Archive of Our Own

“... And there’s still the middle blocker… Dammit, I can’t figure him out. I need him to be a bit of an asshole, but I can’t think up a good enough reason for it. Some kind of family trauma? Yeah, yeah, some reason for him to be closed off… Any ideas, Akaashi?” 

Keiji blinks, glancing into the corner of his desktop screen where Udai sits in a little rectangle, watching him expectantly. Keiji’s gaze flicks back to the center of his screen, where he has the V League website pulled up, zoomed in on a picture of his husband playfully snarling like a jackal. 

He was supposed to be researching… something. He’s at home, in his home office, but it’s 3:00 PM, and he’s supposed to be working. He was also supposed to be listening. 

Wetting his lips, Keiji frowns thoughtfully. “Hmm. Let me think.” 

Udai’s eager expression flattens. “You have no idea what I asked.” 

Keiji considers denying it, but Udai’s quirked brow tells him there’s no point. 

“So sorry, no I don’t. My second coffee hasn’t kicked in yet. Do you mind repeating just that last bit?” 

“From where?” 

“From… the part about this chapter?” 

Udai rolls his eyes. “So from the beginning, then. Well, first, I was talking about the libero and whether he needed more focus in this chapter; it’s been a while—”

“Hold that thought just a moment, Udai-san.” Keiji’s phone has begun vibrating, and he fishes it from his pocket. Beaming at him from the screen is Koutarou’s contact photo: him, on their honeymoon in Thailand, linen shirt unbuttoned, nose sunburnt, eyes glittering with delight as he noticed Keiji taking the picture. A helpless smile tugs at Keiji’s mouth, and he pushes up from his swivel chair. Holding up a finger, he attempts to wince apologetically at the mangaka. “I have to take this. So sorry, this’ll be just a minute.” 

“I know it’s your husband, Akaashi.” Udai grumbles as Keiji slips into the apartment hallway. As he shuts the door behind him, Udai’s muffled voice calls from the computer, “Your honeymoon ended five weeks ago, you know!” 

Walking briskly, Keiji waits until he’s in the kitchen to answer. He doesn’t have his headphones with him, and Koutarou’s speaking voice is loud enough Udai could likely still hear him from several rooms away. 

Turning the volume down, prepared for the initial blast of ‘Baby!’ that will bellow through the speakers, Keiji answers.

A muted, weak, “Hi, baby,” is what greets him instead. It’s so quiet Keiji has to click the volume back up. 

Immediately, Keiji is gripped with concern, and his mind snaps into overdrive. He takes in Koutarou’s expression—not a blinding sunshine grin but a half-hearted twilight smile. He scans Koutarou’s background and determines his location: leaning against a tree outside MSBY’s practice gym. They must be taking a break halfway through practice. He listens for voices and hears nothing; he’s alone, everyone else inside. He squints, scouring his husband for any sign of sickness or injury. There’s nothing. No sign of crying either.

He just looks… deflated. Not a full blown emo-mode, then—not capsized and in need of a massive surge of encouragement to right himself. It’s been over a year since something has triggered that extreme of a response in him. Still, some of the wind has been taken from his sails, evident in the droop of his shoulders and the wilted tips of his typically rigid hair. 

“Koutarou,” Keiji replies firmly, once he’s determined there’s no emergency. “What’s wrong, darling?” 

Koutarou huffs, his smile turning self-deprecating. He doesn’t attempt to assure Keiji everything’s fine; he knows how easily Keiji can read him. 

“I picked up my glasses today.” 

“Oh?” Keiji asks, genuinely surprised. 

He’d forgotten they would be available soon, and even if he had remembered, he would never have guessed they were at fault for Koutarou’s mood. Admittedly, Koutarou wasn’t happy about getting glasses. He’d avoided it for months, insisting the many bouts of undercooked noodles or the struggle to assemble their new kotatsu was because he didn’t read the fine print carefully, not because he couldn’t read it at all. It took a birthday card from his niece, where he couldn’t for the life of him parse out the tiny scribbles, for him to finally bite the bullet and order a pair. Once he’d begun scrolling the options of frames, he’d actually gotten excited. 

“You tried them on?” Keiji asks. “Did you not like them?” 

“No, I did! I tried them on at the store, because they have all those mirrors, and I couldn’t wait, and I thought they made me look really cool and smart! But then I wore them to practice to surprise the guys, and the first thing Tsum-Tsum said was ‘Whoa, Bokkun, with your white hair and glasses, now y’ really look like a freaky buff grandpa.’” 

Keiji grits his jaw and scowls. “Fuck him.” 

“Keiji! Whoa!” 

“Sorry.” He isn’t. Still, he amends, “Screw him. He can be insensitive, you know that. I don’t want you to not wear glasses that are going to make your life easier just because Miya doesn’t have a decency filter.” 

“Yeah. You’re right, he should’ve been nicer, but… what he said could still be true, right? Maybe the only reason everyone else didn’t say it was because they have filters. Maybe they were all thinking it too.” 

“Koutarou.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Do you have the glasses with you?” 

Koutarou’s eyes widen, and he looks away. “Uh… I don’t, um. I…” He sighs. “Yeah. They’re in my bag.” 

“Would you put them on for me?” 

Koutarou’s lips scrunch to the side, and he looks back at Keiji, searching and vulnerable. “But… What if they really do look ugly? If you think so, I don’t think I could ever wear them. I wanna look handsome for you.” 

“Koutarou, you know I’ll tell you the truth, right? And you’re saying you trust and value my opinion over anyone else’s? Atsumu, the whole team, everyone?” 

“Of course, baby. You’re my husband.” 

Keiji’s throat suddenly tightens with emotion, and he clears it hurriedly. 

“Good. You know I’ll be honest with you. And you know I think you’re the sexiest, most gorgeous man in the world.” 

“Nu-uh, Keiji, that’s you!” 

“Agree to disagree,” Keiji quips, lips quirking. Koutarou’s smile is brighter now, far less forced. “A pair of glasses won’t change how handsome you are to me. I’ll tell you whether I like them, and if not, we can go shopping for new ones together.” 

“Yeah. Yeah, okay. Just a sec.” 

Koutarou slips his phone into his pocket while he ruffles through his bag, so Keiji is staring at darkness for a few moments. When he pulls it out again, the screen is filled with Koutarou’s bespectacled face, his free hand rubbing anxiously at the back of his neck. 

“So?” he asks with a nervous smile. “What do you think?” 

The words drip into Keiji’s brain and evaporate instantly, like a water droplet sizzling on an electric stovetop. 

What does Keiji think? Keiji doesn’t think anything. 

Keiji can’t think anything. His brain has become liquid, molten sludge, and molten sludge has no mental acuity. 

“Keiji?” Koutarou asks again. There’s an expression in his big, gorgeous, golden, wire-rimmed eyes that Keiji doesn’t have the capacity to define, but he knows instinctively he doesn’t like it. 

He needs to reassure him. But, humiliatingly, “Y-y-yy… Hhhhyy-Y-Yy-Yes,” is all Keiji manages to say.

