Nosedives (Miya Astumu X Reader) Pt. 1

Rivals: Kuroo Pt. 3

The crisp morning air hit you the moment you stepped outside, your cheeks still flushed with residual heat from the sheer embarrassment of what had just transpired. You adjusted the strap of your bag over your shoulder, tugged your coat tighter around your body, and walked. Faster than necessary, eyes fixed ahead, ignoring the unmistakable ache in your legs that served as an unrelenting reminder of last night.

What the hell did I do?

The question looped in your mind as you trudged down the sidewalk, each step bringing another humiliating flashback. The way his lips had trailed down your throat, the rasp of his voice murmuring your name like a prayer, the heat of his breath against your ear.

The way you begged for him.

You groaned out loud and shook your head violently as if you could physically shake the memories loose. This was bad. This was so bad.

By the time you reached your apartment, your heart was still hammering in your chest, the adrenaline of your walk of shame still rushing through your veins. The second your key turned in the lock and you pushed the door open, a familiar weight landed against your legs.

“Hey, buddy,” you murmured, bending down to scoop up your cat, pressing your face into his fur for a moment of comfort. He meowed in response, blinking up at you with wide eyes before batting at the collar of your coat.

At least he wasn’t judging you.

You set him down and made a beeline for the shower, peeling off your clothes as fast as you could. You needed to wash off Kuroo Tetsurou, scrub away any remnants of his touch, his scent, his presence.

But no matter how hot the water was, no matter how much you lathered soap against your skin, it didn’t leave you. The heat of his hands, the press of his body—it was all still there, lingering like an impossible-to-ignore memory.

You groaned, pressing your forehead against the shower tiles, letting the water cascade down your back. Why him? Of all people, why Kuroo?

The man drove you insane. Always teasing, always pushing, always so damn smug. You’d spent years butting heads with him, rolling your eyes at his antics, gritting your teeth at his unrelenting wit.

And yet…

The minute he touched you, something inside you had snapped. You’d met his fire with fire, let yourself get lost in the burn of it.

And worst of all?

You wanted to do it again.

You sucked in a sharp breath and shut the water off, gripping the edge of the shower door for stability. No. No, no, no. This was a mistake. A one-time lapse in judgment.

You would not let yourself fall into this trap.

By the time you were dressed, your cat had curled up on the couch, watching you with half-lidded eyes as you ran a towel through your damp hair. “Don’t look at me like that,” you muttered. “I know I made a bad decision.”

He flicked his tail, unimpressed.

You threw the towel into the laundry hamper and collapsed onto your bed, staring at the ceiling, mind still racing. You had to go back to work on Monday and pretend nothing happened. You had to look Kuroo in the eye and act like you hadn’t had his name spilling from your lips over and over again.

You squeezed your eyes shut, inhaling deeply.

This was going to be hell.

__

The weekend blurred by in a haze of distractions. You tried everything—burying yourself in errands, binge-watching dramas, even deep-cleaning your apartment twice—but nothing worked. The memory of Kuroo was burned into your brain, lingering at the edges of your mind no matter how hard you tried to shove it away.

You could still feel his fingers digging into your hips. The sharp scrape of his teeth against your neck. The husky, teasing laughter in your ear as he dragged you down with him into the mess of tangled sheets and breathless whispers.

You growled at yourself, shaking off the heat pooling in your stomach.

Before you knew it, Monday morning arrived, and the reality of facing him hit you like a freight train.

You stepped into the office, coffee in one hand, your other gripping the strap of your bag tightly, as if that alone would keep you grounded. You could do this.

Thankfully, Kuroo was nowhere in sight. A quiet sigh of relief slipped past your lips as you made your way to your office, eager to lose yourself in work and push all thoughts of him aside.

Settling into your chair, you opened your laptop, sipping your coffee as you began typing out emails, reviewing contracts, and approving documents. The mundane rhythm of work was a welcome distraction, something solid and predictable to keep you from spiraling back into the humiliating thoughts of the weekend.

That relief, however, was short-lived.

Just as you started drafting a compliance report, your office door swung open without a knock. You glanced up, already annoyed, only to find your boss standing there, arms crossed, an expectant expression on his face.

"Good job getting that campaign finalized," he said, nodding as if you had done something worthy of recognition. "There's a shareholder meeting this week to discuss it. You need to be there."

Your stomach dropped.

