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The apartment looked like a craft store exploded. Streamers drooped from the ceiling at awkward angles, balloons were taped to the wall with strips of duct tape (because apparently scotch tape was too weak for Bokuto’s “VISION”), and the dining table was so packed with snacks it looked like they’d raided three convenience stores.
Bokuto, naturally, was at the center of it all—beer in one hand, slice of cake in the other, arm thrown over Kuroo’s shoulder as he shouted about how “THIRTY-ONE IS THE NEW TWENTY-ONE, BABY!” His laugh carried through the room, bright and unrestrained, like it always did.
Akaashi leaned against the wall, glass in hand, watching. He’d given up trying to fix the decorations hours ago. It wasn’t worth fighting Bokuto’s enthusiasm when he was like this. Besides… it was his birthday. Akaashi let him have the crooked streamers.
Bokuto caught him staring. “KEIJI!” he bellowed, nearly toppling poor Konoha with the force of his arm. “Come over here, babe, you’re too far away!”
Akaashi sighed, but the corner of his mouth tugged up. He made his way over, dodging balloons on the floor. Bokuto immediately pulled him in, pressing a frosting-smeared kiss against his cheek.
The crowd—mostly ex-teammates and a couple of Bokuto’s gym buddies—hooted. Konoha made gagging noises, Hinata clapped like he was at a match, and even Kuroo shouted, “Get a room!”
Bokuto only grinned wider, smearing more cake on Akaashi’s cheek on purpose. “It’s my BIRTHDAY, I get to do what I want!”
Akaashi calmly plucked the plate from his hand and set it on the table before the cake hit the carpet. “Yes, and what you want is apparently to ruin the sofa with buttercream.”
Bokuto gasped dramatically. “How dare you! You can’t be mean to me on my special day, Keiji!”
“You’ve been reminding me it’s your special day since midnight,” Akaashi replied.
“Exactly!” Bokuto beamed. “And it’s not over yet!”
The party carried on like that—loud, chaotic, full of laughter. There was karaoke (Bokuto screamed into the mic until Konoha wrestled it out of his hands), a failed attempt at beer pong (Hinata spilled half a cup on the rug), and a moment where Bokuto tried to balance three balloons on his head while Akaashi pinched the bridge of his nose in silence.
By the time midnight rolled close, most of the guests had filtered out, muttering thanks for the food and promising to see him soon. The apartment quieted, though not by much—Bokuto was still buzzing, pacing the living room with messy hair and frosting on his shirt, looking like a kid who’d just had his first taste of sugar.
The apartment was a mess. Half-eaten plates of karaage, empty beer bottles rolling on the floor, frosting smears on the coffee table, and one balloon tragically deflated in the corner.
Akaashi moved like clockwork, gathering trash into a bag. He knew better than to wait until morning—Bokuto’s idea of “cleaning” was shoving everything into a corner and declaring victory.
Meanwhile, Bokuto was sprawled across the couch like a corpse, legs dangling over one armrest, arms flung wide. “Keijiii,” he whined, voice rough from yelling karaoke. “Why are you cleaning when we could be cuddling?”
“Because I like being able to walk through the living room without stepping on potato chips.”
Bokuto rolled over dramatically, landing face-first into a pillow. His voice came out muffled, “You’re so cold to me. On my birthday.”
“You’ve said that five times in the last hour.”
“It’s true five times,” Bokuto shot back, peeking one eye open. “I can’t believe you… my own boyfriend… didn’t even get me a present.”
Akaashi stilled, just for a second, before continuing to pick up bottles. “Mm.”
Bokuto sat up, hair sticking out in every direction, and pointed an accusing finger. “You thought I’d be distracted, huh? By karaoke? By balloons? By the fact that Hinata kept dropping chips down his shirt? WRONG. I notice these things, Keiji. I’m observant.”
Akaashi raised an unimpressed brow. “This from the man who didn’t realize his shirt was inside out for half the party.”
Bokuto froze. Looked down. Froze again. “…That was a fashion statement.”
“Mm.”
“You’re deflecting!” Bokuto cried, stumbling off the couch to follow Akaashi into the kitchen. “Where is it? Huh? Is it hidden? Did you put it in the fridge? Oh my god, is it cake—”
Akaashi turned, setting down the trash bag with deliberate calm. His eyes glinted in that dangerous, Akaashi-is-about-to-ruin-me way that made Bokuto’s brain short-circuit.
“Sit,” Akaashi said, voice smooth as silk.
Bokuto blinked, immediately plopping onto the nearest chair like a scolded golden retriever. “…O-Okay.”
Akaashi’s smile was faint. “Who said I didn’t get you a present?”
Bokuto’s whole body lit up like a firework. “Wait. WAIT. You DID?! Where?! Where is it?! Tell me—”
Akaashi leaned down, lips brushing Bokuto’s ear, voice low enough to send a shiver down his spine. “Be patient, Koutarou.”
Bokuto almost levitated out of his chair.
Bokuto practically vibrated in the chair, gripping the edge like a kid waiting for cake. His eyes darted around the room as if a giant present box was going to fall from the ceiling.
“Keiji, is it… a new volleyball?!” He gasped. “No—no, wait. A protein powder subscription?! Oh my god, you got me the jumbo size, didn’t you?!”
Akaashi calmly stacked plates in the sink, unbothered. “Mm. Interesting guesses.”
Bokuto leaned forward, whispering like he was in on a conspiracy. “…Is it a puppy?”
“No.”
“Two puppies??”
“No.”
Bokuto’s eyes widened with sudden inspiration. “OH. OH! You got me a lifetime supply of karaage, didn’t you?!”
Akaashi finally turned, towel draped over his shoulder, expression completely neutral. “Do you really think I’d reward you with food after you left frosting on the sofa?”
Bokuto slapped a hand over his chest, staggering like he’d been shot. “Keiji! On my birthday!”
“You’re very dramatic for thirty-one.”
“Thirty-one and FABULOUS,” Bokuto corrected, flipping his messy hair with flair. “But also thirty-one and GIFTLESS, apparently.”
Akaashi stepped closer. Slow. Dangerous. Each step made Bokuto sink further into the chair, until his head tilted back just to keep eye contact.
“You think I didn’t get you anything?” Akaashi asked quietly.
Bokuto gulped, nodding furiously. “I—I mean… maybe you did, but you’re being all mysterious, and my heart can’t take this, Keiji. What if I die before I get my present?!”