“That’s a yeah? Yeah, what? Yes they look good or yes I look like a freaky grandpa?” Koutarou’s eyes go rounder with anxiety. He pinches the glasses’ frame between his fingertips and adjusts them. “Whoa, baby—are you okay?! What’s happening?” 

Keiji wishes he could answer all of Koutarou’s questions, but he’s not sure what’s happening either. A wave of arousal has swept through his body so ferociously, so swiftly, it’s melting the muscles in his legs, and he’s sinking down against the kitchen cabinets. 

“Keiji? Why are you on the ground?!” Koutarou tries again, real worry tightening his voice, and it’s enough to force Keiji to scrounge up some coherence, to remind himself how to form proper sentences: subject, verb, adjective. 

“They look good,” he says, voice weak. “They look great on you.” 

“Really? You really think so?” Koutarou squints at the corner of his screen at himself, turning his head to observe how the glasses settle on his face, and Keiji’s cock throbs. Good god. He has become achingly hard in a matter of seconds, and he’s a little lightheaded because of it. 

“Yes. I really think so. You look so,” Keiji swallows, voice dropping low, “so sexy.” 

Koutarou’s eyes and mouth go round with astonishment. “Really? You don’t think I look, I dunno, kinda old?” 

Fuck. Oh fuck, Keiji can hardly look at Koutarou like this, but he can’t look away either. He squeezes his thighs together and inches a hand down over the front of his pants, settling his palm over his erection to ease the pressure. 

“No, darling, you don’t look old. You look distinguished. You look mature. Powerful. God, I want to get on my kn—” 

“Yo, Bokkun, there y'are! Omi-omi’s gonna show us his new car, wanna see?” 

Flinching, Koutarou yanks the glasses from his face, and it feels like Keiji’s heart has been ripped out with it. His balls throb in protest, as if he’s been denied an orgasm, and he very nearly cries out in outrage. 

“Ooh, cool! Sure, be right there!” Koutarou turns back to Keiji, sheepish. “Sorry, Keiji. I’ll try to get used to wearing them. But I’m glad you think they look okay.” 

“More than okay.” Keiji is in pain. Koutarou is so far away, across the city where he can’t fuck Keiji, and it’s terrible.  

“You’re sure you’re alright? You didn’t hurt yourself when you fell?” 

“I’m perfectly alright. Go say hi to Sakusa. And tell Atsumu, ‘fuck you,’ for me, would you?” 

Koutarou barks a surprised laugh, which soothes some of the sting of those glasses being robbed from his face. 

“It’s sexy when you’re a little mean,” Koutarou smirks. 

“He was mean first.” 

“True! Okay. I’m gonna go see Omi-kun’s ride and then I gotta get back to practice! Have a good rest of your day, see you soon!” 

“Have a good practice. Love you, husband.”

“LOVE YOU, HUSBAND, MUAH!”

The screen goes dark. 

Keiji slumps back against the cabinets with a whimpered groan, squeezing over his erection. He lets his eyes close, desperate to reconstruct the vision of Koutarou in glasses before the details fade from his memory: the silver frames that accentuated the gold glow of his eyes, the thin wires that highlighted the strength of his brows.  

He was so handsome, so dignified. Like an actor or a celebrity on the red carpet, wearing glasses for the first time in public. Those celebrities that, the next day, are on the front cover of magazines under the label: ‘silver fox.’

Koutarou didn’t look old, (fuck you, Miya), but he did look older in the most delicious way. He looked like Keiji’s superior, like he should toss Keiji around and throw him on the mattress and call him the sweetest, filthiest names and maybe make him cry. 

Oh god. Yes. 

Spreading his legs to settle more comfortably on the tile, Keiji pinches the zipper of his slacks between his fingers and drags it down. Before he can get much further, though, his phone buzzes in his other hand. His heart leaps with the thrilling hope that it’s Koutarou. That he’s thought about it and accepted how sexy his glasses are, that he’s leaving mid-way through practice to call Keiji and coach him through a midday orgasm and give him a few more once he arrives home.

Udai Tenma

>> did you guys leave on a second honeymoon or what?

It takes Keiji an embarrassing number of seconds to register why the hell Udai Tenma would be texting him right now. Eventually, the fact that it’s 3:00 on a Friday and Keiji was about to masturbate on his kitchen floor while Udai is still waiting on their conference call sinks in.

He considers not responding. He considers making an excuse: there’s an emergency, Koutarou needs him, their house is flooded. But, he reasons, Tenma has been endlessly gracious about Keiji moving to Osaka and having limited availability as an editor. He’s also been very gracious about Keiji being a newlywed and even more distracted by Bokuto Koutarou than usual. It isn’t his fault Koutarou just found yet another dormant kink of Keiji’s and yanked it violently into his consciousness in the middle of a workday. The manga shouldn’t suffer just because its editor’s husband is the hottest man alive. 

With some shame but mostly a familiar resignation that this is what Bokuto Koutarou does to him, Keiji shuffles back across his apartment and into his office. Never more grateful that Udai can’t see the lower half of his body, Keiji rejoins the zoom call. 

As Udai talks, Keiji forces himself to engage. However, when Udai takes a moment to sketch out an idea, Keiji’s mind zips instantly back to the memory of his bespectacled husband. He leans his elbows on his desk and steeples his fingers, sighing. 

How can Koutarou possibly not see it? What can Keiji do to obliterate Atsumu’s remark from his mind once and for all and assure him that—

Keiji’s gaze catches on the display of trophies covering the wall to his left. At the center of the array is Koutarou’s Olympic silver medal, with his Tokyo 2020 jersey pinned just above it. Wicked excitement swoops through Keiji’s stomach, and he presses his lips together to hide his smirk from Udai. 

That will do it. 

If Koutarou was a stronger man, he would take a few moments standing outside their apartment door to brace himself. He knows Keiji is inside, and it probably won’t be long before he asks Koutarou to put on the glasses again. He’ll want to see them in person. Most people who feel insecure about a situation might do their best to dawdle and avoid it, but Keiji is inside, on the other side of the door, and Koutarou hasn’t seen him since this morning!

He unlocks the door and slips through it, shouting a cheery “ojamashimasu!” as he toes off his shoes, because he knows what Keiji will say next. 

“Darling, this is our house!” Keiji calls from the kitchen. 

Koutarou grins, wiggling his toes in his house slippers and taking a deep inhale. The smell of garlic and ginger and their shared laundry detergent fills his lungs, his chest going all fuzzy. 

This is their house; Keiji’s shiny leather office shoes are right next to Koutarou’s running shoes on the rack. Koutarou just likes hearing Keiji say it. 

“Right! We’ve only been living together for three months now; I keep forgetting!” Koutarou sets his bag down and hangs his jacket on a hook, then seeks out Keiji in the kitchen. 

He finds his husband at the stove with his back to him, wearing an elegant, soft teal robe that ends just above his knees. 