Shareholder meetings were always a pain, but that wasn’t the real issue. No, the real issue was that Kuroo would be there. You’d have to see him sooner than you thought.

You quickly straightened in your chair, trying to compose yourself. “Sir, I have a full schedule today, a backlog of approvals, and several reports to review—surely someone else from legal can attend?”

Your boss gave you a flat look, clearly unimpressed. “Oh, don’t even start. You’re the one who finalized this campaign, so you’re the one explaining it. Be in the meeting room in half an hour.”

You barely had time to protest before he turned on his heel and left, leaving you staring at the empty doorway, mouth slightly open in disbelief. Half an hour.

Your pulse quickened as you slumped back in your chair, rubbing your temples. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. You had been hoping—no, praying—for more time before you had to see him again. But now, in thirty short minutes, you’d have to sit across from him in a professional setting, pretend nothing happened, and endure whatever smug, knowing looks he threw your way.

You inhaled deeply, rolling your shoulders back as you forced yourself to think rationally. Kuroo might have the upper hand in teasing, but that didn’t mean he had the power here. You were damn good at your job, and if he thought he could waltz in and fluster you with a few smirks and carefully placed jabs, he had another thing coming.

Straightening in your chair, you pulled up the campaign documents, reviewing them with meticulous attention. You weren’t just going to walk into that meeting unprepared. No, you were going to walk in with confidence, fully armed with every technicality, every regulation, every damn reason why you knew what you were doing.

You checked the clock. Fifteen minutes left.

With one last steadying breath, you closed your laptop, grabbed your notes, and stood, smoothing out your outfit. He’s just another coworker. Nothing more. If Kuroo wanted to play games, fine. But you weren’t going to lose. Not this time.

Squaring your shoulders, you stood, grabbed your notes, and marched toward the meeting room, determination outweighing the lingering heat in your face. You weren’t going to let him have the satisfaction of seeing you flustered.

Fuck him. I have nothing to be ashamed of.

Yet, the moment you stepped inside, you instantly regretted everything.

Kuroo was standing near the far side of the room, engaged in conversation with a few of the shareholders, his usual easygoing charm on full display. His sharp suit was tailored perfectly, the slight smirk on his lips too damn self-assured. And then, as if he could sense you, his golden eyes flicked toward the door, locking onto you instantly.

His knowing smile deepened, and you had to physically fight the urge to turn around and leave.

“Ah, there she is,” Kuroo announced, casually gesturing toward you. “My partner on this campaign.”

Your stomach clenched at the word. Partner?

The older gentleman Kuroo had been speaking to turned, his expression brightening. “Oh, so you’re the legal mind behind all of this! I’ve heard good things. Very impressive work.”

You forced a polite smile, waving a hand dismissively. “It was a team effort.”

But Kuroo, of course, wasn’t about to let you downplay your role.

“Don’t be modest. She kept me in check the whole time,” he added, his tone dripping with amusement.

You clenched your jaw, swallowing down the urge to shove him into the nearest chair. He knew exactly what he was doing.

Before you could formulate a response, he gestured to the seat beside him. “Come on, have a seat.”

You hesitated for the briefest second—just long enough to see the glint of mischief in his gaze—before forcing yourself to step forward and sit down, mentally cursing every decision that led you here. That wasn’t even enough time to mentally prepare yourself for the inevitable disaster that was seeing Kuroo again.

You hesitated for the briefest second—just long enough to see the glint of mischief in his gaze—before forcing yourself to step forward and sit down, mentally cursing every decision that led you here.

More people trickled in, the sound of chatter filling the room as the shareholders settled into their seats. Small conversations broke out, professionals exchanging pleasantries while waiting for the meeting to begin. The air in the room was light, easy, full of smooth laughter and the clinking of pens against notepads.

For everyone except you.

You turned to Kuroo, lowering your voice in a hiss. “Partner?”

He chuckled, leaning back in his chair, voice full of teasing amusement. “Would you have preferred I introduce you as my handler?”

Your fingers curled into the fabric of your skirt beneath the table, nails pressing hard enough to leave marks. You were already regretting every single interaction you had with him. Smug bastard.

You narrowed your eyes, about to snap back, but before you could, the meeting was called to order.

Kuroo led the discussion with practiced ease, his voice smooth and effortlessly engaging. He was sharp, confident, weaving through each point with that natural charm of his, drawing in the room like he belonged there. And the worst part? The shareholders loved him.

