Work Text:
Akaashi pushed the door to their empty apartment, threw his plastic bag of conbini food on top of the coffee table and crashed onto the sofa. He rubbed the entire expanse of his palms against his face, once, twice, paused, took a breath, screamed through them.
Only the whirr of the refrigerator answered him.
No one there to ask him what was wrong. No one to tell him a silly joke while plying him with kisses. No one to bitch at about his horrible day at work and then that person would tell him they liked how business-y and important he sounded and how that turned them on, then they’d get to their knees on the kitchen floor and unzip his fly and…
It had to be pretty bad if even sexual fantasies escaped his tight control to pervade his thoughts, especially since they would only serve to make him more miserable under these circumstances.
And it had been one bitch of a day.
First there had been the shareholders informing him they wanted to put an end to the branch he’d personally set up because, said they, their investment wasn’t yielding profit quickly enough. Short-sighted idiots; person to person service, Akaashi kept banging on to anyone who would listen, that was where the real money was at.
He’d already told them, he wasn’t starting that new branch for quick cash, but long-term investment. As time and technology went on, people would be more and more prepared to pay good money not to end up on a line with an unskilled rando following a Q & A flowchart.
Akaashi was good at problem-solving and helping people, and he’d wanted to pass on that knowledge, so he’d have at his disposal an empire of foot soldier clones ready to do the best possible work – oh god the possibilities alone could give him a boner, and some elements had already seemed promising, too.
But of course, in a brutal capitalist economy and unregulated markets, shareholders tended to be nervous and trigger-happy and would rather shoot themselves in the foot than wait anything out.
Entering the stock market had been a colossal mistake anyway, but they’d needed it to get Beijing, which was another fucking problem, because Beijing made him work with fucking Steve, pure product of nepotism and the dumbest, most obnoxious person he’d ever have the displeasure to meet, who thought community management was the same as web design was the same as IT and who thought Akaashi was thick for making the difference. Fuck Steve and his millionaire dad and everything they stood for.
So of course after that he’d had to make the announcement to his trainees himself, and he’d actually gotten along with some of them during the training course, like the very young and sweet Setoguchi and Hanekawa who was a bit weird but brilliant. That had gone as well as one could expect – they wouldn’t keep in touch.
Then he’d had lunch and there had been no trace of a hideously deformed Totoro made of rice and nori and a corny message written in ketchup and sausages beside it in his bentou, and their absence had made him feel terribly down somehow. In fact he’d had no bentou at all and had had to resort to conbini food like he did now for dinner.
Even going home had been shittier than usual: the platforms and trains had been packed with stupid tourists puttering about like slow, impolite, confused cows. He could have taken a taxi, you say, well of course, but it would have been, more or less, the same, and the reason for that, was the same reason why he hadn’t got a homemade bentou lovingly prepared for lunch, and the same reason why there was only their refrigerator to keep him company tonight: the fucking 2020 Tokyo Olympics.
Don’t get him wrong, he was proud that his husband was on the Olympic volleyball team, and he understood why it was more convenient for Bokuto to sleep at the athletes’ village for the whole duration of this ordeal, but his bitterness at absolutely everything in his life tonight didn’t have to be rational, fuck you very much.
He felt so cranky in fact he couldn’t bear to watch TV and try turning his brain off: news made him angry or depressed and everything else bored him.
So maybe he could go on Facebook and pick a fight with someone, or scrutinize other people’s photos and life choices and criticize them out loud.
He could start with criticizing his own life choices, he thought, logging on with his phone as he munched on a sickeningly greasy corndog, since the Olympics seemed to be the only topic of conversation these days. That didn’t improve his mood one bit.
Someone complained about how infernal commuting had become with the afflux of visitors and how they’d spent his whole trip home from work with their head shoved under some sweaty traveler’s armpit and Akaashi felt a small measure of Schadenfreude, which passed all too quickly.
