thing and you’re benched for the week.”

“Okay, okay!” Bokuto backed up, laughing. “Damn. Just saying—it’s new energy.”

You stood, jaw clenched. “Out. Now.”

The two Olympic players exchanged a final glance before Bokuto tossed over his shoulder, “If it does happen, call me for the wedding.”

As the door shut behind them, you exhaled sharply. “They are insufferable.”

Iwaizumi rubbed the back of his neck, sighing. “Because we let them be.”

He turned toward the door, laptop still under his arm. Before leaving, he hesitated—just for a beat—and looked at you over his shoulder.

“Seriously. You were right. Yesterday.”

The words landed heavy. Too heavy.

“…Thanks.”

He nodded once, then walked out. Door closing on his way out.

And you didn’t move for a long time.

Not until your pulse calmed and the sound of his voice stopped buzzing in your ears.

--

You’d barely made it back to your office from your lunch break and shut the door behind you before there was another knock. You didn’t need to look up to know who it was. That rhythm was far too obnoxious to belong to anyone else.

“Doc!” Atsumu Miya strolled in like he owned the place, grinning with all the charm of a cat who’d just knocked something off a counter. “Got a second? My shoulder’s actin’ up again—figured you’d be thrilled to poke around in it.”

You rolled your eyes, but gestured toward the exam bench anyway. “Sit. Shirt off. Keep the commentary to a minimum.”

“That’s no fun,” he mumbled, but obeyed, peeling his shirt off with the practiced flair of someone who knew exactly what his arms looked like in fluorescent lighting.

You slipped on your gloves, moving around him with practiced ease. “Still some impingement from the inflammation?”

“Mmhm,” he replied, rotating his arm slightly. “Worse after I sleep on it wrong.”

You pressed gently along the front of the shoulder, assessing the rotation with subtle shifts. He winced once, which you noted.

Then, predictably, the smirk returned.

“Ya and Iwaizumi-san looked cozy earlier,” he said casually, not even trying to be slick. “Should I be worried?”

You froze for half a second, just enough for him to catch it.

“Worried he might kill me?” you deadpanned, fingers still pressed to his deltoid. “Absolutely.”

Atsumu huffed a laugh, but his eyes narrowed, too observant for your liking.

“I was thinkin’ the opposite,” he mused. “Didn’t look like hate to me.”

Your brows twitched.

You narrowed your eyes. “Did the rest of the team put you up to this?”

Atsumu’s smirk deepened. “What? Can’t a guy notice things on his own?”

You scoffed and reached for his shoulder again. “I’m going to press deeper into the joint now.”

Atsumu, still grinning, relaxed his shoulder—and immediately yelped when your fingers dug just slightly harder into the inflamed tissue.

“Still tender, I see?” you asked innocently, lifting a brow.

“Ow—damn, Doc!” he hissed, rubbing the area as you pulled back. “That was a low blow.”

You offered a thin smile. “Consider it a reminder to keep your theories to yourself.”

He winced, stretching his shoulder slowly. “You wound me. Here I am, bringin’ you a little entertainment in your dull clinic, and you repay me with violence.”

“I repay you with diagnostics,” you replied coolly, stepping around to the back of his shoulder. “And unsolicited opinions get the treatment they deserve.”

“Don’t know why you’re actin’ like this is such a scandal,” he muttered. “Half the gym’s been waitin’ for you two to snap and jump each other.”

Your glove-clad fingers stilled mid-rotation.

Atsumu grinned like a shark. “C’mon, you mean to tell me ya don’t see it? All that arguing—feels like foreplay.”

"It is not in your best interest to continue that train of thought."

You moved to the back of his shoulder and rotated the joint again, this time met with less resistance.

But your heart was suddenly in your throat.

Atsumu didn’t push further—blessedly—but his silence was far louder than any teasing remark. He watched you finish the check-up with a strange sort of calm, the air between you humming with something unsaid.

“You’re good,” you said finally, peeling off the gloves and tossing them into the bin. “Still keep the compression sleeve on when you’re not on court. I’ll send you some updated stretches.”

“Thanks, Doc.” He hopped off the bench, slinging his shirt over his shoulder. But just before he stepped out, he paused at the door.

“Y’know,” he said, almost too casually, “it’s kinda wild. Iwaizumi’s been here for years, and I’ve never seen him look at anyone like that.”

The door shut behind him before you could ask what the hell that meant.

And you hated—hated—the way your face warmed.

--

The lights in the hallways were dim, the soft hum of the facility settling into its nightly lull. Most of the staff had already cleared out—offices darkened, doors locked, the echo of your footsteps the only thing keeping the silence company. You rolled your shoulder, spine aching after another long day of meetings, treatment notes, and dodging the smug glances Atsumu kept throwing you every time he passed your office.

You were halfway to the exit, bag slung over your shoulder, keys in hand, when something made you stop. A dull, rhythmic sound. The muted clang of weights meeting padded flooring.

Your eyes cut to the side.

The training gym was lit only by a single overhead bulb in the far corner, flickering slightly above the racks. Inside, shirtless, sweat-slicked, and visibly focused, stood Hajime Iwaizumi. Alone.

You didn’t mean to stop. But your feet planted themselves anyway.

He was mid-lift—some kind of upright barbell press—and the curve of his back shifted with every rep, sweat rolling down between the muscles that flexed and released with practiced rhythm. His sweatpants clung to the powerful line of his hips, and a notebook sat open beside him on the bench, filled with scrawled corrections and diagrams. He wasn’t just working out. He was testing.

Your breath snagged, and before you could stop yourself, your hand reached out to gently push the door open.

Iwaizumi looked up.

He didn’t pause. Didn’t blink. Just kept lifting, jaw tight, eyes catching yours.

"You just gonna stand there," he said, voice gravelled with fatigue and something warmer, "or you planning to come in?"

Your heart gave an inconvenient lurch.

You stepped in. Slowly. The door clicked shut behind you, the echo bouncing off the gym walls like a warning shot.

"Didn’t think you’d still be here," you said, keeping your voice neutral.

He lowered the weights, rolling his shoulders back with a grunt. "Didn’t finish the work. That thing you won’t stop nagging me about."

Your lips twitched. "Right. That thing."

A beat of silence. Thick and heavy.

You moved closer, eyeing the open notebook.

"You’ve changed a lot," you said, voice quieter.

He arched a brow. "Excuse me?"

You pointed at the program updates. "The circuits. You adjusted the progression intervals. And you finally stopped overloading the endurance drills."

A shrug. "You were right."

Your eyes flicked up, surprised to hear it from his mouth.

"Don’t get smug," he muttered.

"Wouldn’t dream of it."

The corner of his mouth quirked, and for a moment, the silence between you was less heavy. Just taut. Like a pulled wire.

You pointed to the bar. "May I?"

His brow raised, but he stepped aside. You brushed past him—just barely—but the heat that rolled off his skin followed you like static. You wrapped your fingers around the bar, adjusted your stance.