You mostly kept quiet, answering questions when necessary, keeping your responses measured and precise. You weren’t about to let him run circles around you. Still, you had to admit—grudgingly—that he was good at this. Too good. His ability to present information with just the right balance of authority and ease was frustratingly effective. It made you irrationally angry, watching the way he commanded the room with nothing but a few smirks and a well-placed joke.

And he knew it. Every so often, you caught him glancing at you out of the corner of his eye, as if he could feel your irritation thrumming beneath the surface.

Bastard.

Just as you thought you were in the clear, your boss spoke up. “We were actually discussing another campaign that needs some serious revisions. Given how well this one turned out, we’d like the two of you to work on it—on short notice.”

Your breath caught. No. No, no, no.

Panic shot through you like a live wire, your heartbeat hammering against your ribs. You had barely survived the last time you worked with him—mentally, emotionally, professionally. And now they wanted you to do it again?

This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be happening. You had told yourself the project was a one-time thing, an unfortunate alignment of responsibilities that you had somehow, miraculously, endured. You had barely made it out of the last collaboration with your sanity intact, and after what happened between you two, the very thought of working with him again made your stomach churn.

It wasn’t just about the way Kuroo existed to push your buttons. No, it was the fact that you had let him get under your skin—too far under, past the point of irritation and into something more reckless, more dangerous.

And now, you were supposed to do it all over again?

Your fingers clenched under the table, nails pressing hard into your palm to stop yourself from blurting out something unprofessional. This isn’t fair. This isn’t my fault. You had done your job perfectly. If Kuroo hadn’t gone out of his way to be Kuroo, none of this would even be an issue. Now, because of his antics, because he couldn’t help himself, you were getting roped into another late-night headache with him.

Your pulse thudded in your ears, drowning out the rest of the boardroom as your mind scrambled for a way out. Any excuse. Any way to get literally anyone else assigned to this instead.

But you knew your boss. He didn’t care. He had made up his mind. And Kuroo—that smug bastard—had probably already figured that out too.

You straightened in your seat, carefully choosing your words. “Of course, but we’d need extended work hours to meet such a tight deadline—”

Kuroo, the bastard, cut you off effortlessly. “No need. We’ll just work on it after hours, like last time.”

The room barely reacted, but you felt the shift like a blade pressed against your skin. The way he said it—so casually, so naturally—it was almost as if the two of you had some kind of established dynamic. Like you were some seamless, perfectly functioning duo.

Which, you absolutely were not.

Your jaw clenched, hands curling into fists beneath the table. And then, just to drive the knife deeper, he added, “In fact, let’s get started tonight. Over dinner.”

Your head snapped toward him, but he didn’t even have the decency to look at you. He was still facing forward, still completely composed, as if he hadn’t just publicly tricked you into agreeing to spend more time with him.

Your teeth ground together as your boss nodded approvingly. You had no choice but to nod along, forcing a tight-lipped smile. “Sounds great.”

You could feel Kuroo’s eyes on you, the weight of his amusement pressing into your skin like an irritating heat you couldn’t shake. Your fingers curled around your notes, grip tightening as you fought the very real urge to smack that insufferable smirk right off his face. This bastard.

The shareholders murmured their satisfaction, the meeting officially winding down as the final notes were made. The conversation naturally shifted to small talk as people began gathering their things, but you were barely listening. Your mind was stuck in a loop, replaying the past minute over and over.

Another project. On short notice. With him.

And worse—

Over dinner.

You inhaled sharply through your nose, schooling your features into something neutral, something capable, because the last thing you needed was for Kuroo to see the way your pulse had spiked at the mere thought of spending another evening alone with him. You could already hear the smugness that would drip from his voice. The lazy, self-satisfied amusement. The way he’d push your buttons just enough to make you snap—because that’s what he did.

You should have argued more. Should have demanded proper work hours. Should have reminded your boss that he had hired you for legal work, not to babysit the marketing team. But instead, you sat there, forcing a strained smile while Kuroo all but preened beside you like a cat that had just caught a canary.

A chair scraped back beside you. He was standing. Stretching. As if he hadn’t just successfully trapped you into another night of torture disguised as collaboration.

“Looking forward to it, partner.”

The way he said partner made you want to throw something. Preferably his overpriced watch right out the nearest window.