Bokuto was still babbling theories—“Is it a puppy? A karaoke machine? A signed Oikawa jersey??”—when Akaashi finally silenced him by placing something soft in his hands.
Bokuto blinked down at it. “…Uh. Keiji? Why did you hand me a… scarf?”
“Not a scarf.” Akaashi’s voice was smooth, low. “A blindfold.”
Bokuto’s jaw dropped. “A—” His voice cracked like he was back in puberty. “Wait. WAIT. Are we—oh my god. Oh my god. Keiji. Keiji. KEIJI.”
“Put it on.”
Bokuto scrambled so fast he almost tied it upside down. Darkness swallowed his vision, and his other senses went into overdrive—the sound of Akaashi’s measured footsteps, the quiet rustle of fabric, the faintest brush of fingers at his shoulder.
“Keiji?” His voice shook, not from fear but anticipation. “What’s happening?”
“Guess,” Akaashi murmured.
Then Bokuto felt his hands being guided—Akaashi’s slim fingers wrapping around his wrists, placing his palms firmly against his body.
And—oh. Oh.
Silk. Lace. Straps that made no logical sense but felt like heaven under his fingertips.
Bokuto’s brain blue-screened. “KEIJI??!!”
“Keep guessing.”
His hands slid over Akaashi’s chest, down his waist—lace edges, soft stockings, the faintest bow tied at his hip. Bokuto’s breath hitched so hard it came out a wheeze.
“You—” His voice cracked again, panicked, reverent. “You’re—lingerie? You’re in—LINGERIE?!”
Akaashi hummed. “Mm. You sound surprised.”
“Surprised?! Keiji, I’m about to ascend! You—you’re—holy shit—this is better than puppies!” Bokuto clutched at him like he was going to float away. “This is the BEST PRESENT EVER—”
Akaashi leaned down, brushing his lips against Bokuto’s ear. “You haven’t even unwrapped it yet.”
Bokuto nearly screamed.
Bokuto’s hands roamed clumsily, fingertips brushing lace and ribbons like he was discovering treasure. He gasped every two seconds like each inch of Akaashi’s outfit was a new revelation.
“KEIJI. KEIJI. THIS IS—wait, is that a bow?!” He tugged lightly at something on Akaashi’s hip and squealed. “It IS! You’re like—a sexy Christmas present!”
Akaashi deadpanned, “Your volume control is nonexistent.”
“I can’t CONTROL it!” Bokuto flailed, still blindfolded, nearly knocking over a chair. “Keiji, there are—are straps! I can feel straps! How many straps do you have on right now?!”
“Enough.”
Bokuto whined dramatically. “That’s not an answer! Is it like, a million? Are you in one of those—what’s it called—harness thingies?!”
“Mm. Warmer.”
“WARMER?!” Bokuto shook his head violently, blindfold flopping around. “Keiji, I’m sweating. You’re killing me. Oh my god—are these stockings?! With the little lace edge?!”
“You tell me.” Akaashi guided his hands lower, letting Bokuto’s fingertips brush the band at his thigh.
Bokuto screamed. “STOCKINGS. KEIJI IS IN STOCKINGS. OH MY GOD. OH MY GOD.”
Akaashi sighed, though the corner of his mouth curved up. “You’re acting like I handed you front-row tickets to the Olympics.”
“This is BETTER than the Olympics! This is—this is—KEIJI IN STOCKINGS.” Bokuto slammed his fist against the table for emphasis and immediately regretted it when he knocked over an empty beer bottle.
Akaashi didn’t even flinch. He just tilted his head, voice soft and dangerously smooth. “Would you like to guess the color?”
Bokuto froze. His voice dropped to a reverent whisper. “…Black. It has to be black.”
Akaashi hummed. “Mm. You’re learning.”
For once in his life, Bokuto went quiet.
No squeals, no dramatics—just shallow, shaky breaths as his hands moved over every inch Akaashi guided him to. His palms dragged over smooth silk stretched across Akaashi’s chest, tracing the outline of lace straps that clung to his shoulders. Fingers wandered lower, gripping his waist, squeezing just enough to make Akaashi’s breath catch—not that Bokuto noticed. He was too far gone.
When his hands cupped Akaashi’s ass, Bokuto froze. Squeezed. Froze again.
“Oh my god,” he whispered, finally breaking the silence. His voice cracked like glass. “Oh my god.”
Akaashi tilted his head, watching with sharp eyes as Bokuto squeezed again—testing, reverent, like he couldn’t believe Akaashi was letting him. His hands slid lower, kneading at strong thighs wrapped tight in those stockings, fingertips trembling as they brushed the garter straps holding them in place.
“…You’re shaking,” Akaashi murmured.
“I’m—” Bokuto’s words stuttered out, helpless. “Keiji. I can’t—” His fingers dragged up again, chest, waist, ass, thighs, like he needed to memorize all of it at once. “I can’t even—”
Akaashi’s lips brushed his ear, soft and merciless. “Can’t what?”
Bokuto let out a noise so broken it wasn’t even a word. His forehead pressed against Akaashi’s shoulder, blindfold damp with sweat.
“Keiji, you’re—” His breath came ragged, desperate. “You’re so—so—”
Another squeeze. Harder this time. Both hands digging into him like he couldn’t get enough.
Akaashi smirked, low and dangerous. “You really are thirty-one going on fifteen.”
Bokuto groaned, muffled against his shoulder, hands roaming without restraint now—palming his chest, sliding down his stomach, gripping his ass again, thighs, everywhere.
Every inch of Akaashi was his, and he still acted like it wasn’t enough.
Bokuto was sweating. Not from the party, not from the beer—this was something else entirely. His hands wouldn’t stay still, wandering up Akaashi’s ribs, squeezing his waist, skimming down over the curve of his ass like he was starved for touch.
Every squeeze, every shiver made him bite back words. Normally he’d be screaming about how hot Akaashi looked, how this was the greatest thing in the history of birthdays, but now? Now, blindfolded and drowning in lace and silk under his palms—he was speechless.
“Mm,” Akaashi hummed, almost bored. “You’re unusually quiet.”
Bokuto’s breath hitched, chest rising fast against him. He wanted to say something—wanted to yell, wanted to praise, wanted to worship—but all that came out was a low, desperate groan.
Akaashi’s fingers brushed under his chin, tilting his head up. “Cat got your tongue?”
Bokuto whined. A full-on whine. He shook his head, jaw working like words might fall out, but nothing came. His hands dragged over Akaashi’s thighs again, squeezing hard like he could anchor himself, then sliding up—waist, ribs, chest—everywhere he could reach, trembling.