He scrolled a bit more. Ah, he knew he could always count on Konoha: his former teammate from high school had posted one of the many pointless and absurd online psychology tests he had a knack for finding – perfect. Akaashi couldn’t wait to discover what kind of Ikea wardrobe or Sharknado character he was. At the very least it would kill time until he could lie down and stare at the ceiling in his ridiculously large bed. He opened a packet of brioche, stuffed his mouth and clicked on the link with a vengeful thumb.
His mood plummeted even further down when he discovered it wasn’t even an online test but some sort of randomizer put up as a joke by a romance author, entitled “What does your hero smell like?”. A blurb explained that romance novel male protagonists always smelled like manly and complex fragrances that usually went by two, and if you entered any name on the site, the randomizer would give you two fragrances associated with that name. Mainly, it served as a tool for the author to introduce her work, which, no matter how annoyed he felt at the lack of questions about his preferred type of underwear and his favourite Disney princess, Akaashi actually admired the promotional device, in a professional way. That was good viral communication at a minimum cost.
It wouldn’t kill as much time as he’d want but it was better than nothing: he typed a name and hit the randomizing button. “Bokuto Koutarou smells like rocks and wilderness”, said the reloaded page. Akaashi snorted; the description was surprisingly fitting. Bokuto and rocks certainly had a lot in common, and “wild” applied to him in more ways than one. Akaashi typed his own name next, just for comparison, not vanity. “Akaashi Keiji smells like Astroturf and efficiency”.
He blinked at his phone. Efficiency, he could get behind, but what was Astroturf again…? Was it that brand of lubricant? No, it was plastic grass, his Google search told him.
He didn’t have the time to decide if he was miffed or not by an algorithm telling him his name made him smell like plastic grass, because his phone screen suddenly darkened, announcing a call. His lips thinned and his eyes squinted in irritation when he saw the caller’s ID.
That idiot.
“It’s 10 pm, go to sleep, you have a match tomorrow,” he barked as soon as he picked up.
“Good evening, my amazing perfect husband, I love you, I can’t live if living is without you, and I hope your day was good.”
He sounded disgustingly cheerful, Akaashi noted. There you had it, the difference between them: while he’d spent a horrible day being lonely and down, Bokuto had been out there living his best life and not caring one bit. All evidence pointed to it: Akaashi needed Bokuto more than Bokuto needed him. ‘I can’t live without you’, what a joke, who was he trying to fool with his blatant lies. Or maybe he was simply rubbing it in. Akaashi could feel his natural viciousness taking over, weaving itself around his tongue, ready to spit out mean, hurtful words.
“I’m sorry I didn’t call earlier,” an oblivious but more subdued Bokuto added, just before Akaashi attacked.
Akaashi took a moment to spell out to himself that he was purposefully being twisted, and that he had to make a conscious effort to change his point of view. Bokuto loved him. There was not one sarcastic bone in his body, he wouldn’t recognize hidden motives if they floated in his morning cereals and if anyone had a dark, warped personality it was Akaashi and only Akaashi. He had to leave Bokuto out of his self-hating schemes -- his well-meaning husband had nothing to do with any of it.
“You didn’t call earlier because you have a match tomorrow and you’re busy,” he replied wearily. “Go to sleep. I’m hanging up.”
“Keiji, wait!”
“Koutarou, if the sacrifices I’m making right now don’t bring back gold for the Japanese team, I’ll make you sleep on the door mat for the rest of your life should you ever choose to show your face around here again.”
“Is it true? Is my absence such a big sacrifice to you?”
“I’m hanging up.”
“No, no, please Keiji, please don’t hang up. Of course we’ll get the gold, anyway, you know I’m the best.”
“I seem to recall Ushijima Wakatoshi scoring more points than you on your last match.”
“KEIJI that is SO LOW.”
“As was the number of your scoring points.”
“KEIiiiijiiiiii!”