He strolled past you, his confidence almost offensive, and you knew—you knew—that he was expecting a reaction. A flustered glare, a sharp retort, anything to fuel his amusement. But you weren’t going to give him the satisfaction.

You took a slow, calming breath and gathered your papers, pressing them together with deliberate patience. Kuroo was still lingering, just at the edge of your vision, but you refused to acknowledge him. If he thought you were going to give him what he wanted, he had another thing coming.

You stood, keeping your expression perfectly schooled, smoothing out your skirt like this was just any other normal meeting, like he hadn’t just completely thrown you off balance. Then, just as you turned to leave, you made the mistake of glancing up.

And there he was. Watching you.

Golden eyes, sharp and waiting. The barest trace of a smirk still pulling at his lips.

Something inside your stomach twisted—not in anger, not in frustration, but something dangerous. Something reckless.

You gritted your teeth, ignoring the traitorous warmth creeping up your spine, and turned sharply on your heel, storming toward the exit without a word.

Kuroo chuckled under his breath behind you, the sound deep and far too amused.

You were never going to survive this.

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: Iwaizumi

It was the dead of night. Your shared bedroom bathed in the night, light speckling from the nightlife in Tokyo. It was perfectly peaceful, and ever since you had found out you were pregnant with Hajime's child, was the perfect condition for you to have a restful sleep. The temperature exactly how you wanted it, the right amount of blanket, and of course, your sleeping husband's chest to rest your head. And yet, you lay wide awake.

You sigh, turning the other way, hoping it would magically put you to sleep. It didn't. All you could focus on was your stomach eating itself in hunger. You hadn't expected your appetite to increase this much so fast, but instead of eating for two you, it was more like a small villiage. You curse yourself, giving into temptation of the beast in your stomach and move to get up. "Hm? Where are you going?" Your husband's voice is rough with sleep as he squints at you. You look at him somewhat sheepily before whispering back, "I'm just getting something to eat, go back to sleep" With a kiss to his forehead. You, thinking that would be all, are shocked when you still feel his hand pulling you back. "Hold on." He grunts as he also moves to get out of bed. You're quick to stop him, "Oh, no you don't have to-"

"Can I not feed my wife and kid?" He asks gently in your ear, giving you a kiss on the side of the head before taking you to the kitchen, heart fluttering in your chest so hard you could feel it.

Husbandry: Oikawa

The first thing you register upon waking up is warmth. A steady, lingering heat against your back, an arm draped lazily over your waist, the rhythmic rise and fall of a chest pressed flush against you. The scent of something familiar—clean linen, faded cologne, a hint of salt from the sea breeze slipping through the open window—fills your senses. Oikawa’s grip tightens instinctively as you shift, pulling you impossibly closer, his face buried against the curve of your shoulder.

“Tooru,” you murmur, voice still thick with sleep.

A muffled groan is his only response. His body is heavy against yours, limbs tangled in a way that makes movement difficult. You try once more to shift, but his arms only tighten around your waist.

“Nope,” he grumbles, his voice rough from sleep. “No getting up yet. It’s illegal.”

You huff, already knowing how this is going to go. Sunlight spills in through the sheer curtains, painting the walls of your shared apartment in soft golden hues. The distant sound of life beyond the bedroom—muffled chatter from the streets below, the occasional car passing by, the faint melody of a street performer’s guitar—reminds you that the world is awake, moving. And yet, Oikawa remains completely unfazed, as if time doesn’t exist beyond the warmth of your shared bed.

“I have things to do,” you say, though your voice lacks conviction.

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Lies,” he mutters against your skin. “You have exactly one obligation today, and that’s to stay right here in bed with your incredibly handsome husband.”

You roll your eyes, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Is that so?”

“Mhm,” he hums, pressing a lazy kiss to your shoulder. “It’s scientifically proven that getting up too early makes you ten times more cranky.”

“More cranky?” you repeat, raising a brow. “Are you saying I’m cranky now?”

He hesitates.

“…No?”

You elbow him lightly, and he lets out a dramatic wheeze, flopping onto his back as if you’ve mortally wounded him. “Oh my god, the betrayal,” he groans, throwing an arm over his eyes. “I let you into my home, my heart, my bed—and you stab me in the stomach.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you say, but you’re already smiling.

“I’m wounded.”

“You’re fine.”

He peeks at you from under his arm, brown eyes still hazy with sleep but glinting with amusement. “You’re not even going to check?”