"Like last night," you murmured, reaching back with your hand, brushing your palm across the taut muscle of his abdomen. "You’re still tensing too soon. Posterior tilt’s off."

He let out a rough exhale. "You always this picky?"

"You always this stubborn?"

He caught your wrist. Not hard—just firm enough that your eyes snapped to his.

"You know what you’re doing."

Your pulse jumped. "Do I?"

His mouth crashed into yours before you could answer.

Everything went hot and messy.

His lips were rough, desperate, teeth scraping your lower lip like it was a grudge he meant to settle. You gasped into his mouth as his hands found your waist, calloused fingers digging into the soft give of your skin like he could anchor himself there. The gym’s cold air was a distant thing, barely felt beneath the furnace of your bodies colliding, friction turning tension into fire.

You didn’t remember moving, only the wild clutch of your limbs and his, the stumble of your shoes across the floor. One step. Two. Then you were walking him backward toward the center mat, his chest rising beneath your touch. He was tugging your shirt up, shoving it over your head with a grunt of impatience, and it hit the ground somewhere behind you. You didn’t care. You needed more—needed his skin under your palms, needed to feel him, solid and hot and here.

"You’re such a pain in my ass," you growled, teeth flashing as you wrestled with the waistband of his sweats.

"Yeah?" he rasped, his hand already sliding past the waistband of your leggings, fingers curling possessively around your ass. "Then why do you keep showing up?"

You shoved him. Hard.

He hit the mat with a thud, breath whooshing out of him—and still he grinned like the bastard he was, even as he yanked you down on top of him.

Your thighs spread across his hips as you straddled him, your palms braced on his chest, feeling the flex of muscle beneath each ragged breath. You kissed him again—slower this time, deeper. Your tongue slid against his, your hips beginning to roll, teasing friction where your bodies met. His cock strained against his sweats, thick and hot and barely contained.

"Take them off," you muttered.

He obeyed. Sweats shoved down, boxers next, and his cock slapped against his stomach, flushed and ready. You stared for a beat too long.

"What?" he panted, eyes dark and glassy.

"Nothing," you lied. "Just shut up."

Clothes hit the floor in a trail of skin and fabric. Your leggings. Your panties. His shirt. Everything discarded in your frantic need.

He sat up just enough to run his hands up your sides, thumbs brushing the swell of your breasts, then down to your thighs as you shifted above him. You held his gaze as you reached between you, guiding him to your entrance. Your breath caught at the first stretch—then you sank down, inch by inch, until he was fully seated inside you.

You both froze.

Your nails dug into his shoulders, your body adjusting to the thickness of him. The sensation was overwhelming—stretching you open, the slow drag of every inch sending a shiver down your spine. It had been too long since something felt this good. Since someone felt this good.

He groaned, hands trembling against your waist, gripping you like he might come undone.

"Fuck," he whispered. "You—"

"Don’t talk," you snapped, breathless.

You rocked forward, and he moaned. A sound from deep in his throat, guttural and raw. You did it again—slow, dragging circles with your hips, feeling every ridge, every inch, the way he filled you so completely you could barely breathe. The pleasure curled through you hot and tight, blooming in your belly, liquid heat spreading with every thrust.

His mouth found your neck, tongue tracing the line of your throat before he bit, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to make you whimper.

"You drive me insane," he muttered against your skin, and this time, you didn’t argue.

You set a rhythm, your hands on his chest, his hands on your ass, guiding you down harder, deeper, every motion building heat in your belly. Sweat slicked your skin, your thighs trembled, and every thrust sent sparks up your spine. The tension climbed higher, unbearable, addictive.

He met you thrust for thrust, rising to meet you, hips snapping up as you dropped down, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing off the gym walls. You felt yourself unraveling around him, muscles tightening, your body shaking.

"You like this, don’t you?" he growled, voice low and fucked out. "Being in charge. Getting your way."

"Shut up, Hajime."

He grinned—and flipped you.

You hit the mat with a gasp, his body heavy and hot above you. He braced one arm beside your head, the other slipping under your thigh as he pulled your leg higher around his waist.

"Not gonna let you win everything, Doc."

Then he was pounding into you, unrelenting, deep and fast, and your fingers clawed into his back, desperate to hold onto something as pleasure overtook you. Each thrust filled you to the hilt, your walls fluttering around him, slick and tight and aching.

You cried out, eyes fluttering shut, hips canting up to meet his every thrust.

"There," you gasped. "Right there—"

He didn’t stop. Not until your back arched, legs locking around his waist, and you came with a broken moan, pleasure snapping through you like lightning. You pulsed around him, body locking up as ecstasy tore through you.

He followed seconds later, groaning into your neck, his body trembling with release.

For a long moment, all you heard was breath. Harsh. Labored. Yours and his.

He didn’t pull out right away. Just stayed, forehead pressed to your shoulder, his hand tangled in your hair.

You stared at the ceiling.

Oh, fuck.

What now?

hi! could i request a managerial duties fic with the fukurodani team?

Hello :D You can!

I wrote this in a silly goofy mood, if you can't tell lolol

Enjoy <33

--

Managerial Duties: Fukurodani

Being a manager for Fukurodani Academy’s boys’ volleyball team was a bit like being the conductor of an orchestra that had no intention of following the sheet music. Between Bokuto’s mood swings, Konoha’s snark, and the constant low hum of chaos that seemed to follow Komi like a shadow, your days were never dull.

But somehow, it worked.

Maybe it was Akaashi’s unshakeable calm, or Washio’s quiet reliability. Maybe it was the way Sarukui knew when to reel Bokuto back with just a look, or how the other two managers—Yukie and Kaori—had learned to tag-team any brewing disaster before it hit critical mass. The team was loud, ridiculous, occasionally impossible, and you wouldn’t trade them for anything.

You’d been with them long enough now that their habits were second nature. You knew who needed water before they asked, who always forgot their kneepads, who preferred warm-ups in silence and who needed to scream themselves into the zone. You’d taped ankles, refereed arguments, restocked first-aid kits, and once used a mop handle to redirect a rogue serve mid-flight.

So naturally, the one time you stepped out of the gym to speak with a teacher, chaos found its way in without you.

The package arrived during warmups. A small cardboard box, scuffed at the corners, with your name written neatly on the top in permanent marker. No return address. No label.

Kaori found it by the entrance and placed it on the bench, assuming you’d handle it when you got back.

But Bokuto saw it.

He was mid-warmup, mid-laugh even, when something square and cardboard caught his eye from across the gym. Like a hawk sighting prey, his eyes zeroed in and he made a beeline for the bench.

Before anyone could react, he was already crouching in front of the package, fingers hovering over the taped seam.

“Bokuto-san, don’t—”

Smack.

Kaori’s hand came down on his faster than lightning, swatting his fingers away just before he could peel back the flap.