Koutarou inhales sharply through his nose, eyes going lidded as he takes in the shape of him. The hem of the robe would maybe fall lower for most people, but most people don’t have legs like Bokuto Keiji. They’re lithe and lean and go on for miles, up, up, up from his grey house slippers, his bare calves. His thighs are hidden, but Koutarou knows they’re dusted with soft dark hair, lovely and wonderfully squishier than when Keiji was a high school athlete. Koutarou skates his gaze over the pert swell of Keiji’s ass and up to his hips, which are delicately cocked as Keiji leans his weight on one leg. 

The robe is cinched tight around Keiji’s trim waist, and Koutarou flexes his hands at his sides, his exhale shaky. 

Keiji’s got a spatula in one hand, stirring whatever’s sizzling deliciously away in the pan in front of him. His other hand is on his hip, creating a little triangle of space between his arm and his body that Koutarou needs to loop himself through. With a few hasty strides, Koutarou is slipping his arms around Keiji’s body, nuzzling his chin on his shoulder, pressing up against his back and squeezing tight. 

“Mmmm, smells amazing, baby.” 

Keiji’s muscles relax under Koutarou’s touch, leaning back into him, trusting him to keep him upright. He turns his head to the side, his lips smiling and slightly pursed. Stomach fluttering with a billion butterfly wings, Koutarou answers him eagerly, pressing his lips to his, savoring their familiar softness. When Koutarou ends the quick peck but Keiji doesn’t move back an inch, Koutarou chuckles, reaching up to hold his chin in place between his fingers and kiss him again and again on the mouth, then a few more times on his cheeks, noting that he must have his contacts in because he’s not wearing glasses. That means the spot on his temple is free for kisses too.

Eventually, Keiji turns back to stir the pan, and Koutarou brushes his lips against Keiji’s neck, sighing in contentment. 

“Already in your robe? Long day?” 

“I thought this afternoon would never end. I was eager to start my weekend.” 

“What did you work on today?” 

Koutarou intermittently kisses Keiji’s neck and listens as he answers, telling him about the new chapter of Udai’s manga and Udai’s dilemma with the middle blocker character. 

“Ooh, he’s like Tsukki!” 

“Hmm. You think so?” 

“Yeah! Tsukki was always crabby even though he was playing volleyball, and I could’ve sworn it had something to do with his family. You should ask him! Maybe it’ll help!” 

“I’m not sure Tsukishima-kun would want to share with me about something that personal.” 

“Awww, c’mon, he’s our Tsukki. Of course he would!” 

Keiji giggles at the long-running inside joke. 

“That is a good idea. Thanks, darling. Will you set out some plates? This is almost ready.” 

Koutarou preens, always thrilled when Keiji likes his ideas, and reluctantly peels himself off his husband’s back with one last kiss to his cheek. As he sets the table with dishes and wine, Keiji asks him about the rest of practice. Koutarou’s stomach swooshes unpleasantly at the allusion to their phone call, but he quickly moves past it, chattering away about the cool drill coach had them do. He wanders into the living room to collect a pair of candlesticks and brings them back to their dining table. He lights the candles, arranging them carefully so they won’t block him from seeing Keiji’s face. 

Friday night dates are one of their longest standing traditions, him and Keiji. Years ago, when Keiji was still in university and Koutarou had just moved to Osaka, they didn’t used to be dates, technically. They were just weekly phone calls on a night they always kept free for each other. But, as time went on, they became unmistakably intimate, and then they became visits to Osaka and Tokyo, until people started asking questions, and Koutarou started asking himself questions. Eventually, one Friday, Koutarou had to burst out with it and ask Keiji those questions. Next Friday, he’d asked, instead of saying he was hanging out with Keiji, could he maybe tell everyone he was going on a date with his boyfriend? 

 Keiji’d said yes. They’d kept the tradition going ever since.

“This looks lovely, Koutarou, thank you,” Keiji says as he carries a big bowl of noodles and veggies over for them to serve themselves. 

“This looks lovely, baby! Wow, thank you for cooking!” 

Keiji smiles, accepting Koutarou’s enthusiastic kiss on the cheek. They settle in for dinner. It tastes amazing, but even better is getting to watch the exhaustion of the week melt off Keiji with each bite. His smile twitches wider each time Koutarou makes him laugh, his posture gradually relaxing into his seat. By the time their bowls are empty, Keiji looks like Weekend Keiji: curls tousled, shoulders relaxed, wine-red lips quirked at the corners, gaze settled unwaveringly on Koutarou. 

Feeling like a balloon full-up with helium, like pulling his feet off the ground would have him float out of his chair, Koutarou smiles at their joined hands, stretched casually across the table to meet each other. He plays with Keiji’s fingers, rubbing his thumb back and forth over his gold wedding ring. 

“Sweetheart,” Keiji murmurs. 

Koutarou glances up at him, grin going bashful. He loves it when Keiji calls him that. It’s only in certain moments, and it always feels like he really means it: sweet heart.

“Where are your glasses?” 

Oh. 

It’s not quite as startlingly unpleasant as the pop of a balloon. More like the awkward squeak of helium gradually leaking out of one. Koutarou had totally forgotten about the glasses. He’d forgotten all of that even happened today. 

“In, uh. My bag.” 

“Can you put them on again for me? I want to see them in person.” 

“Are you… sure?” 

“Of course.” 

“Okay,” Koutarou sighs, giving Keiji’s hand another squeeze before he stands to go retrieve them. In the entryway, where he left his bag, he takes a moment to clean them on his shirt and try them on again. He appraises himself in the mirror there, where Keiji still can’t see him. 

He’s just… not sure anymore. 

They’re simple square wire rims. Nothing fancy. But they’re new. They’re a statement. And Koutarou’s whole face is already a statement by itself. He’s already got gold eyes and angular eyebrows and on top of all that he chooses to spike his hair. He likes being bold; he doesn’t know how to be anything else. But maybe that’s what feels so strange: these glasses feel like he’s trying to be someone he’s not. Sophisticated, scholarly, refined. Keiji has always been all of those things, so glasses were such a natural addition for him. On Koutarou, they’re unnatural. 

Grandpa, echoes in his mind. 

Sexy, comes another echo, this time in Keiji’s voice. Koutarou curls his hands into fists, puffing his chest out. He’ll choose to listen to that voice instead. 

Koutarou watches Keiji’s face carefully as he comes back into view and retakes his seat. Keiji’s never been very expressive, but Koutarou knows to look for a downturn at the corners of his mouth or a tightening of his eyes in a frown if he doesn’t like something. There are neither. Instead, Keiji’s tongue delicately dips out to wet his lips, and his eyes darken. 

A buzz starts beneath Koutarou’s skin. 

Gosh, he can see Keiji so clearly with these glasses. He can make out his individual feathery eyelashes and the wrinkle between his brows from frowning at his computer all day. He remembers those details. He hadn’t even realized he was missing them. Could he have seen Keiji in this much intricacy all along? All it took was a pair of glasses? 

“So? What do you think?” 