“I know you’re fine.”

He lets out another exaggerated groan before reaching for you again, pulling you back into his embrace. This time, you let yourself sink into his warmth, the sound of the city fading into the background. His fingers trace lazy patterns against your arm, absentminded, soothing. The morning breeze flutters through the curtains, carrying with it the scent of freshly baked bread from the bakery down the street, mingling with the salt-tinged air of Barcelona’s coastline.

“You really don’t wanna stay in bed with me?” he asks after a while, voice softer now, more genuine.

You sigh, pressing your cheek against his. “I do, but I also don’t want to waste the whole day.”

Oikawa scoffs, shifting to press a kiss to your temple. “It’s not wasting if we’re spending it together.”

“You always say that when you want me to be lazy with you.”

“Because it’s true,” he argues. “C’mon, just a little longer? Please?” He tilts his head, lips brushing against your jaw as he whispers, “For me?”

You groan, knowing you’re done for. Oikawa is many things—dramatic, annoying, way too smug for his own good—but he’s also incredibly hard to say no to, especially when he’s warm and sleepy and clinging to you like this.

“Fine,” you mumble. “But only for a little longer.”

A victorious grin spreads across his face as he pulls you flush against him, tangling your legs together under the sheets. “See? I always win.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And you love me.”

You roll your eyes but don’t bother denying it. Instead, you let yourself relax into his arms, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, the hum of the city outside, the quiet comfort of being wrapped up in him. The world can wait a little longer.

Maybe, just maybe, staying in bed with him isn’t the worst way to spend the day.

just a keiji doodle

Dry humping meian shugo 😈

Literally say less

--

Anon Asks: Meian (NSFW)

He was supposed to be working.

Head down, glasses sliding low on his nose, fingers tapping against the keyboard with focused precision. The glow from his laptop screen bathed him in blue light, casting shadows over the sharp line of his jaw, the furrow of his brow. His hair was slightly tousled from running his hands through it, tension in his shoulders from hours of sitting still. He hadn't said a word in over an hour, only the steady clack of his keys filling the quiet room.

And you couldn’t stop staring.

You’d tried to behave. Really, you had. But every time he shifted in his seat or exhaled through his nose in that sharp, focused way, it made heat curl low in your belly. You watched the way the muscles in his arms flexed with every movement, how his thigh bounced occasionally under the desk, thick and strong where it stretched the fabric of his joggers.

He was so close. So focused. So completely unaware of how much you were squirming on the couch across from him.

You padded over quietly, slipping behind him with a slow smile.

“Baby,” you whispered, hands gently landing on his shoulders.

He didn’t look away from the screen. “Working, sweetheart.”

You hummed, bending down to press a soft, lingering kiss to the side of his neck. “Thought I could help you relax.”

“You relaxing usually ends with me not getting anything done,” he muttered, though his voice had already dipped a little lower.

“Then you better finish fast,” you teased, sliding your hands down his chest.

Before he could argue, you climbed into his lap, straddling one of his thighs. You didn’t straddle him fully—just perched on the broad muscle of one leg, your arms wrapping loosely around his neck. His fingers paused above the keyboard as your weight settled over him.

“You're distracting,” he said flatly, but his hands found your waist anyway.

You leaned in and kissed him—soft and slow at first, lips brushing his with teasing patience until he tilted his head and deepened it. His tongue slid along yours, slow and claiming. You whined into the kiss, rocking your hips forward just slightly, testing.

The pressure was perfect.

Your thin shorts did nothing to hide how wet you already were. You could feel the fabric of his joggers rough against you in the best way, feel the strength in his leg as it tensed under your movement.

You rolled your hips again. His hands tightened on your waist.

“That needy, huh?” he murmured, breath hot against your lips.

You nodded, eyes glassy. “Please, Shugo.”

He exhaled slowly through his nose, jaw clenching. Then—

“Ride it. Go ahead. Take what you need.”

Your breath caught.

You started moving, slow at first, dragging your core along the firm curve of his thigh. The pressure, the heat, the drag of your slick fabric against the muscle he kept deliberately flexing—it sent shivers shooting up your spine. Meian tensed his thigh even harder, locking it in place, and you nearly cried out.

“There you go,” he muttered, voice like gravel. “You feel that? All for you, baby.”