Funny how his two-syllable name could sound just as drawn-out as his four-syllable surname when Bokuto whined at him like that. It wasn’t even 10% of how really mean he could get, he was down to merely teasing his husband by now, but the beast in him was satisfied. Besides, contrary to him, Bokuto seemed to be in high spirits, and these kinds of light jabs weren’t likely to change that. He authorized himself a little smile.
“How was your day?” he asked, relaxing a little. He also noted the question inexplicably sparked a warm feeling in him.
Oh. Domesticity. And they’d only been separated for two days, but it still seemed like an eternity. How much longer these cursed Olympics had to go on? He would die. He would positively and absolutely die.
“They made me room with Ushijima, and I don’t wanna be mean but that guy is super thick. I miss my nagging husband who makes jokes at my expense that I only understand several hours later. I’m not used to be the least thick person in the room, Keiji, it’s weird.”
“Poor baby. Don’t worry, you’re not as thick as Ushijima at his thickest, but you’ll always be the thickest to me.”
“You see, that’s what I’m talking about.”
Akaashi laughed despite himself. Bokuto was far from dumb, especially since he always seemed to circumvent all of Akaashi’s defenses. And he made it look so easy, too. It had to be exhausting. Bokuto was so good, he thought, and immediately felt a pang of deep longing. He made Akaashi want to be a better person. Damn it, his nerves must be really frayed, because he was starting to tear up. Actual goddamn tears. What the hell.
“I love you,” he said, because he had no choice. His voice sounded ridiculously strangled, even to his own ears.
“I know you miss me, Keiji, I’m sorry. I miss you too. Which is why I’m calling, by the way. Can you go to our room? There’s a surprise.”
Typical rollercoaster ride of having Bokuto Koutarou as a husband: Akaashi went from choked-up emotion to cold dread in ten seconds flat.
“What did you do,” he asked with barely concealed suspicion.
Bokuto laughed a little.
“Relax, there is no mariachi band involved this time. Go to our room, and get my gym bag under our bed.”
He entered their room and flipped the switch on cautiously, as though he was an extra in a horror movie. He was relieved to see there was indeed no mariachi band inside, and no giant cake hiding Kuroo freaking Tetsurou in a skimpy red bikini either. Phone tucked between his shoulder and ear, he still proceeded to fetch the gym bag with his senses on alert.
“Alright, I’ve got it.”
“Open it.”
“Koutarou, I swear to god, if there is any sort of jack-in-the-box or snake in a can of nuts in there, I’m gonna…”
“Oh my god I’m not seventeen anymore, give me a break and open up that bag!”
He took a breath and unzipped the bag in one go. Why would he feel disappointment at only finding gym clothes inside? Although, on closer look, there was indeed something special about one piece of clothing in there.
“This is your high school jersey.”
“Yup. I wore it during work-out three days ago.”
“Should I be concerned about this sudden nostalgia for your high school days, even though now you’re playing on the national team at the Olympics?”
“You always thought I looked good in it.”
“Well it’s quite a fetching uniform… and you certainly looked… captain-y. Ish. In it. Which is a nice look.”
“Yeah. What does it smell like?”
“What?”
“The jersey. What does it smell like?”
“Like skunk essence. No rocks and wilderness in there.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Why haven’t you put it in the wash?”
“I haven’t exercised too much in it, just sweated a little for a few minutes and then took it off to put another shirt on. I’ve really thought it all through, it’s all planned in advance, you’ll see, you’ll be proud of me. Strip.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Strip. Get naked, Keiji. I don’t know how to say it any other way.”
“Why?”
“It’s good, I promise.”
It was a testament to how much he trusted him that Akaashi was already down to his socks and trousers.
“Now what,” he said, once he was butt naked, all alone in his room.
“Put the jersey on.”
“What? No."
“Why not?”
“Because it’s gross.”
“It just smells like me, Keiji.”
“And then some.”