Keijis’ gaze wanders over Koutarou’s face, acute, intense. “I like them,” he says lowly, a rough edge to his typically silky voice.

“Yeah?” Koutarou adjusts his glasses so they sit more comfortably on his nose. 

Keiji inhales sharply, and his body leans closer, his elbows on the table, eyes glued to Koutarou. 

“Yes.” 

Oh. Koutarou is starting to get it now. 

Gradually, just as frost melts in sunlight, the icy, stifling grip of insecurity in his chest begins to fade. All of Keiji’s subtle tells are now in stark clarity, and Koutarou can see it in every elegant line and plane of his face: want. 

Keiji really likes them. 

“Earlier,” Koutarou tests, confidence budding. “You’d said you thought they’re sexy. Do you still think so?” He tilts his head curiously, watching Keiji closely through the lenses for confirmation. 

Keiji squirms, nods, shifts in his seat. 

Koutarou grins. 

His body is buzzing, blooming with certainty. He can’t even remember why he’d ever been insecure. Keiji thinks he’s sexy in glasses. His baby is getting turned on. 

“You do, don’t you,” Koutarou laughs, fascinated. “Really? These are doing it for you?” Pulling the frames off to inspect them, he confirms they’re just as plain as he remembers seeing in the mirror. 

“Put them back on, darling, please.” 

“Okay, okay! I just—” Koutarou slips them back onto his nose, chuckling. “I gotta be honest, I don’t really get it! I mean, I get how good you look in glasses, but I’m not totally sure they fit my face, you know? But if you say so, I’ll believe—Wait. Random, sorry. Did you go shopping today?”

Keiji blinks distractedly. “Hmm? No?” 

“You’re wearing a red shirt. You don’t own any red shirts, do you?” 

Keiji follows Koutarou’s gaze, looking down at where the hint of a red collar is visible under the tightly drawn neck of his robe. Koutarou knows they’re kinda in the middle of something, but he was too caught off guard not to ask. Keiji never wears such bold colors. Why would he decide to wear one now, under his robe, with barely anything else on?  

“Oh,” Keiji says. “No, I don’t.” 

“But I don’t own any red shirts either, do I?” 

“Yes you do.” 

“I do?” Koutarou scrunches up his face, thinking. “I don’t think I do! Besides the…” 

Koutarou’s eyes snap back to Keiji’s collar. He jolts forward, leaning as close as he can get across the table. With his glasses on, he can make out the detail of the fabric, how thin the material is. It’s familiar. Athletic, breathable. 

A meteor crashes into their dining room. Koutarou is swept up in flames. 

His vision goes red. Red, red, red. His body floods with arousal, his mouth watering, his mind spinning. He shoots to his feet, the chair scraping the floor with a squeal. His husband peers up at him, not even attempting to look innocent. His cheeks are darkening, eyes going lidded, and his gorgeous mouth is pinched in a tiny, crooked smile.

“Keiji. Take off your robe right now.” 

Keiji doesn’t look away from him as he obeys. His nimble, graceful, setter fingers reach for the tie of his robe, his eyes locked on Koutarou’s expression the same as Koutarou’s are locked on him. He takes his time, tugging the knot loose. Finally, he nudges the collar of his robe open until it falls off his shoulders. 

The symbol of the Japanese flag sits on the left side of Keiji’s collarbone, and a white number 4 is centered on his chest. 

“Fuck.” 

In two strides Koutarou rockets to Keiji’s side, slipping his hand over Keiji’s shoulder, over his collarbone, his chest, seeking the warmth of his husband’s skin under the thin material of his Olympic jersey.  

“Fuck, baby. Are you—Is this for real? This means what I think it means? Wh-Why, what….?” 

It’s not often that Koutarou stumbles over his words.

Keiji stands from his chair gracefully, and Koutarou is utterly bewitched by him, heart hammering harder than it does when he scores a winning spike and the roar of a crowd shakes the stadium. 

The fabric of Keiji’s robe falls open further, held in the crooks of his elbows as he smooths his palms up Koutarou’s chest and pinches the frame of his glasses between his fingers. 

“These,” Keiji whispers. 

“Really?” 

Koutarou fits his fingers around Keiji’s hips, then slides one hand up his back, to trace over the bold letters of his family name. Their family name now. 

“F-fuck, Keiji.” Koutarou tugs their hips together and drops his head in the crook of Keiji’s neck, breathing shakily, his glasses digging into the bridge of his nose. 

He can’t fucking believe this. He can’t wrap his mind around it. 

Keiji in his Olympic jersey. 

It’s something he has fantasized about ever since he first picked up the uniform from a JNT practice. He’s jerked off to the thought of it on a million lonely nights with Keiji hundreds of kilometers away. But it’s not just the jersey itself and the proud animalistic possessiveness that have roared to life in Koutarou at the sight of it. There’s so much more weight to it than that. 

Keiji in Koutarou’s jerseys is a bit of a thing for them. 

Way back in high school, before he even knew he liked Keiji, Koutarou knew he liked it when Keiji borrowed his tracksuit jacket on a cold night or his pajama pants on a spontaneous sleepover. It made him feel fuzzy inside, and he offered Keiji his clothes whenever possible. 

A few months before they began dating, when Keiji was staying over at the MSBY sharehouse one weekend, he borrowed a hoodie with "Bokuto" emblazoned across the back. By then, Koutarou knew that Keiji was the love of his whole fucking life, so the sight did a little more than make him feel fuzzy. Once Keiji fell asleep and he no longer had to strategically conceal his boner, he’d tiptoed over Keiji’s futon and rushed into the shower for the most powerful nut of his life (so far, anyway. That was still pre-sex-with-Keiji-era). 

Three months into their official relationship was where it really began. 

After a nail-biter of a game against the Red Falcons and a final rally that sapped all remaining strength from both teams, MSBY won, and Koutarou, as was routine, raced towards the stands, looking for his boyfriend. He spotted him, weaving through fans, stumbling down the steps, ignoring his own safety in his determination to reach Koutarou. When he was free of the crowd, as he was flinging himself into Koutarou’s arms, Koutarou finally noticed what he was wearing: one of his old MSBY jerseys. It hung loosely over his narrower shoulders, the neckline revealing his elegant collarbone, the hem tucked into the front of his jeans. 

The way Koutarou’s body responded should be studied by psychologists and physiologists alike. He was hard in seconds, reduced to something animalistic, a devolved version of himself. Uncaring of the cameras surrounding him, unthinking of the thousands of people in the stands, Koutarou began mauling Keiji’s neck with his mouth, groping his ass, his hips, his chest, everything he could reach. Apparently people were staring and muttering, or so Keiji has told him. All he remembers are the sweet gasps from Keiji’s mouth, the murmured “K-Kou, oh my god, f-fuck, we can’t—” The only reason Koutarou didn’t ravish him right there on the hardwood court floor was because Keiji’s body was pulling away from him, and Koutarou had to chase him down. Keiji led them into the locker room showers, where he locked the door and turned the water on, probably in hopes that it would mask their noises. It didn’t. Keiji moaned and screamed and Koutarou groaned and growled his voice hoarse, fucking Keiji against the wall, over the bench, on the floor, his boyfriend stripped to nothing but that jersey. 

