Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/8242475.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      No_Archive_Warnings_Apply, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Haikyuu!!
  Relationship:
      Akaashi_Keiji/Bokuto_Koutarou
  Character:
      Akaashi_Keiji, Bokuto_Koutarou
  Additional Tags:
      Established_Relationship, Japanese_Rope_Bondage, Orgasm_Delay, Hand_Jobs,
      Blow_Jobs, Porn_with_Feelings, Akaashi's_Squeaky_Kitchen_Chair, Bokuto's
      Stupid_Cowboy-Patterned_Boxers, Anal_Sex
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-10-09 Words: 4191
****** musubime ******
by aischrolatry
Summary
     Bokuto shifts his weight from one foot to another when they’re in
     line for bread, or he bobs one knee up and down when Coach is
     talking, or he taps a foot when they’re waiting for the bus, or he
     rolls around in his futon when the team shares a room at the inn.
     And Akaashi doesn’t mind, not really. But he wonders about what could
     make him stop.
Notes
     i have never written bokuaka, and i dont know why i decided this
     should be my first foray into the pairing. especially because akaashi
     is so hard to write?? lmao
“Akaashi-san,” Bokuto says, drawing out the last syllable like a brat would.
His head cocks to the side as he fidgets in the chair, and there’s a squeaky
noise. Then another, and another; a sequence of hinges scratching against old
screws. Akaashi gives Bokuto a meaningful look, and the squeaking stops.
“We’ve gone over this, Bokuto-san,” he says curtly, and goes back to his
biology handbook.
“Have we? I don’t—I don’t recall such a thing ever happening, Akaashi,” Bokuto
replies, and if he sounds wheezy it’s because of the ropes pressing into his
chest. Nice ropes, too – nylon, silky and sturdy, and expensive enough that
Akaashi had to save his allowance for a full month. Bokuto probably doesn’t
appreciate them as much as Akaashi does, but that’s fine. “D’you wanna just—“
Akaashi turns on his chair and sets his handbook down on his desk, reaching for
a mechanical pencil. He clicks the end twice, as he always does, and begins
underlining the parts his teacher has been hinting about for a week. Behind
him, Bokuto sniffles loudly, and the chair squeaks.
“Do you want to know why I picked that chair in particular, Bokuto-san?” he
asks, skimming over diagrams.
“Huh?” Akaashi isn’t looking, but he can still see Bokuto’s head shooting up,
his eyes darting to meet Akaashi’s moving shoulders. He frowns for a split,
confused second, and then nods quickly. “Er, yeah, sure! Why’d you, uh, why’d
you pick the chair?”
“It’s the noisiest chair in my kitchen,” Akaashi says, and turns both a page
and his face away. “Okaa-san never uses it, unless we have guests over. We’ve
tried oiling the hinges once or twice, but it didn’t work. As you might be able
to tell.”
Bokuto is probably blinking, now, jaw slack with confusion and eyebrows
scrunched up together. It’s a dumb look – Akaashi might enjoy it, but he won’t
go as far as to say it’s an attractive expression – and he almost turns to see
it. Almost lets his arm rest over the back of his office chair as he looks
Bokuto up and down. Almost smirks at him, fingers sliding across the smooth
plastic of his mechanical pencil.
He doesn’t. Instead, Akaashi writes down a few keywords, eyes on the handbook.
“So what, Akaashi? Wait, is – is this a way of telling me I’m an unwanted
guest!?”
“Don’t be so rash, Bokuto-san. I’m sure you can figure it out for yourself.”
Bokuto huffs, which means he’s pouting again. Akaashi once more resists the
urge to look, but his homework is hardly as alluring as the sight of his
captain. He’s been half-hard since the first coil of rope wrapped around
Bokuto’s limbs, and when Akaashi wants, he usually makes exceptions. But this
is an exception in itself, and Bokuto has to learn. Which means Akaashi has to
endure – so he does.
“Okay, so, you’ve already told me the rope was ‘cause I’m always fidgeting,”
Bokuto says, and likely rests the back of his head against the back of the
chair, because there’s another screech of metal. “I still think it’s ‘cause
you’re a perv with control issues, but—“
“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi cuts in, feeling the back of his neck growing warm. His
fingers tighten around the mechanical pencil and he hates that he’s
embarrassed, but he still can’t help it.
“Aw, Akaashi,” his captain says in a sickeningly sweet tone, “it’s okay, I
still love you!”
The warmth spreads from Akaashi’s neck to his face and the lead breaks against
the paper, spraying Akaashi’s meticulous handwriting with specks of graphite.
Bokuto must hear it, because the chair squeaks and he hurriedly adds:
“No wait, I know! I do! Is it so you know whenever I move? It is, isn’t it?