Bokuto yelped, more offended at being stopped than anything else, still pointing dramatically at the box like it had personally challenged him to a duel. He cradled his hand with exaggerated care, rubbing it as if he'd just been grievously injured. "Oww, what was that for?" he whined, lower lip jutting out. 

“It’s not yours,” Yukie said immediately, sliding in front of it like a bodyguard.

“Aw c'mon!” Bokuto cried, jogging over. “What if it’s important?! Or fragile?! Or snack-related?! I mean—it was sent to a manager, so it’s stuff for us, right?!”

“Then she’ll open it when she gets back,” Konoha muttered, clearly unimpressed.

“But what if she wants us to open it for her?”

“She doesn’t,” Kaori said flatly.

“You don’t know that!”

“You don’t know that she does,” Akaashi chimed in, walking past with a towel draped over his shoulders. “And opening someone else’s package is literally a crime.”

Bokuto paused, scandalized. “Wait. Really?”

“Federal offense,” Akaashi confirmed, not even stopping.

“Yeah, that’s like... a serious thing,” Sarukui added.

Komi nodded enthusiastically. “You could totally get arrested.”

“Or banned from deliveries for life,” Konoha threw in with a shrug.

“I think that’s made up,” Washio said, but no one contradicted him.

Bokuto groaned. “This system is broken.”

“I bet it’s mysterious,” Komi offered, grinning. “Like something cursed. Or magical. Or both.”

“It’s probably just more athletic tape,” Sarukui said.

“No, no, no,” Bokuto shook his head. “It could be owls.”

“Why would someone send owls to the school gym?” Washio asked.

“Why wouldn’t they?” Bokuto countered.

The entire team was crowded around the bench now, forming a semicircle of ridiculous anticipation. The box sat there, untouched, radiating unearned power.

Kaori had her arms crossed. “No one’s opening it.”

Yukie nodded. “Not unless you want to explain to Coach why you’re committing petty theft.”

“And a federal offense,” Akaashi added as he passed.

Yukie groaned. “Right. And a federal offense.”

Just then, the gym doors opened.

You stepped in, unaware of the tension until twelve pairs of eyes swiveled to you at once.

“What did I miss?” you asked slowly, eyebrows raised.

Everyone pointed.

“Box,” Bokuto said gravely.

“Highly suspicious,” Komi added.

Akaashi sighed. “Please tell them it’s not cursed.”

You blinked at the package. “Oh. That’s just the kneepads my uncle donated.”

Silence.

Bokuto looked devastated. “It’s what?”

“Kneepads.” You opened the box casually, pulling out a neat stack of new gear. “He runs a sports supply store. Said he had extras.”

“You’re telling me,” Bokuto said slowly, “I waited fifteen minutes to NOT see a magical owl?”

“Yes?” you replied, mildly confused.

“…I mean, that’s cool too, I guess,” he muttered, thinking about it for a second. Then, as if deciding he could live with the outcome, he gave a small nod, still pouting a little. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay with this.”

Washio nodded. “I like kneepads.”

You grinned. “Good. Because there’s enough for all of you.”

One by one, you handed the kneepads out, and the team eagerly grabbed their pairs, excitedly comparing colors and sizes before jogging off to try them on over their uniforms. Bokuto was already halfway across the gym, yelling something about testing them with a jump serve.

You turned to find Yukie and Kaori standing off to the side, arms crossed.

“So,” you said, raising an eyebrow, “they were debating what was in the box, and the majority vote was a magical owl?”

Kaori rubbed her face with both hands. “Don’t even ask.”

Rivalry: Iwaizumi

You didn’t knock.

The door slammed open against the wall with a thud, reverberating through the quiet of the gym offices as you stepped in like a storm on legs. Iwaizumi barely looked up from his tablet, but the hard flicker of his eyes said everything.

“You want to tell me what the hell this is?” You threw the clipboard down onto his desk—hard enough that the pens rattled.

He set the tablet down slowly, deliberately, like he was resisting the urge to match your energy. “You’ll have to be more specific. I get a lot of aggressive paperwork these days.”

You narrowed your eyes. “The new conditioning plan. The one that overemphasizes lower-body strength for half the defensive line—including Yaku, who, if you remember, has two prior knee injuries and doesn’t need another one.”

“It’s a generalized strength cycle,” he said, already starting to sound annoyed. “And Yaku’s cleared. His knees aren’t glass.”

You leaned forward, voice clipped. “And he’s cleared with a note that says he needs flexibility emphasis. You’re pushing reps on a recovering joint. That’s not generalized, that’s reckless.”

His jaw ticked. “I’m not pushing anything he can’t handle. He’s an elite athlete, not a porcelain doll.”

You scoffed, shaking your head, pacing a few steps across the room. “Jesus, Hajime, sometimes I think you forget you’re not just coaching weight numbers—you’re managing people. People with injuries, with thresholds. If he gets benched because you want him to hit a personal best on a squat—”

“—Then that’s on me,” Iwaizumi cut in, standing now, matching your gaze, his voice sharp. “Not on you.”

You turned slowly, cold fury in your expression. “You’re damn right it won’t be on me. Because I’m not signing off on that.”

He stepped around the desk. “You don’t get to unilaterally veto a team decision.”

“You don’t get to override medical flags like you’re some goddamn authority on joint physiology.” You jabbed a finger into his chest. “Your job is to keep them strong. Mine is to keep them playing. If they’re hurt, no one wins.”

The tension hung thick between you both, barely bridled, mouths drawn tight like you were both holding back everything you really wanted to say.

“God, you’re infuriating,” he muttered under his breath.

“Right back at you.”

You turned sharply, storming to the door. You needed air. You needed to not strangle a nationally-ranked strength coach in the middle of an Olympic facility.

But when you threw the door open, two bodies fell inward with a crash.

Bokuto hit the ground first, limbs flailing like he’d just been knocked out of a tree. Atsumu came next, barely catching himself on the wall, eyes wide as he winced dramatically.

“Ow—shit—”

“Uh… hi?” Bokuto grinned sheepishly from the floor. “We were just… stretching.”

You stared down at them, blinking once. Then twice.

“Stretching,” you repeated flatly.

“In the hallway,” Atsumu added quickly, brushing himself off. “Gotta stay limber, you would know Doc.”

Your glare could’ve turned them to ash.

Behind you, Iwaizumi groaned under his breath.

“I’m going to kill both of you,” you muttered.

“No need!” Bokuto said, already scrambling back. “We were just leaving! Right, ’Tsumu?”

“Yup. Definitely not eavesdropping. Totally respect privacy.”

They both darted off like startled dogs, leaving behind only the faint sound of snickering down the hall.

You didn’t say another word. You just stepped out, slammed the door behind you, and willed your heart to stop pounding through your ribs.

—

The door had barely stopped vibrating when Iwaizumi let out a slow, audible sigh. He turned back to his desk, ran a hand through his hair, and stared blankly at the clipboard you’d left behind like it was personally mocking him.

God, you were impossible.

And you were right.