In the shower, after, Koutarou sat Keiji on a stool and rinsed him clean, pressing gentle kisses over all the bites and bruises dotting his throat and thighs. Guilt swelled in his chest like a concrete weight. 

“I’m sorry, baby,” he told him, eyes pricking with tears. “I was so rough with you; I-I don’t know what happened to me. Just, that jersey—it was like a switch flipped, I couldn’t—I needed—”

“Shh, darling.” Keiji cupped his face, pressing his lips to his forehead, his temple, his smile dreamy with bliss. “If I’d known it would get that response out of you, I would’ve worn the jersey earlier.”

He wore it again two weeks later, after an especially tough week at work. Again, it affected Koutarou the same. Again, he fucked Keiji into a puddle. Again, his roommates could hardly look at him for a week. 

From there it snowballed. It became a kind of signal. 

They both knew what it would do to Koutarou to see Keiji in his jersey. They knew it would mean Keiji would barely be able to walk the next day. They began to both understand that when Keiji wore it, it was because he wanted his back blown out. He needed it rough, and Koutarou always eagerly delivered. It evolved into more than a uniform kink; it became a ritual, a starting pistol. 

It’s why Koutarou has fantasized so much about Keiji in his Olympic jersey. Why he has never been sure if Keiji would ever actually wear it. And if he did, he’s always wondered what might inspire him to finally unpin it from the trophy wall and put it on? 

Which brings them to today, here, with Keiji draped in bright Japan red, subtly rolling his hips against Koutarou’s as Koutarou pants into the crook of his neck, trying to maintain composure for long enough to understand why. 

Why, today of all days, does Keiji want to be Olympically railed? 

“I-I don’t. I don’t get it,” Koutarou rasps. “The glasses? You like them that much?” 

“Yes,” Keiji whispers. He gasps as Koutarou’s lips part to kiss his throat. “I need you to understand how good you look. You look so mature.” 

Koutarou pulls off with a sloppy sucking noise, brows screwed up with confusion. “So I do look old?” 

“No. You’re so, so hot, darling.” Keiji grips his shoulders, eyes dark but pleading for him to understand. “You look like a dilf.” 

It’s so unexpected, Kotuarou barks a helpless giggle, bewildered. “And, and you like that? Is this a new kink? What—you wanna start calling me daddy?” 

Impossibly, Keiji’s eyes go darker. Koutarou watches as his pupils eat up even more of his gorgeous teal irises, a renewed flush stealing over his cheeks. Keiji’s cock twitches against his hip.

“Yes,” Keiji breathes, so quiet it’s more of a sigh than a word.

Koutarou freezes. His eyes can’t go any rounder. “Wait—actually?” 

With his lip turning white between his teeth, Keiji nods. 

“If you want to too… Yes. Daddy.” 

A second meteor crashes into their dining room. Or maybe Koutarou is the meteor, actually. Yeah, fuck, he’s a ball of pure fucking flame, hurtling through the atmosphere, blind to everything but the heat in his veins, the straining ache of his cock, the echo roaring again and again in his ears.

“O-oh, shit. Say that one more time?” 

“Daddy.” 

“Yeah, fuck, okay.” 

Koutarou crushes his mouth against Keiji’s. 

Keiji is euphoric. 

He doesn’t have to think any longer. Koutarou’s got him; he doesn’t even have to move a muscle.  

Koutarou’s hands curl into his hair, and strands get caught between his fingers, tugging deliciously at his scalp. 

Keiji gasps at the pleasant sting, moaning as Koutarou’s tongue slips into the space between his lips, soothing him, tasting him, dripping surrender into his bloodstream with each brush of their tongues, with the bold, grinding pressure of his cock against Keiji’s hip. Cracking an eye open, Keiji peeks at Koutarou and shivers again at the sight of those square wires framing his closed eyes, partially obscuring the impassioned furrow of his brows. 

Daddy, Keiji thinks again, his blood singing with the thrill of it as he loops an arm behind Koutarou’s neck and fits his other hand to Koutarou’s pec, groping through his thin t-shirt. With a growl, Koutarou nips at Keiji’s lip, his palms sliding down his back, his waist, to ruck up his robe and grip his ass over his underwear. 

“K-Kou…” Keiji sighs against his lips.

“Say it again.” 

“Daddy.”

“Fucking god, baby, fuck.” 

Suddenly, the floor is no longer under Keiji’s feet, and supporting his own weight is no longer his responsibility. His thighs wrap around Koutarou’s hips, his ankles locking together, and his back meets the wall with a rattling thud. Koutarou’s hands are wide and strong under his ass. 

“Driving me fucking crazy calling me that,” Koutarou breathes hotly against Keiji’s throat. “Didn’t ever think it would sound so good, but you… I wanna be that for you, baby. Wanna take care of you, that’s all I ever want to fucking do.” 

“Y-you do, darling.” Keiji twists his fingers into Koutarou’s hair as he mouths harshly at the side of his neck. “You already do. You’ve always taken such good care of me, daddy.”

The sound Koutarou makes is animalistic. 

He kisses Keiji again with his lips and teeth and tongue, hips humping against him rhythmically. It’s like he’s trying to fuck him through their clothes, like the urge has overridden the logic that his cock isn’t out yet.

Keiji sucks at his tongue, moaning, squirming, desperate to be full in any way that he can. He whines, trying to grind back with what little leverage he has, and Koutarou, of course, understands. With a groan and a squeeze of Keiji’s ass, he pushes back from the wall and effortlessly strides towards their bedroom, as if Keiji isn’t a full grown man only two centimeters shy of Koutarou’s own towering height. 

“Yes,” Keiji murmurs, kissing Koutarou’s jaw. “You’re so strong, darling.” 

Koutarou’s chest presses more firmly against his own, broadening in pride. “Gonna give you what you need, baby. Gonna fuck you out of your mind, fill you up until you’re leaking.” 

Keiji whimpers against his throat as his hole clenches, his muscles tense with anticipation. This is his Koutarou. Preening, sure of himself, shamelessly confident, unabashedly filthy. 

They pass into their bedroom, and they’re still several paces from the mattress when Keiji finds himself hurled through the air. He yelps, stomach leaping into his ribcage. Before he can process that he’s landed safely on the bed or how much brute strength it takes to toss him like a sack of rice, his wrists are pinned above his head, his body weighed into the blankets. Koutarou’s lips ravish his mouth, his tongue plunging, his teeth pulling. All too suddenly, they’re gone again, leaving Keiji’s lips tingling in their absence, just when they’d begun to purse in response. 