“Okay, so a more concentrated version of eau de moi, maybe. But it’s important for what I have planned. Pretty please? I mean you don’t have to if it really grosses you out, but…”
Back in high school, he used to be seen as the one who could keep Bokuto in check. The one who could stand up to him and nurture him without breaking him. Now that high school was way behind them, he could readily confess: it was all bullshit. He might have looked severe but fair, blunt but guiding to outsiders back then, but the truth was he could never really refuse Bokuto anything if he acted pressing enough. Good thing Bokuto hadn’t realized it then, but extremely worrying that he seemed to realize it now.
“If this is some sort of elaborate prank, I’ll kill you,” Akaashi muttered, throwing his phone on the bed to put the jersey on. Underneath the shirt, he also spotted a spare pair of Bokuto’s long kneepads. After a second of hesitation, he decided to put them on as well. Just out of curiosity. Bokuto didn’t have to know.
The elastic material didn’t feel tight enough around his legs. Maybe it had been stretched to its limits and deformed by Bokuto’s monstrous thighs. He shivered at the thought. He would give anything to have Bokuto here with him and those thighs on both sides of his head, pressed against his cheeks while he licked at his husband's cock like candy.
He peered down at himself. His very busy office job had made him lose a sizeable chunk of muscle mass so he was floating a little in the high school jersey, but in his defense, even in high school Bokuto had been really buff with ridiculously large shoulders.
The black kneepads on his pasty white legs looked quite nice though, topped by the beginning of an erection provoked by the thought of Bokuto’s thick thighs: it made for a very naughty picture from his point of view.
He pinched the collar and brought the fabric to his nose to sniff at it, then took deeper breaths. Bokuto was right, the smell wasn’t all that bad: a little too acidic and pungent, sure, but it did smell like him.
A bit dazed, Akaashi took the time to stroke the underlined number four on his chest before he went back to the phone. The sense of smell really was the most powerful of time machines.
“You took so much time, why did you take so much time!” Bokuto complained. “It doesn’t take that long to put on a t-shirt! Unless…”
Akaashi held his breath.
“Keiji, did you put on the kneepads as well?”
Akaashi swallowed, then said, with every scrap of dignity he could muster:
“So what if I did.”
He’d be damned if he didn’t hear a little breathy laugh at the other end of the line. That decided it. He would kill his husband, as an act of mercy, because obviously he didn’t need to live knowing that particular fetish of Akaashi', the secret would be too much of a burden for him in the long run, being brutally murdered was the only way he could finally be free of it, there was no other choice, so sad.
“It’s okay if you did, it’s perfect,” Bokuto replied quickly. “Can… can you send me a picture…?”
“Don’t push your luck,” Akaashi growled at the phone, and meant it.
“Okay okay. God, you must look so sexy though. Okay. Go get our toy box.”
Oh, so the game was sexual. Good thing he was already sporting a semi. In the toy box he found an unknown package, a new toy in plastic box that Bokuto had sneaked in there behind his back. The colours of the packaging seemed familiar; he turned the box around to see what it was, and nearly choked. Bokuto heard him splutter, and started laughing on the phone.
It was an anal fleshlight, nothing new here since they already owned a few, but what was shocking was the very official picture of his husband in his National volleyball team get up very officially printed on the industrial box. Which was why the colours looked so familiar: it was the colours of the National team’s uniform. “Ever dreamed of fucking a jock in the @$$?!? Then get ready to destroy this hunk’s anus” the box promised, which made Akaashi choke some more.
“What the fuck,” he managed to spit out.
Bokuto was laughing so loud it was causing static.
“Isn’t it amazing though? Don’t worry I never gave my authorization for this, it’s a completely unofficial Chinese bootleg. They just used one of my photos and printed it out on the box to give the impression it’s an actual model of my rectum somehow? Anyway, I’ve already threatened to sue and they’re discontinuing it. Keiji? Are you still there?”
