he didn't even want to come. but bokuto swore up and down that it would be fun. which, in his vocabulary, translates to “i am about to make a series of poor decisions and require a responsible witness.”
then he sees you, and well. he-
“keiji! hi. can i sit here?”
what really scares him — is how he can’t even tell if you’re sober. but he can’t ever say no to you, can he?
one knee slides between his, then the rest of you follows, easing down into his lap; the most natural thing in the world. “i’m sitting here.”
“i noticed,” he says to your back. “comfortable?”
you turn around like you’re about to tell him a secret, breath tickling his ears. “i would be if you weren’t sitting like you were in a business meeting.”
that earns a soft laugh from him. his other hand comes to rest just above your knee. he squeezes it gently.
“better?” low enough that only you can hear.
you hum, nodding while you readjust. your skirt flies up a little, and he fixes it for you. “getting there.”
“you’re drunk,” he says, as if noting the weather.
you laugh into his neck. “tipsy. not stupid.”
akaashi hums, low in his chest. “there a difference?”
“mhm,” your hand slides up and down his shoulder, fingers curling against the fabric of his shirt. “if i were stupid, i’d be over there—” you point.
bokuto and hinata were trying to convince atsumu to climb on kuroo’s shoulders for a chicken fight in the middle of the living room. grown men, may i remind you. osamu, in the kitchen, looked two seconds away from lighting the countertop on fire.
“—and not over here.” you boop his nose, then scrunch your own because you can feel it flush.
“you’re tense,” you murmur, drape an arm over his shoulder, toy with the curls at the back of his neck.
he moves his head to study you. “you’re drunk.”
you pull at your collar. “i’m hot.”
“that too.”
“oh shut the fuck up,” you push his head away, laughing, and he chuckles. “is the air on in here?”
he glances around. it’s hot, yes. not to mention loud, and someone cannonballed into the inflatable pool in the backyard. bokuto’s acting like it’s the olympic finals.
but you, flushed and draped across his lap, eyes glossed over, skin warm — you’re the real problem.
“c’mon.”
you lift your head. “what?”
“we’re going outside.”
“but i’m-”
“you’re sitting on me, yes,” he says evenly, “which makes it very difficult to stand up. so help me out.”
you groan, dramatic, and peel yourself off with all the grace of someone who is definitely more than tipsy. he steadies you with one hand at your waist before slinging your arm over his shoulder and gently sliding his own around your waist.
you blink, a little thrown. “keiji, if this is your version of kicking me off your lap, just say that.”
he doesn’t answer, shrugs off his jacket without a word, draping it over your figure before weaving you through the bodies in the crowd ‘till you’re settled out in the cool air.
“i told you i was hot.”
“it’s going to be cold outside.”
“you’re kind of a romantic, you know that?”
akaashi laughs, and you curl your fingers around the jacket lapels. it smells like him. of course it does.
“so what’d you drag me out here for?”
he sits down on the porch step and pats the space between his legs. “here. since that’s apparently your favorite seat tonight.”
you narrow your eyes at him, legs already moving anyway. “don’t act like you didn’t like it.”
“don’t put words in my mouth.”
you twist in his lap, knees on either side of his hips now, straddling him while he swallows his own name from your lips, and he groans into your mouth like that’s what he’s been trying not to do all night.
“you’re—” you gasp between kisses, “such a liar.”
“about what?”
“i think you do like having me in your lap.”
his teeth graze your bottom lip. “isn’t that obvious?”
when you laugh into his mouth, he kisses you again like he never wants you to stop. and he thinks maybe, he doesn’t hate parties after all.
amandla
pixelskylines
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