Koutarou looms over him, reaching to flick on their bedside lamp, then sits back on Keiji’s hips. His massive chest is heaving, his hair is mussed from Keiji’s hands, his golden eyes dark and glinting behind those lenses. He is magnificently powerful, like a god who descended into the mortal realm, just to be here in Keiji’s bed. The whirlwind of the past few moments sinks into Keiji’s brain, arousal searing through his veins, and his eyelids flutter as it all hits him at once, his whole body shuddering. 

“Daddy,” he breathes, the only possible response to all that Koutarou is, all that he does to him. 

“Fuck yeah, that’s right, baby. I’ve got you.” 

Koutarou kisses Keiji’s cheek, his neck, his bicep, his fingers, and pulls off of him, letting go of his wrists, stepping back off of the bed. Lips twisting in disappointment, Keiji scrambles to his elbows, prepared to protest, but he quickly bites his tongue. Koutarou is reaching for the hem of his shirt, drawing it up over his rippling abs, his pecs, and his chin. He flings it to the floor, and something solid clatters there with it. 

“Ah, whoops,” Koutarou says, blinking with his now unprotected eyes. He shrugs, “Oh, well.” 

“B-Bu—You—Wait—!”

“Shhh, I’m joking.” Koutarou searches through his tangled shirt for the glasses and straightens, sliding them back on. “Don’t panic, daddy’s not going anywhere.” He’s smirking, teasing, but there’s nothing funny about the way Keiji’s cock twitches, his toes curling at the rumble of his husband’s voice.  

“Oh my god, that’s so hot.” 

“Yeah?” Koutarou’s smirk darkens. “Then get on your back, baby. I want your head right here, on the edge of the mattress.” He slips a hand into his joggers and pulls his cock out, his heavy balls hanging over the waistband. “C’mere and suck daddy’s cock.” 

Yeah. Yeah, the unhesitating embrace of whatever Keiji is into, the instant confidence—it’s so hot Keiji could die. 

Swimming through arousal thick as honey, Keiji wrestles his robe and house slippers off, twists his body, and flops onto his back. He shuffles towards the edge of the mattress, and Koutarou yanks him the rest of the way when he can’t move fast enough. 

Oh, yes. Fuck yes, this is where he wanted to be. This is the feeling he was craving all day, fighting to focus during work as he dreamed about being here, at Koutarou’s mercy. Here, staring up at him, the thick girth of him hovering just above his face, his musk like a drug winding through his brain, his body towering over him, reminding Keiji who he belongs to, who he is loved by. He traces his gaze along the bluish vein wandering the underside of Koutarou’s cock, to the flushed, flared tip, just peeking out past his foreskin. As Koutarou strokes himself, a pearl of precum forms at his slit. Keiji’s mouth waters for it, his lips dropping open, his tongue lolling out. 

Startlingly, the weight of Koutarou’s cock smacks his cheek. Then twice more, on the other side of his face. A drop of wetness smears over his chin as Koutarou’s hips push forward, his balls brushing over his nose and mouth, the length of his shaft pressing along the front of his throat.

“Feel that? That’s how deep you’re gonna take me.” Koutarou’s voice is low, authoritative.

Keiji answers with an open-mouthed moan, nodding, lapping at his balls. 

“Want it? Want this cock in your throat?”

“I do. I need it.” 

“So sexy, baby.” Koutarou huffs a low laugh. “Just a slut for this cock, huh?” 

Keiji doesn’t get to answer. The flared, plush head of Koutarous’ cock is pressing through the ring of his lips, rocking against his tongue, against the roof of his mouth. He hollows his cheeks, sucking like it’s his life’s purpose, reaching up to grip Koutarou’s thighs and hold him there. 

“Nnngh, yeah, such a slut for me. For me only, huh, Keiji? Had to make sure I knew what a slut you are; you got dressed up all gorgeous just to prove it. Look at you, shit, you’re so fucking pretty in red.” 

Keiji’s hips squirm, his cock throbs, and his legs fall open. It’s true. It’s true, it’s true, he needed Koutarou to know it, without a doubt—that he’s perfect, he’s gorgeous, glasses or no, and Keiji is a whore for him. It was torture having to wait all day to show him what he does to him, to have him doubting himself for even a second. 

Still just rocking a few centimeters forward and back, letting Keiji suck, Koutarou’s palm slides over Keiji’s throat and down his chest over the jersey. He stops in the center of Keiji’s ribs, his fingers tracing over the number 4 emblazoned in white. His thighs tense, and his hips buck, losing control for a moment. Keiji gags at the unexpected jab to his throat, groaning as the bitter salt of precum bursts over his tongue. 

“Goddamn, Keiji,” Koutarou growls, hips beginning to slide in and out in longer strokes. “I’m so lucky. Nobody else has a fanboy this pretty. Nobody else gets to marry them and see them in their jersey and fuck their hot little throat. Does it feel good, baby?” 

Keiji moans around his mouthful of cock. Fanboy. That’s him, that’s all he wants to be. God, the word is making his head spin.

“Yeah. Want the rest? Get ready, baby, take it all.” 

Koutarou presses forward, and Keiji cranes his head back as far as it will go, hanging upside down off the mattress, to give Koutarou an easy sleeve to fuck into. Koutarou’s balls hang over his nose, and each careful inhale is full of him. The thickness of his cockhead eases down his throat, fills him up. He can’t breathe any longer, and he fights the instinct to gag, savoring the submission, the trust. The heat of Koutarou’s palm settles over his throat, pressing against his own length through Keiji’s skin, and it’s overwhelming, being this full of him. Koutarou’s other hand twists his jersey into a fist, his knuckles digging into his chest. His hips begin to move, not far enough to pull out of the tight clutch of Keiji’s throat, but enough to fuck there in short, focused thrusts, faster and faster. Keiji’s eyes roll back into his head until his lungs begin to scream, until his thoughts are fuzzy at the edges.

“Fuuuuuuck,” Koutarou groans, pulling out, stringing saliva down Keiji’s cheeks.

Keiji’s lungs rejoice as he drags in greedy inhales, but instantly, the rest of his body grieves the loss, clamors for his husband. Back inside, back inside, it wasn’t enough.

He coughs, sobs, tear tracks trailing into his hairline. Blinking through his blurry vision, Keiji grabs weakly for the cock hovering just above his face, trying to kiss at it, suck it, invite it back into his throat, please. Without warning, it smacks against his cheek, the sound of flesh on flesh heavy, and Keiji groans brokenly, savoring the contact. 

“So perfect.” Koutarou slaps his other cheek with his cock, smearing it with Keiji’s own saliva. “Such a good boy. God, Keiji. You feeling good?” 

“H—Hnnnyes.” 

“Who’s making you feel good? Whose jersey are you wearing? C’mon, you sound so good when you say it.” 

“Daddy,” Keiji rasps readily.

For a terrible cruel moment that feels like a punishment, Koutarou’s cock disappears. But then Koutarou’s face materializes before his, and his lips are on Keiji’s lips, hot and sweet and feral. With weak arms, Keiji reaches to clutch at Koutarou’s hair. He holds him close and drops his mouth open, surrendering to the kiss. 