Akaashi didn’t trust himself to speak. He’d taken the fleshlight out, a quite common, transparent model, and was staring at it, then at the box with Bokuto’s picture on it, then at it again, completely transfixed.
“Keiji…? Are you… are you mad?”
“Mad?” Akaashi finally snapped out of his reverie. “Mad? Are you kidding me of course I’m absolutely fucking furious!”
“I… I’m sorry I thought you’d find it…”
“I’m so fucking mad I didn’t get the idea first!”
Now it was Bokuto’s turn to be shocked into muteness.
“This is genius! I mean I’m also furious at the other thing too, how dare they pretend to own what’s mine, but if you think about it, it’s a brilliant product, you can sell any old fleshlight to a bunch of suckers with just a bit of packaging so they think they’re living the dream. There’s zero effort in it, look at it, there’s just your stupid mug slapped on it…”
“Hey! I’ll have you know my stupid mug sells really well…!”
That gave Akaashi reason to pause.
“Really?”
Granted, he was half-joking in his enthusiasm for the idea, but the tangible image of people in numbers buying this product only so they can pretend they’re fucking his husband was suddenly a little too real and not so funny to him anymore. The main concerned didn’t sound too traumatized, however.
“Yeah, really. And it’s got good reviews, too,” he crowed.
It was wildly inappropriate for Akaashi to feel so possessive. Bokuto’s consent was what was important, here, not Akaashi’s feelings. This was a violation of Bokuto’s image, in the most disturbing way. And Bokuto was laughing it off.
“Don’t… don’t you… mind?”
“I honestly don’t care. Like you said, it’s like any old fleshlight, it has nothing to do with me, and like I said, I’ve already put a stop to it. At any rate, only you know what it’s like to be inside me.”
Another pang of longing responded to that statement.
“So what do you want me to do with it?” asked Akaashi, even though he could guess at the answer.
“Why,” said Bokuto with a smile in his voice. “I want you to fuck it, of course.”
“You want me to fuck a Chinese bootleg of a fleshlight,” Akaashi reformulated in a flat tone. “What if there are weird chemicals in the silicone? I don’t want my dick to fall off.”
“The quality’s quite high, if you trust the online reviews.”
“You’ve… mentioned that.”
In order to have something to do with his hands which were getting restless, Akaashi ended up fingering the fleshlight’s hole. The inside felt soft, with a sort of bumpy texture.
“Positively raving. Ushijima’s one got significantly less stars in comparison. My plastic anus is super popular.”
Absent-minded, he watched his fingers going in and out through the translucent plastic. He had to say something. He popped them out.
“Stop it. I know you’re weirdly flattered for some reason, but, please… don’t… talk about it… too much. It doesn’t… really… sit well with me.”
There. It had taken a lot of courage to finally come up and say it out loud. Bokuto didn’t follow up with a question about whether Akaashi was jealous. He knew. And Akaashi bet he felt damned pleased about that too. He cleared his throat.
“So you want me to fuck it, is that all?”
“Oh, no. I want you to fuck it following my exact timing and instructions. Get some lube, and get comfortable, baby.”
He ended up choosing the sofa for their little kinky session on the phone, mainly because he’d calculated he’d feel too tired to change the bedsheets if things got messy and he didn’t want to sleep in a wet spot, and the fake leather material of the sofa was easier to clean quickly (he should know, he and Bokuto had baptized it a good number of times already).
The only disadvantage was how sticky the material felt against his bare ass, but he could cope. He sniffed at the jersey’s fabric again. The more time passed the more he got used to the smell -- kind of liked it, even. Warmed up by his body, it smelled more and more like the real thing, especially after a bout of intense sex.
“Are you hard yet?”
“Mm. Getting there.”
“Why don’t you help it along?”
“Way ahead of you,” he said, lazily stroking himself in a loose fist.
“Use the lube, put the phone close to it, let me hear.”
“No.”