He wasn’t about to admit that—not to your face, not in front of a pair of eavesdropping idiots, and definitely not when your voice still echoed in his head like a challenge he hadn’t yet figured out how to win.

“Yo, Iwa.”

Iwaizumi turned, slowly, to see Atsumu leaning against the gym wall with all the subtlety of a spotlight. Bokuto was standing beside him, whispering something that earned him a smack on the arm.

“What,” Iwaizumi snapped. Not a question. A warning.

Atsumu raised his hands innocently. “Nothin’. Just, uh… wonderin’ if we’re still runnin’ through defensive drills. Or if you need a minute to, y’know, recover.”

“I’m fine.”

“You sure?” Bokuto grinned, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. “’Cause that sounded brutal. Like, she murdered you with words.”

Iwaizumi narrowed his eyes. “Do either of you want to do ten extra sets of burpees?”

“Shutting up!” Atsumu said quickly, throwing a thumbs-up before jogging off toward the court.

Bokuto lingered a second longer. “Hey,”

Iwaizumi looked up again.

“She’s not wrong. Yaku’s been wincing during cooldowns.”

Then he jogged off too, leaving Iwaizumi alone with nothing but the echo of your voice and the weight of the truth.

He grunted under his breath, shaking his head as he walked toward the training area, jaw tight. His athletes were waiting. The whistle was in his hand. He’d deal with you later.

But even as he barked out the next drill set, his mind drifted back to the fire in your voice, the way you jabbed a finger into his chest like you weren’t afraid of anything—not even him.

And for some goddamn reason, that wasn’t just infuriating.

It was distracting.

Worse: it was getting harder to ignore.

Unrequited Love: Bokuto

The stadium lights burned like stars overhead, casting long shadows across the polished court. The roar of the crowd swelled in waves, a living, breathing force that surged and broke against the walls of the arena. Bokuto Koutarou stood still in the center of it all, his heartbeat syncing with the rhythmic beat of the game.

This was home. It always had been.

He bounced on his heels, palms slapping softly against his thighs, golden eyes flicking up and over the rows of fans packed into the stands. He always did this before a game—scanning. Searching.

Hoping.

You came to one of my games in college once. Said you wanted to support me even if you didn’t know all the rules. You sat in the front row with snacks and one of those handmade signs, grinning like it was the best thing you’d ever done. You were so proud of me. I couldn't stop staring.

It wasn't until the second set that he saw you.

Not in the front row this time. A little higher up, tucked into a row of seats that caught the golden light just right. You looked the same. Soft expression. That familiar warmth that never failed to center him, no matter how chaotic the world got.

But this time, you weren’t alone.

Your fingers were laced with someone else's—a man with kind eyes, a relaxed smile, and a wedding band that mirrored the one glinting faintly on your hand.

Something in Bokuto's chest twisted. An old, familiar ache he had kept buried deep down beneath years of laughter, late-night texts, and every moment you sat beside him without ever realizing what he wanted to say.

But his body knew what to do. The ball was set, high and perfect, and he soared to meet it. Muscles coiled, arms arched, and then—the strike. The ball slammed to the floor on the opposing side like thunder cracking through silence. The crowd erupted.

He didn't hear any of it.

We used to sit on the school rooftop and eat lunch together. I’d talk about volleyball like it was a religion. You’d talk about music, books, strange little thoughts that made no sense but always made me laugh. I think I fell for you the first time you passed me a rice ball and told me to stop overthinking my spikes.

He never told you.

Not once.

There had been chances—so many chances. Late-night calls that lasted too long. Moments when your eyes lingered. When your laughter felt like something he wanted to wrap both hands around and never let go.

But the words never made it past his throat.

He told himself he had time. That he didn’t want to ruin the beautiful, easy thing you had. That being near you was enough.

And now, watching you from across the arena, smiling at someone else the way he used to dream you’d smile at him, Bokuto felt the weight of every second he’d spent silent.

As long as you’re watching, I’m happy.

That’s what he told himself. And maybe, on some level, it was still true. Because you were watching. Eyes bright, expression soft, hands clapping politely after every point. You were here.

You came.

Just not for him.

Even so, he glanced up again, caught one more glimpse of you laughing at something your husband whispered in your ear. His chest ached, but his lips pulled into a quiet smile.

Because even if your heart belonged to someone else, even if he was just a fond memory in a long list of friendships—

He would still play his heart out.

Because if you’re watching, then that means some part of you still remembers. Still cares.

And maybe that was enough.

He wiped sweat from his brow, steadied his breath, and returned to the service line.

Eyes on the ball.

But just for a second longer, heart still caught in the stands—

Watching you.

Husbandry: Bokuto (NSFW)

Koutaro loved being a father. He loved everything about it—the giggles, the tiny hands reaching for his, the way his child clung to his leg like a koala when he tried to leave for practice. He loved the sleepy, drooling cuddles, the way they cheered for him at games even when they barely understood what was going on, the pure adoration in their big, bright eyes.

He loved his family. He loved the life he had built with you.

But damn, he was dying to fuck his wife.

At first, it wasn’t so bad. The newborn stage had been exhausting, but you’d found your moments, stolen kisses between diaper changes and late-night feedings. But now? Now, his kid was everywhere.

Hina wanted to play all the time, wanted to be glued to your side, wanted to co-sleep every damn night. If he so much as kissed you for too long, tiny hands would push between you both, demanding attention. And the worst part? You loved it. You’d always been so patient with her, smiling when she pulled you away from him, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek before going to settle her back into bed. Meanwhile, Koutaro was left aching, frustrated, and wound up tighter than a spring.

The longing was getting unbearable. He needed you. Needed to feel your hands on him, your nails digging into his back, the press of your body against his without interruption.

So when he saw his chance—his first real chance in weeks—he pounced.

Hina was absorbed in her favorite cartoon, settled comfortably on the couch, giggling at the screen, completely distracted. And you? You were in the kitchen, slicing up fruit, completely alone.

Koutaro didn’t hesitate.

He moved in fast, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind, burying his face against your neck, groaning dramatically. "Baby, I’m starving."

You laughed, not missing the way his hands wandered, sliding under your shirt, fingers tracing slow, teasing circles against your stomach. "I’m literally making you a snack right now."

"Not that kinda hungry," he murmured, lips grazing your ear, pressing his hips firmly against your ass so you could feel exactly what he meant.

You inhaled sharply, the knife in your hand faltering for just a second. "Koutaro—"

"C’mon, babe," he whined, rocking his hips just a little, making you shudder. "We can sneak upstairs. Just real quick. Ten minutes. No—five! I swear, I can be fast."

You snorted. "You’re never fast."

He grinned against your skin, his hands moving higher, palming your breasts, kneading them just the way he knew made you weak. "Fine, twenty minutes. But you have to be quiet."

You let out a soft, breathy moan, pressing back into him just enough to feel the hard, teasing drag of his body against yours. Your breathing picked up, your fingers gripping the counter as you leaned into his touch, heat pooling low in your stomach. "You’re terrible," you murmured, but there was no real bite to your words. Koutaro smirked against your neck, his hands squeezing your waist. He knew he had you.