“You’re trying so hard to behave.” Akaashi’s tone was soft, teasing, like he was talking to a child. “Is that it?”
Bokuto nodded helplessly. His grip tightened on Akaashi’s hips, knuckles white.
“Because it’s your present.”
Another frantic nod.
“And you don’t want to ruin it.”
Bokuto made a strangled sound—half whimper, half plea. His forehead pressed against Akaashi’s chest, the blindfold slipping slightly as he tried to hold still, but his hands betrayed him—sliding down again, cupping his ass, squeezing harder this time.
Akaashi chuckled low, dangerous. “You’re failing.”
Bokuto’s whole body shuddered.
Akaashi’s hands slid down, catching Bokuto’s wrists mid-squeeze. He held them there, firm but calm.
“Your self-control is pathetic.” His voice was silk and steel, smooth enough to make Bokuto shiver.
“I—I can do it, Keiji, I swear—” Bokuto’s words tumbled out too fast, too desperate.
“Mm. I don’t think so.”
Before Bokuto could argue, Akaashi tugged him forward, pulling the scarf-blindfold loose from his neck. Not off his eyes—not yet. Instead, he wrapped it around Bokuto’s wrists, binding them tight. The knot cinched in seconds, efficient, merciless.
Bokuto sucked in a breath so sharp it was almost a choke. His bound hands twitched, testing the tie. “Keiji.” His voice cracked. “Oh my god. Keiji.”
“Now,” Akaashi said softly, leaning close enough for his lips to brush Bokuto’s ear, “you’ll have to sit still. If you really want your present.”
Bokuto groaned, head falling back against the chair. He couldn’t grab, couldn’t squeeze, couldn’t touch. His whole body arched like he was fighting invisible restraints.
And then—quiet. Just the faintest whisper of silk, the sound of straps shifting as Akaashi adjusted himself. He was showing off, Bokuto could feel it even without sight.
“Keiji—please—” Bokuto’s voice was shredded now, nothing like his usual booming volume. “Please, I can’t—”
“Patience.”
Bokuto whimpered, blindfold damp against his lashes. He tugged at the bindings, shaking, muscles taut with the effort not to break.
And then—
The blindfold slipped away.
Light flooded his vision, and Bokuto saw.
Akaashi standing before him in black lace and silk, stockings hugging strong thighs, straps hugging his waist, bows sitting pretty where Bokuto’s fingers had fumbled moments ago. Cool, composed, utterly devastating.
Bokuto’s jaw fell open. His entire soul left his body.
“…Holy shit,” he breathed. No shouting, no dramatics. Just reverence.
Akaashi tilted his head, calm as ever. “Better than puppies?”
Bokuto almost cried. “Better than everything.”
Bokuto’s wrists strained against the knot, muscles flexing, desperate to touch. He didn’t even realize he was rocking in the chair until Akaashi slid one knee over his thigh and straddled him, slow, deliberate.
Bokuto’s breath left him in a rush. “Keiji—oh my god—”
“Don’t move.” Akaashi’s voice was steady, cool, like he was giving a note at work. His body, though, told another story—silk and lace shifting against Bokuto’s jeans, the faint scrape of garters against his skin.
Bokuto’s eyes were wide, pupils blown. He tugged at the bindings again, groaning low in his throat. “Keiji, please, let me—let me touch you—”
“No.” Akaashi leaned forward, palms braced on either side of Bokuto’s head. “You’re going to sit there and behave.”
Bokuto whimpered. Loudly.
Akaashi rolled his hips once, slow and devastating. Bokuto nearly blacked out. His head thunked back against the chair, jaw slack, a strangled noise tearing out of his throat.
“Keiji—”
“Quiet.”
And somehow, impossibly, Bokuto obeyed.
He sat there trembling, wrists straining against silk, chest heaving, eyes locked on Akaashi’s body as if he could devour him with sight alone. His hands twitched uselessly in his lap, and it was killing him—because he was a man built to touch, to grab, to hold, and now he couldn’t.
Akaashi leaned closer, lips brushing Bokuto’s ear. “Look at you. Falling apart without even being touched.”
Bokuto’s answering noise was broken, needy, almost a sob.
Akaashi smiled faintly, cruel and soft all at once. He dragged one of Bokuto’s bound hands upward, guiding it until his knuckles brushed over lace covering his chest. Just barely—just enough to let him feel.
“Guess again,” Akaashi whispered.
Bokuto lost the last of his words, gasping like he’d forgotten how to breathe.
Akaashi held Bokuto’s bound wrists steady, letting his fingertips skim lace, bow, strap—never enough, always fleeting.
“Mm,” Akaashi hummed, pretending to think. “What do you feel?”
Bokuto’s voice broke. “S-soft. Lace. You—you’re—Keiji—”
“That’s not an answer.”
Bokuto whined, frustrated, hips shifting helplessly under Akaashi’s weight. “You’re—ah—wearing… lace on your chest?”
“Correct.” Akaashi’s smirk deepened, but he didn’t reward him. He only dragged Bokuto’s hands lower, brushing them over the curve of his waist.
“And here?”
Bokuto gulped, groaning as his fingers traced over thin straps and silk. “Straps—oh my god, so many straps—” His head tipped back, blind devotion in his eyes. “Keiji, there’s so many, I can’t—I don’t even know where they end.”
“Mm. You don’t need to.”
Akaashi moved his hands again, sliding them down until his knuckles grazed the garter belt, the stocking edge tight around his thigh.
Bokuto choked. “Stockings. You’re—you’re in stockings. Black. With lace. Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit—”
Akaashi tilted his head, watching him unravel. “You sound overwhelmed.”
“I am overwhelmed!” Bokuto burst out, then immediately bit his lip like he’d said too much. His chest heaved, wrists twitching against the knot. “Keiji, I can’t—please, I can’t—”
Akaashi leaned closer, lips brushing his ear. “You’re not even touching me. And still you’re falling apart.”
Bokuto whimpered, muscles trembling, thighs straining under Akaashi’s weight.
“Should I stop?” Akaashi asked, voice featherlight, cruel in its calm.
“No!” Bokuto shouted, panic in his voice. Then quieter, broken: “Please don’t. Please, Keiji. I’ll die.”
Akaashi smiled faintly, dragging his hands back up, brushing them over his chest again before pulling away entirely—leaving Bokuto shaking in the chair, bound, desperate, eyes wide with need.
“Then beg properly,” Akaashi murmured.