Your nails dug into his shoulders as you rocked harder, faster, the friction building with every shift of your hips. You couldn't stop the sounds leaving your throat—little whimpers and gasps, punctuated by desperate moans every time he tensed his leg and gave you just a little more.

“Fuck,” you gasped, forehead pressing against his. “I’m gonna—Shugo, I’m…”

“Then do it,” he growled. “Make a mess on my thigh. Let me feel how much you want it.”

It snapped something in you.

You came with a high, breathy cry, body seizing up as pleasure exploded through your nerves. You rode it out, grinding helplessly through the aftershocks, fingers clutching at his shirt like you were afraid to let go.

He held you there, solid and unmoving, breathing heavy as he watched you fall apart.

But even as your body sagged against him, spent and shaking, you felt the tension still coiled in his muscles.

You felt the hard line of him pressing into your hip.

And then his hands were gripping your ass, pulling you against him with a growl.

“You think we’re done?” he muttered, low and dark.

He stood, lifting you effortlessly into his arms as your legs wrapped weakly around his waist.

“I let you come once. That was me being patient,” he said, mouth brushing your ear. “Now it's my turn.”

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?

Favourite Positions: Tendou

Of all the ways Tendou loved to fuck you, taking you from behind while standing was his absolute favorite.

It was the way you had to hold onto anything in front of you for dear life, your legs barely working as he pounded into you from behind. The way your ass bounced against his hips, how your body arched every time he drove deeper, filling you up so perfectly that your words turned to breathless gasps.

But the best part? The sounds you made.

Your moans were already deliciously wrecked, but what really did it for him was when you started whimpering his name.

“Satori—”

Tendou groaned, fingers digging into your hips, yanking you back onto his cock.

“Satori—oh my God—”

His grip tightened, and suddenly, his palm cracked against your ass, a sharp smack that had you gasping.

“Oh? What’s wrong, baby?” he taunted, grinning wickedly even as his thrusts didn’t slow. “Thought you were gettin’ all cocky earlier? What happened?”

You tried to respond, but it was impossible—he was fucking you too good, too deep, too fast, and all that came out was a choked moan.

Tendou loved it.

“Not so mouthy now, huh?” he teased, snapping his hips forward, grinding in deep, feeling you flutter around him. “Bet you thought you were gonna be in charge. So cute.”

You let out a frustrated little whine, your fingers clenching against the table in front of you, nails dragging against the surface as another sharp thrust stole your breath.

Still—you weren’t going down without a fight.

With whatever strength you had left, you tilted your head back just enough to meet his gaze over your shoulder, your eyes glassy but defiant as you bit out:

“Then—shut up and fuck me, Satori.”

Tendou froze for half a second—his cock twitching at your tone—before letting out a low, dark chuckle.

“Ohhh, you’re gonna regret that, sweetheart.”

His fingers slid up your spine, fisting in your hair, yanking your head back, forcing you to arch, forcing you to take him even deeper.

Then, he wrecked you.

His thrusts turned brutal, relentless, hitting that spot inside you over and over until your mouth fell open in a silent scream, pleasure crashing over you in waves.

Your legs buckled, but he held you up, laughing against your ear as you trembled, shaking apart in his grip.

“Satori—” you gasped again, your voice high, needy, broken.

“Oh yeah, baby,” he panted, grinning against your neck. “That’s what I wanna hear.”

And just to seal the deal, his hand snaked down between your legs, fingers rubbing your clit in messy, frantic circles—

And you shattered.

Your whole body locked up, your walls clenching so hard around him that Tendou groaned deep, his thrusts stuttering as he followed you over the edge, spilling inside you with a deep, shuddering moan.

For a long moment, all that was left was panting, shaking, the heat of his body pressed against yours.

Then, Tendou grinned against your skin, pressing lazy, teasing kisses along your shoulder.

“Still got somethin’ smart to say, babe?”

You tried—tried so hard—to come up with a response. But your brain was pure static, and all you could do was let out a soft, exhausted whimper:

“… Satori…”

Tendou laughed.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

Broken Telephone Pt.1

You talk too much and have no shame. You later find out Kugisaki can’t keep a secret.

Chaos ensues.

It was a normal day.

Well, as normal as it could be at a school for sorcerers.

You’d just finished a long, obscene amount of useless classes that in no way would help you in the future as you sat on the steps of the school’s entrance, feeling the sun hit your face. The spring weather was nice, sun shining and heat settling in, with cool breezes of wind to neutralize it. The sound of the wind through the trees was calming.