Then—

"Mama! I want my fruit!"

Koutaro froze.

You quickly smoothed down your shirt, tucking stray strands of hair behind your ear, forcing yourself to look composed.

Tiny feet pattered into the kitchen, and suddenly, Hina was wedging between you and Koutaro, tiny hands tugging at your shirt.

"Mama! I want fruit! And Daddy, come watch my show with me! My favorite episode is on!"

Koutaro exhaled sharply through his nose, closing his eyes for a long moment. Defeated.

You sigh, turning and pecking him on the cheek, grinning. "Guess duty calls, Daddy."

With a deep, exaggerated sigh, Koutaro stepped back, ruffling his child’s hair before lifting her into his arms. "Alright, alright. Let’s go watch your show."

As he walked away, he heard your muffled laughter from the kitchen, making his frustration spike. His fingers flexed against Hina’s back as he carried her, already thinking about revenge.

By the time he settled onto the couch with her, she was already chattering excitedly about her favorite episode, eyes glued to the screen. Koutaro, however, was fuming.

He turned back, just before disappearing into the living room, throwing you a desperate, betrayed look.

This wasn’t over.

Not by a long shot.

---

Later that night, he was sure he was getting what he wanted.

Koutaro had planned it perfectly. He'd worn Hina out all day—a long walk, hours at the park, a warm bath, and a bedtime story that left her knocked out cold in her own bed. No way she was waking up tonight.

With a victorious smirk, he made his way to the bedroom, already anticipating the way you’d melt under his touch.

He stepped inside to find you standing by the dresser, slipping into one of his old shirts for bed. Your hair was slightly damp from your shower, skin soft, glowing in the dim light of the bedside lamp.

You turned at the sound of the door clicking shut, raising a brow as he stalked toward you. "Where’s Hina?"

"In her own bed," he murmured, voice low, confident. "Sleeping like a log."

Before you could react, his hands were on your waist, pulling you against him. He kissed you like he hadn’t kissed you in months—deep, needy, filled with everything he’d been holding back.

You gasped softly, but you didn’t hesitate, your arms looping around his neck as you pressed back into him, matching his intensity, his hunger. His hands roamed your body, fingers trailing down your spine, squeezing at your hips, touching you like he was trying to make up for lost time.

His mouth moved to your jaw, then your neck, and he groaned as his fingers slid beneath the hem of your shirt, moving lower, lower—

Knock, knock.

A tiny, tearful voice called from the hallway. "Mama? Daddy?"

You and Koutaro froze.

For a long moment, neither of you moved, still tangled together, his breath heavy against your skin.

Then, he pulled back just enough to stare at you, eyes filled with sheer, soul-crushing defeat.

You smirked, barely able to contain your amusement. "Like a log, huh?"

His expression darkened, and you couldn't help it—you burst into laughter.

Groaning, Koutaro dropped his forehead against your shoulder, completely deflated.

Another knock. "Mamaaa…"

With a deep sigh, you both quickly fixed yourselves up before Koutaro trudged to the door, opening it to reveal Hina standing there, rubbing her sleepy little eyes, sniffling.

"Had a bad dream, baby?" you cooed, crouching down to brush her hair back gently.

She nodded, sniffling again before reaching up toward Koutaro. "Can I sleep with you and Mama?"

He glanced over at you, looking so damn resigned, so utterly defeated.

You grinned, shrugging. "Guess duty calls again, Daddy."

Letting out the most dramatic sigh of his life, Koutaro scooped her up, carrying her to the bed. He flopped onto the mattress, his dream of having you to himself completely shattered as she snuggled between you both.

As you reached over to turn off the light, you caught Koutaro’s stare from across the pillow—his desperate, betrayed look that all but screamed: This isn’t over.

But hours later, it was still keeping him awake.

He laid there in the dark, eyes fixed on the ceiling, his body tense with frustration. Every single attempt at having you to himself had been shut down, and now, with his daughter nestled comfortably between you both, it felt like the final nail in his coffin.

Except—he wasn’t giving up. Not tonight.

Slowly, he turned his head, glancing at Hina. Her breathing was steady, deep, completely out. Koutaro stayed still for a few more moments, just to be sure, before carefully, painstakingly, peeling himself away from the bed.

You stirred slightly, mumbling something incoherent, but he was already leaning in, brushing his lips against your ear. "Baby… come with me."

You blinked groggily, barely registering his voice. "Kou…?"

"Shhh," he whispered, his hand warm against your waist. "Come on. Just trust me."

Still half-asleep, you let him pull you up, letting him lead you quietly, carefully out of the bedroom. As soon as you both stepped into the dimly lit living room, you rubbed at your eyes, yawning. "Koutaro… what’s going on?"

But he didn’t answer with words.

Instead, he tilted your chin up, trailing soft kisses down your jaw, your neck, whispering against your skin. "We just need to be quiet."

Your breath hitched, your drowsiness evaporating in an instant as his hands gripped your hips, pulling you flush against him.

You gasped softly, but the second his mouth found that sensitive spot just beneath your ear, you melted into him. "Koutaro, you’re insatiable…"

He grinned, his fingers already slipping beneath the hem of your shirt as he guided you toward the couch. "Missed you too much, baby. Can’t wait anymore."

And as he pressed you down onto the cushions, settling between your legs, he whispered again, "Just keep quiet for me, yeah?"

You barely had a chance to respond before his hand slipped between your legs, fingertips tracing along your inner thigh, teasing, taking his time. You shivered, your legs instinctively parting wider for him, and he let out a quiet, pleased hum.

"That’s it, baby," he murmured against your ear, his fingers brushing over your underwear, pressing against the heat already pooling there. "You’re already so wet for me. Missed this, huh?"

You bit your lip, nodding as you arched into his touch, barely suppressing a gasp when he slid his fingers under the fabric, stroking you slow, deliberate.

"Koutaro—"

"Shhh, baby," he whispered, his other hand coming up to gently cover your mouth. "Gotta stay quiet, remember?"

Your head tipped back against the couch as he slid a finger inside, curling just right, dragging along that spot that had you nearly choking on your moans. When he added a second, his pace deep and unrelenting, your thighs clamped around his hand, body trembling under his touch.

"Feel good?" he asked, watching you with dark, hungry eyes. "Bet you’ve been needing this just as bad as I have."

You could barely nod, barely breathe, your chest rising and falling in uneven gasps as he worked you open, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

"Wanna come for me, baby?" His voice was low, coaxing, filthy. "I can feel you squeezing me—go ahead, let go. Just be quiet."

You whined against his palm, your whole body tensing as pleasure crashed over you, your walls pulsing around his fingers as you came, thighs shaking.

Koutaro groaned, pressing soft kisses along your jaw, your cheeks, his fingers slowing but not stopping as he helped you ride it out.

"Good girl," he whispered, nuzzling against your temple. "That’s my girl."