Bokuto’s whole body trembled, sweat dampening his hair, wrists raw from tugging at the knot. He couldn’t stop staring—Akaashi in lace and stockings straddling his lap, calm and composed while he was a wreck.
“Keiji,” he rasped, voice shredded. “Please. Please, please, please—”
Akaashi tilted his head, serene. “Please what?”
“Please let me touch you—untie me, Keiji, I swear I’ll be good, I’ll—” His words tripped over each other, spilling out fast and messy. “I’ll worship you, I’ll kiss every part of you, I’ll—fuck, I’ll do anything you want, just—please—”
Akaashi’s lips curved, cruel and sweet. “You already do anything I want.”
Bokuto let out a strangled whimper, hips jerking up helplessly under Akaashi’s weight. “Keiji, I can’t take it—I need you—please—”
“You’re not specific enough.”
“I need you to—fuck—untie me, let me grab you, hold you, squeeze you, I don’t care, I just—” Bokuto’s voice broke, desperate. “I can’t just sit here. I’ll go insane.”
Akaashi guided his chin up, forcing him to look at him directly. “You’re already insane.”
“For you!” Bokuto shouted, chest heaving, eyes wide and glassy. “I’m insane for you, Keiji, I can’t—oh my god, I can’t—please.”
Akaashi’s lashes lowered, gaze sharp. “Better.”
Bokuto groaned, back arching like he could physically throw himself into Akaashi’s body if he just tried hard enough. His bound hands clenched in the air between them, useless, desperate. “Keiji, I’m begging you. I’m begging. Please. Please let me have you.”
Akaashi leaned down, brushing his lips against Bokuto’s trembling mouth but not kissing him, not yet. His voice was low, a knife’s edge of control.
“Say it again.”
Bokuto’s eyes fluttered shut, a wreck. “Please.” His voice cracked. “Please, Keiji. I need you. I need you so bad. Please.”
Akaashi’s lips ghosted over his, close enough to taste but never sealing the kiss. Bokuto leaned forward, straining, but the silk around his wrists held him back.
“Good boy,” Akaashi whispered, pulling away just enough to make Bokuto groan in frustration.
Then—slow, deliberate—Akaashi slid his own hands down his body. Over the lace stretched across his chest, down his waist, fingers hooking under the straps of his garter before trailing lower.
Bokuto’s eyes went wide. “Keiji—what are you—oh my god—”
“Shh.” Akaashi’s tone was soft, commanding. “You’re going to sit there. Watch. Nothing else.”
And then, with a composure that was almost cruel, Akaashi touched himself. His hand pressed over the silk at his crotch, stroking slow, rolling his hips just enough for Bokuto to see everything and touch nothing.
Bokuto broke. His jaw dropped, strangled noises clawing out of his throat. He yanked at the bindings until his wrists burned, legs trembling under Akaashi’s weight.
“Keiji, please—don’t—don’t do this to me—let me—” His voice cracked, nearly sobbing. “I can’t just watch, I’ll die, I swear I’ll die—”
Akaashi tipped his head back with a quiet sigh, hand sliding against silk, his other braced on Bokuto’s chest. He looked devastating—half-lidded eyes, lips parted, every move slow and controlled.
Bokuto was wrecked.
“Keiji—fuck—you’re so—so hot—I can’t—please, please let me—”
“You look so desperate,” Akaashi murmured, rolling his hips again, eyes heavy-lidded. “Tied up, watching me, begging like this.”
Bokuto whimpered so loud it could’ve woken the neighbors. His thighs jerked under Akaashi, his chest heaving like he was seconds away from combusting.
“Keiji, I’m begging, I’ll never stop begging—please let me touch you, I’ll do anything, just—fuck—I’m losing it—”
Akaashi smiled faintly, hand never slowing. “That’s the point.”
Bokuto’s wrists burned from pulling so hard against the knot, but he couldn’t stop. He was panting, sweating, his whole body trembling as he watched Akaashi’s hand move slow and steady over himself.
Every stroke, every little grind into silk was calculated torture.
“Keiji,” Bokuto begged, voice raw, “please, please, I’m gonna lose my mind—”
“You already have,” Akaashi said smoothly, not even out of breath. His free hand dragged lazily up his own chest, fingertips brushing over lace, tweaking his nipple through the fabric with a soft hiss. “Look at you. Red-faced, drooling, about to cry. From watching.”
Bokuto whined. A deep, broken sound. “You’re—oh my god, you’re so—Keiji, I’m gonna come just from this, I swear—”
Akaashi’s lips curved faintly, cruel amusement sparking in his eyes. “Without me even touching you?”
Bokuto nodded frantically, hips jerking up against nothing, his bound hands twitching uselessly in his lap. “Yes—yes—fuck, I’m so close—I can’t—I need you—please—”
“Pathetic,” Akaashi murmured, sliding his hand lower, pressing harder against himself until his breath finally hitched. His eyes fluttered shut for a moment, and Bokuto almost died on the spot.
“Keiji—Keiji, you’re—fuck, don’t stop, don’t stop—” Bokuto’s voice cracked into a high whimper. “Please let me help, let me hold you, I can’t just sit here, I can’t, I can’t—”
“Quiet.”
Bokuto bit down on his lip so hard it hurt. His body shook, tears pricking hot at the corners of his eyes from how badly he needed to do something. He couldn’t kiss, couldn’t grab, couldn’t hold—he was tied down, wide open, nothing but a begging mess.
Akaashi leaned closer, hand still moving on himself, lips ghosting over Bokuto’s ear. “You’re not allowed to come. Not until I say.”
Bokuto let out the most desperate, guttural groan of his life, forehead dropping against Akaashi’s shoulder. “Keiji, you’re gonna kill me. You’re actually gonna kill me.”
“Then die for me,” Akaashi whispered, voice silk and venom all at once.
Bokuto was shaking so hard the chair creaked under him. His wrists throbbed, his chest rose and fell too fast, and his thighs strained upward every time Akaashi rolled his hips against his own hand.
He was losing his damn mind.
“Keiji,” he gasped, voice shredded, “please, I can’t—I’ll do anything—”
Akaashi’s lashes lowered, his smirk sharp as a blade. “Anything?”
“Yes, yes, yes—anything, please, just let me touch you, let me taste you—”
“Mm.” Akaashi tipped his head back slightly, exhaling softly as his hand slid over himself again. The sight was devastating—Akaashi’s body wrapped in lace, composure cracking just barely, lips parting around a quiet moan.