“Let me hear your filthy noises Keiji,” Bokuto said, voice hot and terribly close all of a sudden. “Slick you cock up and fuck your fist on the phone, I wanna hear.”
“Good god,” Akaashi whispered. He couldn’t believe he married such a pervert. Just like he couldn’t believe he was actually doing as he was told.
He put the shirt’s collar over his nose, closed his eyes, breathed in Bokuto’s scent and lubed himself up so much that the wet noises he produced, as he rubbed and squeezed more vigorously, got way too loud, even to his own ears.
As the rubbing turned a little too good, he cracked his eyes open: his dick stood proudly, all shiny and blushing red. That should be enough. He pulled the jersey off from his face and brought the phone back to his ear:
“So?” He asked a little out of breath, and felt rewarded when Bokuto sounded just as wound up as he was when he replied:
“Fuck. Fuck, Keiji. That was so hot. You’re so fucking hot. You made me so fucking hard just by listening to you and I can’t even relieve myself right now.”
He’d better not tell him he was in public right now.
“Where are you?”
“I’m calling from a quiet corner behind one of the buildings but I’m pretty sure it would be bad press if I were caught with my hand down my pants -- even though I’d be innocently jerking off to my sexy, lawfully-wedded husband on the phone. So yeah, I can’t do anything.”
“Good.”
“Keiiiijiiiiii don’t say that, I’m so hard it hurts!”
Akaashi had an idea. He aimed his phone’s camera at the lower half of his body, snapped a picture, sent it. He heard the faint beep of a received text on the other end, followed a few seconds later by Bokuto’s cry of anguish:
“KEIJI THAT IS NOT FAIR!"
“Serves you right.”
“Whatever happened to not pushing my luck? You’re sending dick pics now? Who are you, what have you done to my demure, shy, butter-wouldn’t-melt husband?”
“One he never existed, two, I’ve changed my mind, so what. Also maybe butter wouldn’t melt but your cock in my mouth certainly would,” Akaashi added, relishing the dirty talk.
He stretched out luxuriously, feeling like a cat in heat, his hard dick bobbing against his stomach.
“Holy shit I’ve created a monster.”
“And you’re not here to make me put money where my mouth is, pity,” he said with just a tad of passive-aggression. He was allowed. He was lonely and horny and had had a shit day; let Bokuto spoil him, for once.
“Oh, don’t worry, I’ll get back at you for that. Now take the fleshlight, squeeze some more lube inside and then you can stick your junk in it. But you have to go as slowly as you can.”
“What guarantee do you have that I won’t cheat and do it the way I want?” Now he was being bratty but he wanted to see how much further he could push Bokuto. His answer didn’t disappoint:
“First, because you want to feel good and you know I can do that for you. You leave the responsibility of making you come harder than you’d ever do it your own to me, Keiji. And second…”
Bokuto paused for effect, drama queen that he was, and surprised Akaashi with a much deeper, more severe tone with just a hint of threat when he finished:
“Believe me, I’ll know.”
Akaashi wouldn’t define himself as a submissive. He wouldn’t, and yet, from time to time, he just wanted to roll over and gladly present his tender underbelly to Bokuto’s more dominating streak.
He might have been a bit too enthusiastic about squeezing lubricant inside the toy because it was close to dripping all over his lap when he turned it upside down to place its entrance against his tip. He pushed down, and there definitely was too much lube in there, because his whole glans slipped right in before he could even stop it.
“Keiji… you’re going too fast. Much, much slower.”
“How did you… right, never mind.”
He tried to focus on easing his length in half a centimeter at a time, dragging the underside against the bumpy texture on the inside and feeling each and every of those bumps, but Bokuto chose his moment to break his concentration:
“So? How do you like me so far? Am I good?”
He hadn’t realized he’d been sweating profusely. He propped the phone against his ear with his shoulder and grabbed a bit of jersey to wipe at his wet brow while he gave a noncommittal “mmh” in reply.