Before you could fully come down, he was shifting, gripping your hips, lining himself up.

"K-Koutaro—"

He pushed in, slow, deep, deliberate, and you nearly sobbed at the overwhelming pleasure. Your walls clenched around him, so tight, so warm, making his breath stutter against your skin.

Your fingers dug into his shoulders, your back arching as he bottomed out, his size stretching you perfectly. The sensation was too much, so intense it sent tears flooding your eyes.

Koutaro kissed them away, murmuring against your skin, "Needed this, baby. Needed you. So bad."

His thrusts were slow, deep, each roll of his hips pressing right where you needed him most. You were drowning in the feeling, in the weight of him, in the way he moved inside you like he was savoring every second.

You wanted to cry out, to let him know just how good he was making you feel, but his hand was quick to cover your mouth again, muffling your desperate whimpers.

"Shhh, baby," he whispered, voice strained, nearly breaking from how good you felt around him. "Can’t have Hina hearing, right? Just be good for me, just take it—"

And you did. You took all of him, his slow, aching thrusts sending you spiraling, pulling you under, dragging out every bit of pleasure until you couldn’t hold it anymore.

"Koutaro—oh god—"

"I got you," he whispered, gripping your waist tighter, his hips stuttering as he felt you clamp down around him. "Come with me, baby. Let go."

The second your body tensed, walls pulsing around him, he followed, groaning as he spilled deep inside you, burying his face against your neck as he let go completely.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

Just the sound of ragged breathing, the quiet hum of the house, the lingering warmth of each other.

Then—

A soft shuffling noise. A tiny, sleepy voice.

"Mama? Daddy?"

Your entire body locked up, heart stopping, breath catching in your throat.

Koutaro went completely still, eyes widening in horror.

Another rustling noise. "Mamaaa… where’d you go?"

You whipped your head around, eyes darting to the hallway, panic surging through you. Koutaro’s mind raced, searching for an escape, an excuse, anything.

Then—quick as lightning—he peeked his head up over the couch, calling out in the most casual voice he could muster—

"Just helping Mommy look for something, sweetheart! We’ll be back in bed soon!"

Your face burned.

Hina yawned, rubbing her sleepy little eyes, looking far too tired to question anything. "Okay… hurry up, ‘kay?"

"We will, baby," you managed to choke out. "Go back to bed, we’ll be right there."

She sniffled, nodded, and padded back down the hall.

The second she was gone, you collapsed against Koutaro’s chest, smacking his shoulder. "You absolute menace."

He groaned dramatically, throwing an arm over his eyes. "I can’t live like this."

You chuckled, running your fingers through his hair. "That’s why I asked my parents to take her for the weekend."

Koutaro froze.

Then, slowly, he lifted his head, staring at you like you’d just given him the greatest gift of his life.

Without another word, he nuzzled into you, wrapping you up in his arms like he never wanted to let go. "I love you so much."

You smiled, cuddling into his warmth, pressing a soft kiss to his temple. "I love you too."

Rivalry: Sakusa

The camera clicks, the flash reflecting off the sheen of sweat on Sakusa Kiyoomi’s face as he stares down at you from behind his mask. Even in victory, there’s a sharpness to him, a quiet tension crackling beneath his cool exterior, and it’s aimed directly at you.

“Your defense wasn’t as sharp as usual tonight. Were you struggling to keep up, or was there another reason for the misreads?” you begin, voice steady as your pen glides across your notepad.

The press conference room is thick with anticipation, the air charged with a static-like tension. Reporters lean forward in their seats, pens poised, some shifting uncomfortably while others exchange intrigued glances. The bright overhead lights cast stark shadows on the players, emphasizing the sharpness of Sakusa’s features as he stares you down. They know what you’re doing. More importantly, he knows what you’re doing.

Sakusa’s gaze narrows slightly. Sakusa’s gaze doesn’t waver. "I adjusted to their offense. If that looked like struggling to you, maybe you should take another look at the final score."

You don’t relent. “I'm aware of your team's victory, Sakusa-san. Are you relying too much on your teammates?”

The silence stretches longer this time. You know you’re poking the bear. Sakusa is known for his perfectionism, for his unshakable self-discipline, and you’re prodding at the cracks just to see if they’re there.

A muscle in his jaw ticks, but his voice stays even. "If trusting my teammates to do their jobs is a problem, then maybe you don’t understand how a team sport works."

The room seemed to inhale at once, a murmur rippling through the crowd. Some reporters exchanged knowing glances, while others scribbled frantically in their notebooks, sensing that this was the kind of soundbite that would be making headlines by morning. Cameras clicked in rapid succession, the bright flashes punctuating the thick tension in the air. A few journalists whispered to each other, gauging the reaction of the MSBY players, but none of them spoke up to break the moment.

Atsumu let out a low whistle, leaning back in his chair. Bokuto, who had been grinning just moments before, straightened slightly, his golden eyes flicking between you and Sakusa like he had just caught wind of something interesting. Even Meian, typically unfazed by media antics, raised an eyebrow at the way Sakusa’s fingers curled slightly against the table, his entire frame wound tight as if forcing himself to stay still.

You? You simply smirked, tapping your pen against your notebook before lifting your chin slightly. "No further questions."

That pisses him off more than anything. Because he knows—he knows—you got exactly what you wanted.

Sakusa clenched his jaw, his nostrils flaring just slightly beneath his mask. It wasn’t just the question that irritated him—it was the way you delivered it, the way you smirked, the way you dismissed him like you had already gotten what you needed and he was no longer worth your time. The fact that you didn’t even look at him again as other reporters jumped in with their far more standard, predictable questions made something coil tight in his chest.

Sakusa forced himself to focus on the next question, but his grip on the microphone was just a little too firm, and the only thing he could hear was the sound of your pen scratching against paper as you took notes from the other players, like he wasn’t even worth your time anymore.

From then he knew who you were.

Knows your name, your face, the way your voice always cuts straight through to him no matter how many journalists crowd these post-match briefings. You’re a nuisance, an irritant, and yet—he never ignores your questions. Never brushes them off with the indifference he grants others.

You challenge him. And deep down, you both know he likes it.

~~

The first time you wrote about Sakusa Kiyoomi, your article had been direct and biting, dissecting his play with ruthless precision. Where others hailed his natural talent, you highlighted the flaws—the inconsistency in his service pressure, the occasional lapse in his blocking reads. Not to degrade him, but because you saw the potential for more. And apparently, so did he.

Since then, every time you covered an MSBY match, there was an unspoken expectation—he knew you'd be watching, and you knew he'd be playing to prove you wrong. But it wasn’t just that.

Sakusa remembers the very first time he noticed you. The first time you called him out in a press conference, your voice cutting through the noise like a blade, sharp and deliberate. He remembers how his fingers clenched under the table, how the irritation simmered low in his chest—not because of what you said, but because it made him feel something. It should’ve been just another question, just another reporter, but it wasn’t.