Bokuto groaned so loud it rattled the air. “Keiji—fuck—you’re so hot, you’re so fucking hot, I can’t take this, I can’t—I’ll—oh my god, I’ll die right here—”
“You keep saying that,” Akaashi murmured, steady even as his hips rolled slow against his hand. “But you’re still alive.”
Bokuto whined so brokenly it was almost a sob. His head slammed back against the chair, his legs kicking helplessly beneath Akaashi.
“I’m so close, Keiji, please—please let me come, please, I’m begging you, I can’t hold it—”
“No.”
The word sliced through him. Bokuto jerked, thighs trembling violently, and bit back another desperate cry.
“Keiji, I’m—fuck, I’m gonna—please, I can’t stop it—”
Akaashi grabbed his chin, forcing him to look up into those calm, merciless eyes. “You can. Or I’ll make you.”
Bokuto’s whole body shuddered, eyes wide, pupils blown. He nodded frantically, panting like he’d run ten kilometers.
“Good boy.” Akaashi brushed his thumb over his cheek, deceptively soft, before pulling his hand away from himself—leaving Bokuto with nothing but the image, the sound, the scent of it.
Bokuto let out a noise that was more animal than human. “No—no, Keiji, please don’t stop, please—I need it, I need you, I’ll—fuck, I’ll never ask for anything else ever again, just let me—please—”
Akaashi tilted his head, watching him crumble. “I don’t believe you.”
Bokuto was seconds away from crying for real when Akaashi finally leaned in. Their lips met—soft at first, just a press, then deeper, tongue slipping past Bokuto’s lips with a deliberate, devastating tease.
Bokuto groaned into it, body arching like he was about to combust. He pushed forward as much as the bindings allowed, desperate, hungry, moaning shamelessly into Akaashi’s mouth.
And then, just as quickly, Akaashi pulled away.
“Stand,” he ordered.
Bokuto froze. “Wh—what—”
“Now.”
Bokuto scrambled up so fast he nearly tripped over his own feet. His hands were still bound, his chest heaving, eyes glassy, but he obeyed without a second thought.
Akaashi tugged him by the wrists, leading him down the hall with unhurried steps until they reached the bedroom. He stopped at the edge of the bed and turned, eyes sharp.
“Sit.”
Bokuto fell back against the mattress, back hitting the headboard, cock straining against his jeans so hard it hurt. He was wrecked already, and Akaashi hadn’t even touched him properly.
Akaashi climbed onto the bed with grace, straddling Bokuto’s thighs, lace and silk brushing hot against denim. Bokuto sucked in a breath so ragged it was almost a sob.
And then—slowly, deliberately—Akaashi turned around.
Bokuto’s eyes nearly fell out of his head.
The curve of Akaashi’s ass filled his vision, hugged tight by black lace and delicate straps, stockings clinging to his thighs like a goddamn sin. He ground back just a little, enough to make Bokuto choke on air.
“Oh my god,” Bokuto gasped, voice wrecked. “Keiji—holy shit—you’re—”
“Quiet,” Akaashi murmured, shifting his hips just enough to press the round of his ass against Bokuto’s throbbing cock through his jeans. “You’re here to look. Not touch.”
Bokuto whined so loud it shook the walls, bound hands trembling in his lap, eyes glued helplessly to the view in front of him.
Akaashi glanced over his shoulder, calm, merciless. “Enjoy your present.”
Bokuto made a strangled, reverent noise—half moan, half prayer.
Bokuto was already hanging by a thread, chest heaving, wrists tugging helplessly against the knot. Akaashi straddled his thighs backwards, ass grinding slow, deliberate, until Bokuto was drooling.
Then, with perfect calm, Akaashi glanced over his shoulder. “I haven’t stretched properly yet.”
Bokuto blinked, dumb. “Wh—what?”
Akaashi didn’t explain. He reached back, hooked his fingers under the thin lace of his lingerie, and tugged it to the side. Not off—just enough.
Bokuto saw everything.
His brain blue-screened. His jaw dropped. His soul left his body.
“Oh my fucking god,” he croaked, hips jerking up without permission.
“Mm.” Akaashi wet his fingers slowly, deliberately, sucking them into his mouth with obscene composure before dragging them down, slipping them between his own thighs.
Bokuto screamed. “KEIJI—KEIJI—OH MY GOD—”
“Quiet.” Akaashi’s voice was soft, firm. He pushed his fingers in with a low hiss, back arching slightly as he worked himself open right there on Bokuto’s lap.
Bokuto’s bound hands shook violently, nails digging into his palms as he fought the restraints. “Keiji, please—I’m begging—I’ll be so good, I’ll do anything, just untie me, let me—fuck, let me touch, let me help—”
“No.” Akaashi’s tone was merciless, fingers moving steady as he rocked his hips back, lace still tugged aside. “This is my show.”
Bokuto was incoherent now, eyes wide and wet, lips trembling as he watched the obscene sight. “Keiji—fuck—I’m gonna—I can’t—I’ll come just from this, I swear—”
Akaashi smirked faintly, twisting his fingers deeper with a low moan. “Then hold it.”
Bokuto let out a sound that was half sob, half moan, head slamming back against the headboard. He was trembling all over, muscles taut, watching Akaashi finger himself with perfect control while he sat tied up and helpless.
Akaashi turned his head just enough for his calm eyes to meet Bokuto’s ruined ones. “You wanted a present.”
Bokuto choked. “Best. Present. Ever.”
Akaashi didn’t rush. He never rushed. Every movement was deliberate, precise—like he was setting the tempo of a match that Bokuto couldn’t win.
His fingers pushed deeper, curling, spreading himself with languid, steady control. The lace tugged to the side framed everything, obscene and elegant all at once.
Bokuto’s eyes were locked, unblinking, mouth hanging open in shock. He looked like he might actually cry. “Keiji—fuck—you’re—oh my god—you’re perfect—”
“Shh,” Akaashi murmured, adding a third finger with ruthless calm. His back arched, hips rolling down against his hand, thighs flexing as the garters pulled tight. A soft, broken moan slipped from his lips.
Bokuto lost it. He tugged at his restraints until his shoulders strained, wrists burning. His cock strained painfully against his jeans, leaking, aching, trapped. “Keiji, please—I’ll die—let me out, I’ll be gentle, I swear, please let me—”
“You?” Akaashi’s lashes fluttered, his smirk sharp. “Gentle? I don’t believe you.”