“That good huh,” Bokuto laughed. “All slippery and open for you. Go slower, Keiji, you know I like it when you take your time, feel me, take me, I’m here with you.”
Akaashi closed his eyes, isolating Bokuto’s voice, his smell, and tried to associate these senses to the tight textured channel around his cock. The illusion was far from perfect, but he could believe it. Yeah. Yeah. Bokuto was here.
He bottomed out before he knew it.
“I’m all in,” he announced, voice tight with effort.
“Well done, beautiful. You did good, I’m so proud. Now back out, just as slowly.”
Akaashi cried out in protestation, he wanted to get started for real, but Bokuto hushed him and then encouraged him.
The slow pull out was just as torturous as the push in; it was like a sexual version of Sisyphus’ plight. Bokuto made him repeat that a few times, right to the brink of madness, until he told Akaashi to stop when only about the last few inches of his dick were still in:
“Now, Keiji, you can go a little quicker, but just on those last inches to the tip. Small moves, constant stimulation, okay? Do it.”
The change of pace was a relief, but it was also bringing Akaashi closer to climax… which Bokuto hadn’t forbidden in so many words, but Akaashi knew it would precipitate the end of their session.
He wanted to come, sure, but he also wanted to stay with Bokuto instructing him in his ear like this, giving him the sensation of floating away in his own body, all pretense of control relinquished. Thankfully, Bokuto never stopped with his filthy monologue which made his whole body shiver and his nipples harden:
“Like that, Keiji, you’re doing great. Milk it, yeah, that’s right. I can feel it, every rub, every twitch in me of the most sensitive part of your cock. I love that you take pleasure out of using me. Okay; next stroke, I want you to fuck me, all the way, one stroke, as hard and swiftly as you can. Can you do that, Keiji?”
Akaashi sobbed his consent as he simultaneously slammed the toy down the length of his overstimulated prick.
“Again. Again. Yes Keiji, yes my love, you know how good it is for me? Now sheathe yourself all the way in and stop, keep completely still.”
The command was the worst so far but he couldn’t help but obey. He was weeping, honest-to-god streams of tears running from his closed lids along his cheeks and he couldn’t stop sniffling and whimpering softly.
“Shh, shhh, I know Keiji, I know, I’ll let you get what you want soon, I promise.”
The only problem was that he wasn’t sure what he wanted.
“Okay, now I want you to squeeze the fleshlight in your hand, from time to time. And I want you to describe what you’re feeling to me."
This was amazing, Bokuto thought. When he’d set up his little plan he’d never thought in a billion years it would meet with such success. He wasn’t half the genius evil mastermind his husband was, but he felt so good about himself right now he reckoned he was close to about a good quarter of it, maybe.
Akaashi was making sex noises he’d almost never heard before; he had to be in a highly emotional state if his usual self-control had shattered so easily. The best part had been the adorable high-pitched little cries he’d been rewarded with when he’d told Akaashi to milk his cock with the fleshlight – so fucking hot.
A group of rowdy athletes passed nearby; he chanced a nervous look around the corner wall. It was okay; just a bunch of cheerful drunks who couldn’t see him from where they were and would be too drunk to spot anything suspicious anyway.
How awkward would it be if anyone found him lurking in the shadows and pitching an enormous tent in his Olympic tracksuit trousers… He could easily sneak a hand in there, though, simply squeeze a bit a few times and he was sure he could come quickly; he was so close already…
No, no, no, he admonished himself, no creepy public wanking in the middle of the athletes’ village, he’d simply have to wait until it passed, maybe exercise a bit to let off steam and tire himself out before going back to dullest thickest Ushijima, ugh. Yeah that would also serve to kill his boner, perfect.
From the noises on the phone, Akaashi had stopped sniffling, and was now taking a few breaths before he felt confident enough to start talking again:
“You… You feel tight. Alive. You’re squeezing me…”
“Why am I doing that?”