And it never has been since.—he knew you'd be watching, and you knew he'd be playing to prove you wrong. Over time, the rivalry evolved into something else, lingering in the way his gaze would flicker toward you during games or how his answers in press conferences were always a little sharper when you were the one asking the questions. Something neither of you had acknowledged.

The away game had been intense, but MSBY had emerged victorious. The final set had been a test of endurance, forcing the team to dig deep against an opponent determined to push them to their limits. The last point had come from a perfectly executed block—Sakusa reading the setter and shutting down the cross-court spike with a decisive palm. The crowd erupted, the whistle blew, and the scoreboard solidified their win.

Post-game adrenaline still ran through Sakusa’s veins as he walked into the media room alongside his teammates, their jerseys still damp with sweat. The moment they sat down at the press table, cameras flashed, and the room filled with a cacophony of voices as reporters fired off questions left and right.

“Your blocks were key in the third set! How did you adjust so quickly?”

“What do you think made the biggest difference against the opposing team’s hitters?”

“Your receives looked more inconsistent compared to last game. Do you think fatigue played a factor?”

Meian, as captain, answered first, offering the usual post-match reflections on team effort and strategy. Bokuto, beaming from ear to ear, leaned into the microphone and laughed about how ‘every game should be that intense!’ Hinata, still buzzing, nodded along, interjecting whenever he got the chance.

Sakusa answered each question he was asked with measured precision, keeping his responses brief but informative. He had done enough press to know how to maneuver through them without revealing much.

Then, a voice cut through the chaos.

“Shinohara was dominating the net in the second set, and you looked like you were scrambling to keep up. Would you say he got the better of you?”

Sakusa’s eyes snapped to the crowd of reporters, and there you were—standing among them, notebook in hand, your expression composed but sharp. The same way it had been earlier, when you had watched him from the sidelines and smirked before scribbling something down.

“Or was it frustration? Because from where I was sitting, it looked like you were second-guessing your reads more than usual. Did he force you to change your approach?”

The room held its breath, the shift in atmosphere nearly tangible. A few reporters traded quick looks, some leaning forward slightly, eager to see how Sakusa would respond. The usual rustling of notepads and scribbling of pens slowed, all eyes trained on the exchange.

His jaw tightened, fingers pressing into the table with restrained force. "Is that what you saw?" His voice was cool, but there was something simmering beneath it, like a rope pulled too tight. The question wasn’t dismissive—it was a challenge. He adjusted his mask, fingers pressing into the fabric before exhaling slowly. “I was focused. Not frustrated.”

You smiled, slow and deliberate, the kind that said you knew exactly what you were doing. That you had dragged him into this, and he had walked right into it. Without another word, you lowered your pen and let the other reporters take over, shifting their questions toward Meian and Bokuto instead.

At the table, Atsumu and Bokuto shared a look.

“Didja see that?” Atsumu muttered under his breath.

Bokuto grinned. “Oh yeah.”

Sakusa ignored them, but he could feel their eyes on him, burning with interest.

The banquet hall is grand, an opulent display of polished marble floors and cascading chandeliers that bathe the room in warm, golden light. The scent of decadent dishes—slow-roasted meats, rich pastas, fresh seafood—intertwines with the subtle notes of fine wine and aged whiskey. Servers weave gracefully through the throngs of athletes, journalists, and executives, their trays balancing crystal goblets and plates laden with gourmet delicacies. The atmosphere is both relaxed and electric, the hum of voices, bursts of laughter, and the occasional clink of silverware against porcelain blending into an effortless symphony of post-match revelry. It was a post-match tradition for away games—a chance for players, staff, and members of the media to unwind.

At the MSBY table, Sakusa swirled his drink lazily in his glass, only half-listening to the conversation between his teammates.

“You got grilled again,” Bokuto laughed, nudging him. “Man, she’s relentless.”

“Pretty sure she enjoys making your life difficult,” Meian added, smirking over the rim of his beer.

Hinata grins. “She really goes for you in those press conferences. Think she’s got a thing for you?”

Sakusa scoffs, setting his drink down. “Doubtful.”

Atsumu, who has been watching the exchange with growing amusement, leans in, eyes glinting with mischief. “Nah, I think you got a thing for her.”

Sakusa tenses, shooting him a glare. “Shut up.”

“Oooh, he didn’t deny it,” Bokuto teases, laughing as he throws an arm around Hinata’s shoulders. “Kiyo, you like the attention, don’t you?”

Meian shakes his head. “I’d believe that if he wasn’t always so pissy after talking to her.”

Sakusa exhales sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “She’s just doing her job.”

Atsumu grins. “So are you, but ya sure get all riled up when she’s around.”

He doesn’t have a response to that. Not one he wants to say out loud, anyway.

His teammates exchange looks, sensing that the teasing has gotten under his skin more than usual. But before any of them can make another comment, Sakusa stands abruptly.

“Where are you going?” Hinata asks, blinking up at him.

Sakusa doesn’t answer. Instead, his gaze flickers across the room—to the bar, where you’re seated, nursing a drink while scrolling through your phone. His fingers tighten around his glass.

Atsumu follows his line of sight and grins. “Ah. Interesting.”

Sakusa ignores him and walks off.

You notice him before he even reaches the bar, that unmistakable presence making your pulse pick up just slightly.

He slides onto the stool beside you, his mask now tucked under his chin. You glance at him, raising an eyebrow. "You’re hovering."

He mirrors your words from earlier, tone dry. "I haven’t said anything yet."

"You’re about to."

Sakusa exhales through his nose, gaze flickering briefly toward the drink in your hand before settling back on you. The air between you is thick, the usual sharpness in his stare now laced with something else—something unreadable.

You tilt your head slightly, letting the silence stretch just a little longer before speaking again. "You seemed irritated earlier."

"I wonder why."

You smirk. "I’d say it’s part of my job, but you already know that."

Sakusa doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, he leans back against the bar, fingers tapping idly against his glass. "You enjoy it, don’t you? Getting under my skin."

"If it gets me the truth, then yeah."

His jaw tightens slightly at that, and for a second, you think he might say something else. But instead, he just watches you, eyes dark, expression unreadable.

You swirl the last of your drink in your glass, tilting your head as you watch him. Then, with a half-smirk, you say it—mostly as a joke. "You know, if you’re that desperate to defend yourself, I could offer you a private interview."

You don’t expect anything to come of it. In fact, you’re already preparing for him to scoff and dismiss the idea entirely.

But instead, Sakusa blinks, his fingers pausing on his glass. "When?"

That one word nearly makes you choke on your own drink. You open your mouth, close it, then recover with a casual shrug. "My recorder’s upstairs."

His gaze sharpens. "You’re still looking for an angle."

You shrug. "I’m looking for an answer."

Sakusa exhales, slow and measured, before finally nodding. "Fine. Let’s go." Neither of you move for a second. Then, as if pulled by an invisible thread, you both stand at the same time. The air between you tightens with something unspoken, something neither of you are willing to name yet.