“I will!” Bokuto’s voice cracked, desperate and raw. “I’ll be anything you want, Keiji, I’ll beg, I’ll crawl, I’ll—fuck—I’ll never stop begging, just—oh my god, let me touch you, let me help—”
Akaashi moaned again, low and quiet, fingers pumping slow and deep as he stretched himself fully, rocking back shamelessly on his own hand. The wet sounds filled the room, obscene against the silence.
Bokuto’s entire body shook. He couldn’t look away—didn’t want to look away—even as his thighs quivered and his cock throbbed painfully against denim.
Akaashi tilted his head back, hair sticking to his forehead, a faint flush painting his cheeks. “Mm. Almost ready.”
Bokuto’s jaw dropped. “ALMOST?!” His voice cracked like glass. “KEIJI, I’M—I’M ALREADY READY, I’VE BEEN READY SINCE THE STREAMERS—”
“Quiet.” Akaashi pulled his fingers out slow, slick glistening in the dim light, and sucked them into his mouth with obscene calm. His gaze cut back to Bokuto’s ruined face, smug and merciless. “You don’t get to decide when I’m ready.”
Bokuto sobbed. “You’re actually gonna kill me.”
“Then die happy,” Akaashi murmured, shifting back so the lace fell back into place, perfect and teasing, as if nothing had happened at all.
Bokuto made a strangled noise, somewhere between a scream and a prayer.
Akaashi licked his fingers clean, calm as ever, before shifting forward. He lifted himself just enough, tugging the lace aside again, and positioned himself over Bokuto’s cock—still straining painfully against his jeans.
Bokuto gasped like he’d been struck. “Keiji—oh my god—are you—are you really—”
“Quiet.” Akaashi’s voice was soft, merciless.
He reached down, unzipping Bokuto’s jeans with unhurried precision, tugging them down just enough to free him. Bokuto’s cock sprang out, flushed and leaking, and he let out a broken groan that sounded more like a sob.
Akaashi glanced down, expression unreadable, before lowering himself slow, deliberate, sinking down onto Bokuto in one steady glide.
Bokuto screamed. His head slammed back against the headboard, eyes rolling, chest heaving like he’d been set on fire. “Keiji—fuck—oh my god, oh my god—”
Akaashi exhaled softly, steady even as he took him to the hilt, silk and lace framing every inch of the obscene sight. He rolled his hips once, slow and devastating, and Bokuto nearly blacked out.
His bound hands jerked in his lap, wrists straining so hard the knot burned, desperate to grab, to hold, to cling. “Keiji—please, untie me, I can’t—I need to hold you, I need to—fuck—I’ll die like this, I’ll die—”
“No.” Akaashi ground down harder, voice calm, cruel, beautiful. “You’ll sit there. Hands bound. And you’ll take it.”
Bokuto wailed. His thighs quivered under Akaashi, his entire body trembling as he tried and failed to buck his hips up into the rhythm. He was nothing but a mess of pleading noises, begging half-words, tears pricking hot in his eyes.
“Keiji—please—please, please, please—”
Akaashi leaned back slightly, giving Bokuto the full view of lace tugged aside, stockings clinging to strong thighs, every movement calculated to destroy him. His eyes were sharp, unyielding, as he rode slow, steady, unbothered.
“You look pathetic,” Akaashi murmured. “And it’s the best you’ve ever looked.”
Bokuto broke. His body shook violently, his cock twitching inside Akaashi, every nerve screaming with the effort of not coming without permission.
“Keiji,” he gasped, voice gone, “you’re gonna kill me—I swear I can’t hold it—I can’t—”
Akaashi bent forward, brushing his lips over Bokuto’s trembling mouth, and whispered:
“Then don’t.”
Bokuto was wrecked—bound, trembling, cock buried deep inside Akaashi while he rode slow and merciless. His wrists burned from tugging at the knot, but he couldn’t get free.
And then it hit him.
If he couldn’t use his hands… he’d use his mouth.
He lunged forward, muffling a broken groan against Akaashi’s chest. At first it was clumsy—just open-mouthed kisses over lace, wet and desperate. Then sharper, hungrier—he nipped, sucked, his teeth grazing the peaks of Akaashi’s nipples through the fabric.
Akaashi hissed, his rhythm stuttering for the first time all night. His hands braced on Bokuto’s shoulders, fingers digging in, but he didn’t stop.
“Mm. So that’s your plan,” he murmured, voice unsteady but still in control. “Pathetic.”
Bokuto moaned against him, tongue pressing over the lace, teeth tugging at the hardened nub beneath. He was shameless, worshipping him with his mouth, leaving the fabric damp and darkened with spit.
“Keiji—” he gasped between kisses, muffled against his chest. “You’re—fuck—you’re so hot, I can’t—” He dove back down, sucking hard enough to make Akaashi finally let out a sharp, involuntary moan.
Bokuto froze, eyes wild, before grinning like a maniac. “You liked that,” he panted, then immediately bit down again, harder.
Akaashi shuddered, his composure cracking in the tight arch of his back, the sharp exhale through his teeth. But he didn’t stop riding, hips still rolling, slow and punishing.
“You’re sloppy,” he breathed, voice tight. “Drooling all over me like a mutt.”
Bokuto groaned so loud it vibrated against Akaashi’s chest. His bound hands twisted helplessly in his lap, but his mouth? His mouth was everywhere—sucking, nipping, licking over lace, chasing every sound Akaashi let slip.
“Keiji—fuck—I can feel you shaking—god, you’re so beautiful—I can’t stop—I don’t want to stop—”
Akaashi tilted his head back, sweat dripping down his throat, finally letting out a low moan that had Bokuto grinding up into him like he was starving.
Still, Akaashi didn’t stop. He only looked down at Bokuto’s messy, desperate mouth pressed to his chest and whispered, voice rough but sharp:
“Keep going.”
Bokuto was gone. Absolutely lost. His mouth was everywhere—nipping, licking, sucking at Akaashi’s chest through lace, drooling shamelessly, leaving wet spots that clung translucent to the fabric. Every sound Akaashi made, no matter how faint, only drove him harder.
His bound wrists twisted violently in his lap, muscles straining, cords standing out along his arms. He tugged and pulled with every grind of his hips, every desperate moan against Akaashi’s skin.
Akaashi tilted his head back, eyes fluttering shut, voice tight. “You’re sloppy. A mess. You can’t even—”
RIP.
The knot gave way. The silk shredded under raw strength. Bokuto’s hands were free.
For a heartbeat, silence.
Akaashi’s eyes snapped open, widening as Bokuto froze—bound wrists falling apart in tatters at his sides.