Koutarou’s tongue slips smoothly between Keiji’s lips with a low groan. It soothes him, thanks him. The hand on Keiji’s chest dips under the collar of the jersey and wanders over his skin. Those thick fingers find the pebbled nub of his nipple and pinch harshly. With a gasp, Keiji’s spine arches off the mattress, the bolt of pleasure rocketing down to his cock. Koutarou doesn’t stop, keeps pinching and rolling and teasing until Keiji isn’t even kissing back anymore, just panting against his lips, writhing, legs spreading wide. 

“K-Kou, I—I—ahngg.” 

Koutarou hums a low, rumbly question, his lips finding Keiji’s jaw, his teeth finding his ear.

“F-Fuck me. I-I—Please, daddy.” 

Koutarou growls, soothing Keiji’s sore nipple with the callused pad of his thumb. “Always been so polite, Keiji. So cute. I’ll give it to you, don’t worry.” 

He pulls away. 

Keiji’s heart is a hummingbird in a cage, yet his blood runs thick and hot. He watches upside down through hazy eyes as Koutarou shucks off his house slippers, pants, and underwear, his weighty cock bobbing in the air, shining with Keiji’s saliva in the low lamplight. 

That’s going inside me, Keiji thinks, breathless.

I should move, he then realises. He needs to turn around, so his ass is better positioned for fucking. Sitting up as hastily as his floaty muscles will allow, Keiji shuffles on his hands and knees, headed towards the pillows near their headboard. Before he can get far, however, the world flips over, and his back plumfs once again on the comforter. His ankles are captured by strong, sure hands, and his legs are gathered together, tossed over one of Koutarou’s shoulders. 

The picture his husband makes is resplendently commanding: fully nude, thighs wide as he kneels on the mattress, muscles flexing, skin glistening with arousal. He keeps a firm grip on Keiji’s legs and slides a hand down the length of his thigh, fingers curling into the waistband of his underwear just beside the bulge of Keiji’s own untouched erection. Behind those square wire frames, his golden eyes are full of fire, and the message is clear: Let me take care of you. 

Keiji swallows thickly and nods, twisting his fingers into the comforter. He lifts his ass off the mattress, and Koutarou grins darkly, pulling his underwear up his thighs with an aggressive yank. 

“So good. So fucking pretty, letting me take control. It’s what you wanted, right, baby? Why you’re wearing my number on your chest?” Koutarou rumbles, groaning at his own words, sinking his teeth into the side of Keiji’s thigh, dipping his tongue behind his knee, sucking a bruise into his calf. He flings Keiji’s underwear off behind him and spreads Keiji’s legs open, slotting between them. His eyes rake over him like a physical weight, from his pitifully flushed cock, over the heaving of his chest, to the wanton expression on his face. When they meet Keiji’s eyes, they’re even darker than before, and the stardust twinkling on Keiji’s skin glows hot. The tension—the attention—is so wonderful it burns. “Are you prepped for me already? Stretched yourself on your fingers so you’d be ready the second I got home?” Koutarou asks. He holds Keiji’s gaze and sucks his own middle finger into his mouth. 

“I did,” Keiji nods, throat tight, voice trembling. “I couldn’t stand to wait any longer.”  Koutarou’s hand brushes down his thigh, and Keiji grips behind his knees, spreading himself open. The tip of Koutarou’s finger pets over his sensitive, winking rim. It circles, teases, and eases just a centimeter inside. Keiji’s toes curl, his whole body clamping down, focusing on the sensation of Koutarou—even just a centimeter—inside him, where he’s been craving it most. 

“A-ah,” he moans—high and pathetically thin. 

“Yeah, baby. You want it?” 

“K-Kou—I do, I need it, please.” 

“What do you want? Say it for me, Keiji.” 

Keiji swallows. “Daddy’s cock.”

The next few seconds are a furious whirlwind—a blur of noise and confusion as Koutarou leaps away from him and yanks their bedside table drawer so viciously the whole thing comes loose, pens and phone chargers clattering on the floor. 

“Shit!” Koutarou yelps. 

Keiji startles, turning to watch him. He’s crawling on the ground, searching, then he shoots to his feet, launching onto the bed with a bottle in his hand, back into position. 

“Koutar—?!” 

“It’s fine, it’s—Don’t get distracted! Keep talking to me like that! Keep calling me that! I need you so bad too. Look at that perfect fucking hole. Pink and gorgeous and that jersey and your voice and your eyes, Keiji, god, you’re gonna kill me.” There’s the squelch from the bottle, and the slick sound of lube smoothing over Koutarou’s cock. 

Keiji barely has time to take a breath before the velvety heat of Koutarou’s cockhead notches against his rim. 

“O-oh, yes. Yes, Kou, please, daddy, give it to me, give it to me.” 

The exhilarating pressure increases as Koutarou pushes forward. The electricity in his eyes glows. His jaw grits in concentration, his glasses pushed further up the bridge of his nose with the back of his hand. 

And then there’s fucking rightness, perfect fullness, so sudden Keiji cries out, so thick he can’t breathe, so deep his throat throbs in sympathy. 

Koutarou doesn’t work up to a rhythm. He is merciless from the start. From the moment he slams in, he pushes Keiji’s thighs back and drives into him with hammering snaps of his hips, bearing down on him, balls and hips slapping loudly against Keiji’s skin. Pistoning in and out, the flare of his cockhead drags against his walls, his girth stretches him, forces him to adjust. 

Three of Keiji’s fingers could never truly prepare for this, but Keiji didn’t want them to. Like this, the magnificence of his husband is undeniable—in the outcry of his body and the waves of pleasure complementing the pain. Tomorrow, he will still feel it in the ache of his lower back and the wobble of his legs. When they need it, Koutarou makes love to him, sweet and slow and filthy. Tonight, this is what Keiji needed: Koutarou in top form, pushing him to a place that he can never reach himself—demanding his 120%.  

Koutarou hilts himself inside Keiji and falls forward, blanketing him with the weight of his flushed, naked chest. His teeth find Keiji’s throat, his tongue swiping over his ear, the head of his cock grinding steady circles over his prostate. Whimpering, Keiji humps his swollen, untouched cock up into the ridges of Koutarou’s abs, looping his arms behind his neck. 

“Daddy…” 

“Mmmm, you love it, huh, baby?” Koutarou asks lowly, thumbing over Keiji’s sore nipples. 

“I do, I do, it’s incredible.” 

“Yeah? You love daddy’s cock?”

“I d—do! ” Keiji yelps, gasping as Koutarou’s hips snap in a sudden thrust, a burst of pleasure lighting up his spine. 

“Say it,” Koutarou whispers against Keiji’s mouth, so close their lips are brushing.

“I love daddy’s cock. I love being full with it.” 

“Are you a slut for it?” Another slam of his hips.

“I-I am! I’m a slut for daddy’s cock.”’

Koutarou kisses him deeply, filthily, and then sits back. His cock pulls out with a slow slide and a sloppy noise as it pops free. “Flip over. Ass up, so I can see your slutty hole.” 