“Because you want to please me. Because you love me. It’s so good, your body is amazing, you’re… you’re…”
“I’m…?”
“You’re here with me.”
He bit his lower lip to stop himself from turning all tearful and sappy. Yeah, so he also was feeling very emotional, tonight. Weird. He cleared his throat.
“I’m here, Keiji. You can move it again. Quick, small moves at the tip of your dick like we did earlier, and then slam in. Repeat as much as you want, at the rhythm of your choosing.”
“Koutarou”, Akaashi cried with urgency. It was a bit muffled, like he was speaking through fabric.
“Yes, Keiji. Take what you want. Take what you need.”
He greedily took in all of his husband’s cries, all his grunts, his moans, they went straight to his dick. He was giving himself the most epic case of blue balls, but it was worth it. Akaashi was worth it.
“Koutarou, I love you.”
He said it like he was about to die; Bokuto hanged onto his phone with both hands and replied he loved him too. It was all so intense. He could picture Akaashi as he got closer and closer to orgasm; the muscles on his stomach and his ass contracting under the skin, his legs trembling, his cheeks wet, red, his eyes and lips glistening…
“Koutarou, I’m… I’m…”
“Yes, my love. Come. Come for me, come inside me.”
It wasn’t an explosion: just a small, out-of-breath cry. Almost a sigh.
Bokuto didn’t dare to speak, barely dared to breathe. He waited as long as he could, to give Akaashi some space to get himself back together. Akaashi was first to break the silence:
“I’m not fucking that one again any time soon. Now there’s too much emotional baggage attached to it. Stupid fucking Chinese bootleg of a random plastic anus with your stupid mug on it."
Bokuto giggled softly.
“You love my stupid mug.” An image formed in his mind. “Tell you what though. When I’m back, I’ll let you fuck the real deal any which way you want, as long as you want, while I’m wearing the Olympic gold medal.”
“Oh fuck yes,” Akaashi breathed, then fell silent.
“Keiji…? Are you okay?”
Akaashi took a little time to answer.
“I’m fine. I’ll be fine. I’m… let me say this once and for all, even though we both know it, but I miss you very much, and I’m sad when you’re not around.”
Bokuto slapped his forehead.
“Oh, shit! I forgot to ask! I’m so sorry Keiji!”
“What? What did you…”
“How was your day?”
A peal of laughter from Akaashi: rich, genuine. Bokuto loved to hear it.
“It was absolute shit, if you really want to know. But I’ve just taken a decision.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m not going to work tomorrow. That’s right, fuck those clowns, I’m calling in sick, and I’m going to come and see you at your match, in person, not on television.”
Bokuto's jaw dropped in shock.
“But, Keiji, your work is your whole life, you’ll die if you don’t go and then you’ll be even more cranky like when you’re sick for real and I have to forcefully keep you in bed and you bitch at me the whole time…”
“You know full well who’s my whole life and I’m going to see him play volleyball tomorrow even though he doesn’t deserve me,” bitched a cranky Akaashi on the line.
“Okay then,” said Bokuto. Happiness was bubbling in him and around him like a champagne aura.
“Now go to sleep. I’m tired too. Someone has completely fucked me out, I barely have the energy to clean myself up and let me tell you I’m a mess. It’s fucking disgusting.”
Bokuto giggled again, mentally patting himself on the back.
“Will you really be okay, Keiji?” He asked again, just to be sure. He shouldn’t have done.
“Well I have a stinky jersey with me, it smells like someone I like, skunk essence and semen and rocks and wilderness. I’ll make a pillow wear it, stick a wig of ludicrous black and white hair on top of it and a fleshlight at the bottom, and call it my new husband. We’ll be very happy together.”
In the following morning, a few athletes complained about the weird scream that resonated around their block and woke them up that night, something that kind of sounded like the screech of a bird of prey. An owl, maybe.
“KEIIIIIIIJIIIIIIII!”