Then Bokuto growled. A raw, hungry sound. His arms shot up, gripping Akaashi’s waist, his back, his thighs—everywhere he hadn’t been allowed to touch. He crushed Akaashi against him, mouth still glued to his chest, teeth tugging at lace until it stretched and threatened to tear.
“Keiji,” Bokuto groaned, voice shaking, “no more—no more waiting—I need you—”
Akaashi gasped, his rhythm faltering for the first time as Bokuto’s strength pulled him down hard, burying him to the hilt. The sudden force made him shudder, a sharp moan tearing from his throat before he could bite it back.
Bokuto grinned against his chest, wild and unhinged, lips slick and swollen. “Got you.”
His hands roamed everywhere at once—palming Akaashi’s ass, dragging up his thighs, squeezing his waist, nails digging into his back like he was terrified Akaashi might vanish.
Akaashi’s breath came sharp, composure cracking at the edges. Still, he hissed, “You broke it. You couldn’t control yourself.”
Bokuto growled again, hips snapping up in a rough, desperate thrust that made them both gasp. “I don’t want control. I just want you.”
And this time, Akaashi didn’t stop him.
The silk fell away in shreds, Bokuto’s big hands gripping anywhere he could—waist, ass, thighs, pulling Akaashi down until their hips slammed together. Every thrust was rough, frantic, desperate, like he was trying to make up for every second he’d been forced to sit still.
Akaashi gasped, nails digging into Bokuto’s shoulders, his composure cracking but not shattering. He tilted his head down, eyes sharp through the mess of sweat and lace.
“You broke my rules.” His voice was steady, even as his body trembled against the pace.
Bokuto growled, teeth grazing over Akaashi’s collarbone now, kissing and biting anywhere he could reach. “I don’t care—I can’t—Keiji, I need you too much—I’ll never tie my hands again—”
Akaashi’s lips parted on a sharp inhale as Bokuto’s hands grabbed his ass, squeezing hard, forcing him down rougher, deeper. His back arched despite himself, a broken moan slipping free.
Still, he smirked through it, voice ragged but biting. “Pathetic. Can’t even follow orders for an hour.”
Bokuto’s eyes burned, wild, reverent. “I’ll follow every order—just not the ones that keep me from touching you.”
He snapped his hips up again, hard enough to make Akaashi gasp and clutch at his chest. Bokuto’s mouth latched onto the edge of lace at his nipple, teeth tugging until fabric strained, tongue pressing hot against sensitive skin.
“Keiji—” Bokuto’s voice cracked between kisses, rough and needy. “You’re—fuck—you’re mine—you’re mine—you’re—”
“Yours?” Akaashi cut in, his words sharp despite the tremor in his breath. He ground down deliberately, fighting to steady the rhythm. “Don’t get it twisted. I’m still the one riding you.”
Bokuto’s head dropped back, groaning loud and broken, hands clutching tight at Akaashi’s waist like he was afraid to let go. “Then ride me—fuck—ride me until I break for real—”
Akaashi’s smirk curved cruel and gorgeous, even as his body shivered under the force of Bokuto’s hands. “Gladly.”
And he set the pace again—slow, punishing, controlled—forcing Bokuto to stay right on the edge, even in his feral desperation.
Bokuto slammed his hips up, hard, desperate, trying to force the rhythm rougher. Each thrust dragged a ragged moan from his throat, wild and guttural. “Keiji—I can’t—I need it faster, harder—”
Akaashi gasped, teeth catching his bottom lip, nails digging crescents into Bokuto’s chest. His body wanted to give in, every nerve alight, but his voice stayed calm, sharp. “Slow.”
“No,” Bokuto growled, snapping up again, harder.
Akaashi bit back a moan—sharp, strangled—but caught his composure in the next breath. He braced his hands on Bokuto’s shoulders, pinning him down against the headboard, and deliberately rolled his hips slow. Controlled. Cruel.
Bokuto screamed. “Keiji, you’re killing me—”
“That’s the idea,” Akaashi murmured, even as his own thighs trembled.
Bokuto fought back, big hands clutching Akaashi’s waist, trying to drag him down faster. He was strong, too strong, and Akaashi’s body jerked at the force—but he dug in, resisting, grinding slow and tight, refusing to give him the pace he craved.
Their foreheads slammed together, sweat dripping between them, both panting, both shaking.
“Let me—” Bokuto groaned, biting at Akaashi’s jaw, lips frantic and wet. “Let me take you, please, Keiji, I’ll ruin you, I’ll—”
“You’re already ruining me,” Akaashi hissed, his composure breaking for just a second as his voice cracked on a moan. He covered it fast, dragging his nails down Bokuto’s chest, leaving red lines in his wake. “But I’m not giving up control.”
Bokuto groaned, desperate, biting down on Akaashi’s shoulder like he could anchor himself. “Then we’re gonna break together.”
And the bed slammed against the wall with their next thrust, both of them wrestling for rhythm—Akaashi grinding slow, precise, Bokuto thrusting up hard and messy, a perfect collision of chaos and control.
Every move was a war. Every sound was surrender disguised as defiance.
The bed rocked with every collision, their bodies slick with sweat, breathless moans filling the room. Bokuto thrust up wild, messy, desperate. Akaashi grinded down slow, punishing, still clinging to his control like it was life or death.
Their foreheads pressed together, teeth bared, both trembling on the edge.
“Keiji—” Bokuto growled, eyes blazing, “you’re not winning this.”
“I already am,” Akaashi panted, forcing another slow roll of his hips that had Bokuto sobbing.
For a moment, it seemed like the struggle would never end. Until—
Bokuto’s hand slipped between them.
Hot. Firm. Wrapping around Akaashi’s cock through the lace.
Akaashi choked. His entire body jolted, a sound tearing from his throat that he couldn’t hold back. His rhythm faltered, perfect control snapping like glass.
“Got you,” Bokuto whispered, eyes wild, lips splitting into a grin even as his hand pumped steady. “Keiji, I got you.”
“F-Fuck—” Akaashi gasped, voice breaking for the first time, his calm composure shattering into moans he couldn’t bite down. His hips bucked forward into Bokuto’s fist, the slow grind gone, his body betraying him completely.
Bokuto’s other hand slammed against his back, holding him down, forcing him close. “You feel that? You’re shaking for me, Keiji—you’re mine now—”
Akaashi let out a broken, high moan, nails raking down Bokuto’s shoulders as he finally, finally lost control. His hips snapped forward, chasing Bokuto’s hand, riding harder, faster, messy now, his perfect rhythm shattered.