Keiji struggles to move, but he manages. He rolls over, burying his cheek against a pillow and pulling his knees up under him, so his ass is on display. His hole clenches, trying to close, but it can’t. 

“Look at that gape, baby.” Koutarou groans. He spits, and the wetness spatters above Keiji’s rim and drips down inside. His hole is so open, god, and he’s so empty, so ready. 

“Fuck my hole, daddy,” Keiji pleads. “It’s yours, fill it up, please.” He reaches back with both hands, to pull his cheeks further apart. 

“Yeah,” Koutarou murmurs. His fingers brush gently over Keiji’s left hand, where a wedding band wraps around his ring finger. The bed shifts with Koutarou’s weight, and Keiji strains his neck to peer up, to find Koutarou on his feet, squatting over his ass, one hand braced against the headboard and the other directing his cock towards his hole. “That’s my hole, Keiji.” 

This time, as Koutarou fucks into him, Keiji’s legs tremble. With each squat, with each heavy drop of his hips, it’s Koutarou’s entire weight, the power of his whole body driving against Keiji’s prostate, pummeling it with so much force Keiji’s brain can no longer process it. The pleasure bleeds out into his body. His mouth drops open against the pillow, and his brows draw together. His legs spasm and tremble, struggling to support his own weight. His mind is pure static, blissful and empty, twinkling with a single star. Just full, full, full, daddy, daddy, daddy, on repeat. 

“You take it so perfectly, baby. Listen to that hole, so fucking sloppy.” 

His ass stings with the smacking of Koutarou’s hips, and the jersey pulls tight against his chest as Koutarou gathers it in a fist. His legs are knocked wider, and he realizes at some point Koutarou has knelt behind him again, his thrusts growing even more rapid and rough. 

“My name looks so good on you, Keiji. Getting me close just looking at you, hearing you whine like that.” 

Is Keiji whining? He hadn’t noticed.

“God, you’re gonna make me cum. Do you want me to?”

“Please, daddy. Cum inside me, daddy, please,” Keiji sobs, tears leaking out even though his eyes are squeezed tightly shut. His cock swings wildly between his legs, and it’s so hard it hurts, but he needs Koutarou to cum even more than he needs to himself. “Cum in me,” he whispers. 

“Fuck.”

Impossibly, Koutarou’s hips pump even faster, so fast Keiji can’t process when he’s full or empty, he’s just open—Koutarou’s for the taking. 

His legs give out, trembling too violently to keep his ass raised, but Koutarou’s hands at his hips don’t allow him to fall for a second, holding him at the perfect height. 

Keiji bites into his drool-dampened pillow as Koutarou’s thrusts become erratic, his heart drumming in anticipation. 

And with a “Fuck, fuck!” and a deep groan, Koutarou’s hips hilt home. Heat floods Keiji’s insides, pulsing against his walls. Koutarou’s cock kicks steadily, pumping so much warmth into him, sending delicious shivers up his spine. 

“Yes, Koutarou…” Keiji breathes. “Thank you, daddy.” 

Koutarou groans something that’s probably meant to be a word. He rocks back and forth again, and it’s enough for wetness to leak from Keiji’s rim, dripping down his taint. Koutarou thrusts, grinding slow and deep, and the tension is pulled so tight in Keiji’s gut, it’ll take nothing—one firm jab to his swollen prostate, one breath over his straining cock—to send him over the edge. In reality, what it takes is Koutarou’s hand wrapping gently around his cock and his thumb swiping feather-light over his messy slit. 

Mouth dropping open, spine arching deeper, Keiji cums. Light bursts behind his eyelids, a star exploding in the pitch black sky, and all he sees is white. He shoots all over Koutarou’s hand and the comforter, jerking back onto Koutarou’s cock with all the strength his body can muster, needing it as deep within him as it can get, clenching down on it, milking it for every last drop. 

The pleasure wracks his nerves, piercingly visceral. When it fades, it leaves his brain fuzzy and slow. His ears ring. He is cradled in softness, weighed down by something warm and hard and massive and comforting lying on top of his back. 

This is bliss. This is everything.

“Are you coming back to me, baby?” Koutarou murmurs, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest and against Keiji’s spine. 

Body purring with the delight that it is Koutarou surrounding him, Koutarou so close to him, Keiij opens his mouth to speak, but his throat is raw with overuse. He must have been screaming. So, instead, he nods and turns his palm face up beside his head. Koutarou’s hand quickly settles over it, fingers lacing through his. Keiji hums happily.

“Did you like it? Was it what you needed?” 

Keiji nods again, his cheek still smushed into the pillow. His mind is growing clearer, and with it, so are the memories of everything he said, every filthy thing he begged for. Everything Koutarou did. 

“Yes,” he whispers, barely audible. 

“Mmm. Good.” Koutarou’s mouth opens lazily against the side of Keiji’s neck, sucking a bruise into his skin—high, above where even a turtleneck could hide. “I’m not done yet, though.” 

Adrenaline sparks in Keiji’s blood, his heart skipping a beat.

“No?” 

“Of course not.” Gingerly, Koutarou pushes off of Keiji’s back, and Keiji realizes his cock is still inside of him, more than half-hard. Koutarou kneels with his thighs parted wide over Keiji’s ass and drags a hand down his spine over the jersey. “You knew what this would do to me, and then you added ‘daddy’ on top of it? How could I be finished after one round?” 

Keiji moans softly as his hole clenches weakly in response. 

“But I’ll let you rest for just a little bit. I’ll entertain myself down here.” 

Apparently, what he means by that is he’ll pull out of Keiji slowly and watch his load drool from his hole. 

“Fuck,” he murmurs to himself, and then the tip of his cock drags up Keiji’s taint, and pushes back inside with a sloppy squelch. 

“So did you have a favorite part?” Koutarou asks, making casual conversation as he pulls his cock free and smears cum around Keiji's rim.

It takes Keiji a moment to wrap his mind around the question, what with his husband playing with the load in his ass. As difficult as it is, he cranes back to look at Koutarou, and the sight of him—smiling earnestly, eyes dark but curious behind his glasses—makes his chest swell with affection. He furrows his brows, trying to think. 

“Well, um… It was really hot when you called me your fanboy.” 

Koutarou’s grin spreads wider, eyes widening. “Oh? You like being daddy’s pretty fanboy?” 

Keiji shuts his eyes and bites his lip, his own spent cock giving a valiant kick against the mattress. Gradually peeking his eyes open, he peers back at Koutarou and murmurs, “Yes.” 

“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right, that’s fucking hot.” Jolting forward, Koutarou kisses Keiji, and Keiji moans, meeting the sloppy strokes of his tongue with his own. 

“I-I’m ready, Koutarou,” he gasps between kisses. “Whenever you are. To keep going.” 

“Thank god.” 

Wasting no time, Koutarou thrusts deep, and Keiji moans, gripping his pillow, the corner of Koutarou’s glasses digging into his cheekbone. He smiles against his husband’s lips.

He knew the jersey would do the trick.