Even though you couldn’t hear any of it due to Kugisaki’s talking.

You didn’t mind it though. In a school with a shockingly small amount of students, and an even smaller first-year class, you liked the empty spaces to be filled with noise. Kugisaki and Itadori did that well.

The silence was boring anyway.

“-I swear he’s so childish, there’s a reason why girls don’t like him you know.” You zone in on her irritated voice, taking a sip from the drink you bought from the vending machine.

Ah right. She was complaining about Itadori. What about him, though, you couldn’t remember. Maybe it was about the sudden revival from the dead, but honestly, it’s a toss-up at this point.

“Girls don’t like him? I mean he’s childish sure, but they’re are plenty of girls who like that.” Despite the fiery personality of Kugisaki, you, on the other hand, were much the calmer side, more cool-headed you could say. Of course, there are moments where you lose said cool, but for the most part, you’d consider yourself a pacifist.

This is ironic considering your livelihood at the moment is killing curses.

Maybe that’s why you and Kugisaki got along so well. Well, that and the fact that you two were the only girls in first-year, and like she said, ‘Us girls gotta stay together. Can’t have the boys running the show’ which you do agree with. In the jujutsu world there aren’t many respected female sorcerers, and Kugisaki intends to change that. Along with Maki-senpai.

You found it admirable. But you personally wouldn’t go through the trouble. Fame and demanded respect from others you didn’t care about wasn’t something you were exactly interested in.

“Hah? Really? Well, would you date him?” You go to respond, but pause. She had a good point. Now, you didn’t have any problems with Itadori, even though he swallowed a special-grade cursed object, that was a little weird.

Okay, a lot weird.

But for the most part, he was just a friend. You did care a lot for him surprisingly when he ‘died’ you were sadder than you expected yourself to be, and a lot angrier when he was found alive, but honestly…

He simply didn’t do it for you.

“Nah, he isn’t my type.” You say causally, taking another sip of your drink. Kugisaki quirks her brow.

“What is your type then?” She asks, slyly studying you, probably trying to make sure that you don’t lie. Your form stays relaxed as you think about it. A person immediately pops in your head and without thinking you blurt it out.

“Someone like Fushiguro. How about you?” The sentence makes the chill atmosphere, or as chill as it could be with someone like Kugisaki, break in an instant.

“What?! You can’t just drop a bomb like that and try to pass it off!” Your eyes widen as she gets inches away from your face. The flame in her eyes was so close you could practically feel the heat coming off them.

“Fushiguro?! You like him?!” You start to sweat a little at the accusing tone in her voice, the pressure making your heart suddenly beat ten times faster. You could imagine this is how criminals feel when being interrogated.

“Uh… Yeah? I mean, what’s not the like? He’s attractive, smart, and puts himself before others.” You start to list off, stopping when you hear a ‘tch’ of disapproval. Honestly, you could’ve listed dozens of other reasons. Though you’ve only known him for a couple of months, you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t fallen hard, probably more than you’re letting on right now. You blush slightly at your thoughts, but Kugisaki doesn’t seem to notice.

“And I here I thought you had good taste. You’re into guys who act all high mighty, and who probably likes to light oil slicks on fire or kick stray cats when no ones watching. I can’t trust anyone these days.” Her voice turns dramatically sad, and you snort at the strangely detailed insult.

“I’m not saying I’m in love with Fushiguro, I’m just saying that he’s not bad to look at. That’s all.” Also wanting to be around him constantly, and get to look at him whenever I want.

Now, you don’t know whether this was a good trait or a bad trait, honestly, it was a gamble at times, but you’re comfortable, you’re absolutely shameless. And while it can be good in some situations, you’ll realize soon enough that this would be your downfall.

Kugisaki starts to make a lot of choked sounds, and before she dies of a heart attack, you decide to take the conversation off you. “Ok then, if I have shitty taste and you’re the queen in choosing partners, what’s you’re type?” Like a cartoon, her mood flips in an instant, and you listen to her ramble about her standards and how most people probably aren’t good enough for her. It was entertaining, to say the least, but when the sun started the set and the cooling breeze got uncomfortable, you both decided to call it night.

You didn’t think much of your confession, for lack of a better word. But little did you know that this ‘confession’ was going to bite you in the ass.

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.