Across the room, Meian lets out a low whistle. "Well, would you look at that."

Atsumu elbows Bokuto, barely able to contain his excitement. "Oh my god, Kiyoomi is getting some."

You weren’t expecting him to agree so easily, but you mask your surprise, finishing your drink before sliding off the stool. The walk out of the banquet hall is silent, the tension between you threading tighter with every step. You don’t look at him as you press the elevator button, and he doesn’t look at you when the doors slide open.

But the weight of his presence lingers, undeniable and electric.

The two of you walk toward the elevators in silence, but it isn’t awkward. It’s charged, simmering beneath the surface. Neither of you say a word, but every step forward feels deliberate, like a move in a game neither of you are willing to lose. The walk is silent, tension threading between you, thick with something unspoken.

The moment the door to your hotel room clicks shut behind you, the atmosphere shifts—becomes something heavier, charged. The soft glow of the bedside lamp casts elongated shadows along the sleek, modern furnishings, bathing the space in an intimate warmth. The distant murmur of the city beyond the window seems inconsequential compared to the weight of the silence stretching taut between you and Sakusa. Sakusa doesn’t move immediately. He lingers near the entrance, his hand still resting lightly on the door handle, as if debating whether he should turn around and walk away. A flicker of hesitation ghosts across his face—so brief that most wouldn’t catch it, but you do.

Why is he here?

The easy answer is the interview. But deep down, he knows that’s not the truth. It hasn’t been for a while. You get under his skin in ways no one else does, and despite how much it infuriates him, he’s still here, standing in your hotel room, waiting for a reason not to be.

But you don’t give him one. Sakusa doesn’t move immediately, just lingers near the entrance, as if deciding whether he regrets agreeing to this. You, on the other hand, are already setting your recorder on the desk, flipping open your notebook with practiced ease. There’s no hesitation in your movements, no indication that you’d been thinking about the way he reacted back in the press conference.

But he knows you have.

He watches as you click your pen once, twice, before finally meeting his gaze. "Take a seat, Sakusa-san."

His jaw flexes, but he steps further into the room, pulling out the chair across from you with just a little more force than necessary. The scrape of the wood against the floor is sharp, punctuating the air between you. He doesn’t slouch, doesn’t let himself sink into the seat—no, he sits with his back straight, arms crossed, like he’s bracing for impact.

You hit record.

"So, let’s start with the game," you begin, voice even, measured. "Despite your win, Shinohara’s attack percentage was noticeably higher than yours. Do you think his presence on the court pushed you to your limits?"

Sakusa exhales slowly through his nose, jaw tensing. "He’s a strong player, but I wouldn’t say he ‘pushed me to my limits.’ I adjusted accordingly."

"You adjusted, but his success rate didn’t drop. So was the issue with your defense, or was he just the better player tonight?"

A pause. A sharp inhale from Sakusa. The muscle in his jaw twitches again.

"I don’t recall losing."

You tilt your head slightly. "That doesn’t answer my question."

Sakusa’s fingers curl against his arms, his nails pressing into the fabric of his sleeves. His eyes narrow, but there’s something else there too—something almost like intrigue beneath the irritation.

"If you’re looking for a soundbite, you’re not getting one."

You smirk, tapping your pen against your notebook. "Oh, I already got one."

His eyes flicker over your face, scanning, analyzing, before his irritation shifts into something else. Something darker. More intent.

The recorder sits between you, capturing every word, but neither of you are really thinking about the interview anymore. The weight of the tension settles thick in the air, lingering in the space between your crossed arms and his unwavering stare.

Sakusa exhales through his nose. "Next question."

You hesitate.

It’s barely a second—just long enough for your fingers to falter on your notepad, for your breath to catch as you take in the weight of his stare. And he sees it.

That single moment of doubt.

It fuels him more than anything else.

But you both know—this interview isn’t ending the way it was supposed to. He leans against the edge of the bed, arms crossed, watching you like he’s waiting for you to make the first move.

“So,” you start, keeping your voice even. “How do you think the game went?”

He exhales sharply through his nose. “You saw it.”

“I want to hear it from you.”

Sakusa leans forward slightly. “You always want to hear it from me.”

You smile. The room feels smaller now, the air heavier. “That’s my job.”

“Is it?”

You hesitate, fingers tightening slightly around your notepad. There’s something in his tone that makes your pulse jump. “You tell me.”

For the first time, his mask is completely gone—not just the physical one, but the carefully measured distance he keeps between himself and the world. His gaze dips to your lips for half a second before snapping back up, something sharp and intent in his expression.

And then, he’s moving.

That night, nothing else matters. Not the rivalry, not the press, not the game. Just Sakusa Kiyoomi and the way he finally lets go—just for you.

Favourite Positions: Bokuto

Of all the ways Bokuto loved to fuck you, having your hips dangling off the edge of the bed while he pounded into you from above was by far his favorite.

There was just something about it—how it let him watch you, take in the way your body stretched out beneath him, the way your tits bounced with every hard thrust. How your legs, struggling to stay wrapped around his waist, trembled from the sheer force of him. But more than anything?

It was the way you looked up at him.

Eyes wide, dazed—needy.

“Fuck, baby, you’re so—” Bokuto cut himself off with a groan, grip tightening on your thighs as he slammed into you, his cock driving deep, deeper, until you were arching, gasping, fingers clawing at the sheets.

The angle was almost too much. He could tell by the way you squeezed him, the way you trembled every time he bottomed out, hitting that spot inside you that made your whole body jolt.

“You feel it?” he panted, his abs flexing with every thrust. “Yeah, you do. Fuck—you’re so tight.”

You could barely respond, words lost in broken moans as he set the pace brutal. Skin meeting skin, the slick sounds of your bodies tangling together—his name spilling from your lips like a prayer.

His hands left your thighs, one gripping your hip to hold you still, the other sliding down, fingertips ghosting over your stomach before pressing firmly right where he could feel himself inside you.

“Shit,” he groaned, head tilting back, muscles tensing. “I’m so deep in you, baby. Fuck, you take me so well.”

Your back arched at the pressure, the sensation overwhelming, white-hot pleasure spreading through every nerve.

Then, his hand moved lower.

The second his fingers found your clit—rubbing messy, frantic circles—you snapped.

Your whole body locked up, pleasure crashing into you so hard you let out a cry, a high, desperate sound as your walls clenched tight around him. The feeling had Bokuto gritting his teeth, his thrusts turning erratic, chasing his own release as you milked him for everything he had.

One, two, three more thrusts—

Then he was spilling inside you, groaning your name like it was the only thing he knew, hips stuttering as he buried himself as deep as he could go.

For a long moment, the only sound was heavy breathing, the heat of your bodies pressed together, sweat slick and satisfied.

Then, Bokuto let out a breathless, giddy laugh, leaning down to press a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss against your parted lips.

“Holy shit,” he murmured, voice still wrecked. “We’re so doing that again.”