Bokuto groaned low, feral, kissing him rough and sloppy through every thrust. “That’s it—fuck—give it to me, Keiji, break for me—”
And Akaashi did.
His moans tumbled out unchecked, every roll of his hips desperate, his body trembling as Bokuto’s grip worked him mercilessly. The battle was over—control gone, replaced by frantic, raw need.
Bokuto groaned, grinning against his mouth even as his own body shook. “Best birthday present ever.”
Akaashi’s breath came ragged now, every moan spilling out uncontrolled as Bokuto’s hand stroked him through the lace, every pump slick and perfect. His once-precise rhythm shattered—hips snapping fast, desperate, chasing the friction like his body didn’t belong to him anymore.
Bokuto’s grin was feral, teeth grazing Akaashi’s jaw, his neck, leaving marks wherever he could reach. “That’s it, Keiji—fuck—you’re falling apart for me—so beautiful—”
Akaashi tried to speak, to bite back control, but all that came out was a broken, guttural moan. His hands scrabbled at Bokuto’s chest, nails leaving sharp lines, but he couldn’t slow down, couldn’t stop.
Bokuto’s free hand clutched his ass tight, dragging him down with every thrust, while his hips snapped up hard, sloppy, frantic. Their bodies slammed together, loud and wet, the bed groaning against the wall.
“Keiji—fuck—I’m close—I’m so close, I can’t—” Bokuto babbled, his voice wrecked, forehead pressed against Akaashi’s. “Come with me—please—please, I need you—”
Akaashi’s composure cracked entirely. His moan was high, desperate, his thighs shaking as he ground down wildly into Bokuto’s fist. His lips trembled against Bokuto’s, words slurred between gasps. “Koutarou—fuck—don’t stop—don’t—”
That was all it took.
Bokuto snapped, hips thrusting up with wild abandon as his hand stroked Akaashi through lace, their mouths crashing together in a kiss that was more teeth and groans than anything else.
Akaashi broke first—body clenching, shaking hard as his orgasm ripped through him, spilling hot and messy into Bokuto’s palm, a sobbing moan falling from his lips.
The sight—the sound—the feeling of Akaashi breaking—dragged Bokuto over the edge seconds later. He came with a loud, wrecked cry, hips jerking helplessly, filling Akaashi deep, his whole body arching as if he could fuse them together.
For a long moment, neither of them moved. Just trembling bodies, panting breaths, and the sound of their heartbeats pounding in sync.
Finally, Bokuto slumped back against the headboard, boneless, arms still wrapped around Akaashi like he’d never let go. He kissed his temple, sloppy and soft.
“Best. Birthday. Ever.” He groaned, voice rough but grinning.
Akaashi, flushed and shaking, buried his face in Bokuto’s neck, muttering faintly, “You broke the blindfold.”
Bokuto laughed, breathless. “I’ll buy you ten more.”
The room was thick with heat, the air heavy with sweat and the faint sweet scent of birthday cake still lingering from earlier. The sheets were ruined, the bed was crooked against the wall, and Bokuto was sprawled against the headboard like his soul had left his body.
Akaashi was curled against his chest, hair damp, lace wrinkled, still catching his breath. Bokuto had both arms around him like a damn octopus, holding tight as if he thought Akaashi might disappear.
“Keiji,” he croaked, voice rough but giddy, “that was—oh my god—that was the greatest thing in my entire life. In the whole world. Better than volleyball. Better than karaage. Better than anything.”
Akaashi hummed, smirk tugging at his lips. “Better than the puppies you guessed earlier?”
Bokuto groaned, nuzzling his face into Akaashi’s shoulder like a giant, sweaty golden retriever. “Keiji, don’t tease me right now. I almost died.”
“You did,” Akaashi said dryly, tracing a lazy finger along the scratch marks on Bokuto’s chest. “About seven times. Very dramatic.”
Bokuto pouted, lips brushing against his neck. “You’re mean. You tied me up and made me watch while you—while you—” His voice cracked, heat rushing to his cheeks even as he whined. “That was evil, Keiji.”
Akaashi tilted his head, calm and smug. “And you loved it.”
Bokuto groaned, hiding his face completely now. “I’m never gonna live this down.”
“You won’t,” Akaashi agreed, kissing his hair softly. “I’ll remind you every year on your birthday.”
Bokuto froze, pulling back to stare at him with wide, starry eyes. “Wait—every year?”
“Yes,” Akaashi said, perfectly serious. “Though next time, I’ll tie your ankles, too.”
Bokuto made a strangled squeak, then laughed so hard he nearly fell off the bed, dragging Akaashi with him. “Keiji, you’re—fuck, you’re gonna kill me someday.”
Akaashi smirked, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “Then die happy.”
Bokuto was still grinning like an idiot, sticky and wrecked, when Akaashi finally sighed and sat up.
“Mm. As much as you enjoyed this,” he muttered, tugging at one of the garter straps, “I’m not sleeping in it.”
Bokuto’s bleary eyes snapped open, lighting up like it was Christmas again. “Wait—you’re taking it off?!”
Akaashi gave him a flat look. “It’s uncomfortable.”
And then, without ceremony, he started shimmying out of it. Calm, efficient—sliding the stockings down one leg, then the other, tugging the lace over his head. Completely unfazed.
Bokuto, meanwhile, was losing his mind. He clapped weakly against the headboard like an audience of one. “KEIJI, STRIP SHOW PART TWO! BEST BIRTHDAY EVER!”
“Stop narrating,” Akaashi deadpanned, peeling the last strap off his hip.
Bokuto gasped dramatically, throwing an arm over his face. “I can’t believe I’m blessed enough to see you do the sexiest shimmy of my life—”
“It’s not a shimmy.”
“It’s DEFINITELY a shimmy,” Bokuto shot back, peeking between his fingers just to keep watching.
Akaashi rolled his eyes, dropping the lingerie in a wrinkled heap on the floor before pulling on one of Bokuto’s oversized shirts instead. He climbed back into bed, curling against Bokuto’s side like nothing had happened.
Bokuto immediately wrapped him up, still laughing breathlessly. “Keiji… you’re the best boyfriend in the world. The hottest. The meanest. The freakiest. And mine.”
Akaashi smirked against his chest, eyes already fluttering shut. “Mm. Happy birthday, Koutarou.”
Bokuto melted completely, hugging him tighter, a dumb grin on his face even as sleep dragged him under.
Best. Present. Ever.