‘Cause that’s great thinking, Akaashi, honestly, I wouldn’t put it past you
to—“
“Yes,” Akaashi says coolly, eyes closed and heat thankfully dissipating,
“that’s quite right. Congratulations.”
And at this the chair moans again, metal against metal, and Akaashi turns on
his own – padded and modern and silent – to see Bokuto’s grin lighting up the
room. It’s the only thing he has on, apart from the red rope and his stupid
cowboy patterned boxers.
“Hey, hey, do I look good?” Bokuto asks, smirking widely. The pink in his ears
betrays the confidence he displays so brazenly, but Akaashi chooses to tease
him another time. It’s important to make him feel needed when he asks,
sometimes. This is one of those times.
“Yes, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says, and gets up from his chair. Bokuto’s squeaks
as he straightens in anticipation, eyes darting down to stare at the erection
pressed against Akaashi’s pajama pants. It embarrasses him a little, but it’s
hardly the first time Bokuto has seen Akaashi’s dick, and he pushes the thought
away. He smirks back, instead: “I was indecisive between red or white, but in
the end I think I’ve chosen the right color.”
“Wh— you’re talking about the rope?” Bokuto asks at once, shoulders drooping
like Akaashi knew they would. “I see how it is. It’s not like you have a fine
specimen of a captain sitting butt naked in your stupidly noisy kitchen chair,
or anything. I understand. Really, I do—“
Akaashi licks into his mouth, bending at the waist, and Bokuto’s complaints
drown inside their spit as he kisses back. He still tastes like that god-awful
soda he chugs after practice, sweet and a little bland. Akaashi pulls back
after a beat and feels infinitely satisfied when Bokuto attempts to follow the
path of his mouth, eyes half-lidded and unfocused. The ropes strain around
Bokuto’s torso and Akaashi freezes. Even if he’s studied up on knots and
techniques that would make his mother frown, he still stares at the corners of
the chair with narrowed eyes, expecting the worst.
It doesn’t come – Bokuto’s chest deflates under the tension, pink strikes of
color beneath the red fibers, and Akaashi brings his hand to cup Bokuto’s jaw.
“You look good too, Bokuto-san.”
And he does. Akaashi doesn’t think he’ll manage to look at his kitchen chair
again without remembering Bokuto’s pale skin beneath the red. The pink lines in
his skin where the rope digs into. The glitter inside Bokuto’s eyes,
expressively wanting as he lets them roam across the expanse of Akaashi’s
pajama tented pants. The shift in his jaw when Akaashi leans in again, mouth
open and tongue wet.
He’s never gotten the point of kissing – it’s not particularly pleasant, and
he’d prefer Bokuto would use his tongue on other places,  but his captain makes
nice, soft sounds when Akaashi sucks, or bites, and it’s enough that Akaashi
doesn’t mind having to trade spit with Bokuto. He’s always been a needy person,
be it asking for assurance or his special spike, and Akaashi knows how to
deliver. He likes to deliver, too—though he’d rather not make it too obvious.
“Y-Yeah?” Bokuto asks, parting. Mouth wet and eyes half-lidded, and Akaashi’s
hips nearly tug in his direction. “You really think? Really?”
“Yes, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi responds, finally getting to his knees.
Bokuto’s chest expands beneath the ropes, an expectant breath that stutters
when Akaashi tugs at the red, presses it in the crevice of Bokuto’s thigh. Too
close to his dick for him not to squirm, too far for him to feel anything
pleasurable. Akaashi smiles at the closest cowboy figure stamped on his
captain’s boxers and pops the button off.
Bokuto is whining, now; always too impatient. This is the part where he gets
tired of foreplay – the brief seconds after Akaashi begins to delve into it.
It’s annoying, most of the times, but not today. Not now, with Bokuto’s limbs
artfully arranged and halted, not now with Akaashi’s fingers taking his dick
out of his boxers like he’s afraid it’ll break. With Bokuto, levity and
carefulness is always needed – he might cry out and start talking dirty if
Akaashi jacks him off in a hurry, but if the touches are light and Akaashi is
smart—
“Ahh, Aka—Akaashi, please please please,” Bokuto fires off, with a speed that
would put a machine gun to shame. Eyes closed and hips twitching against the
ropes, and Akaashi bites the inside of his cheek to avoid grinning. “I wanna
come, dude! C’mon, Akaashi, don’t – don’t tease!”
“I’m not,” Akaashi lies, face clean and impassive. Bokuto’s eyes narrow,
darkening behind his eyelids, and Akaashi’s stomach twists a bit. “This is an
exercise in patience, Bokuto-san. Don’t let me down, please.”
Bokuto’s stomach ripples, then, tightening like it does when he’s laughing.
Akaashi leans back and rises onto his feet, searching his desk. He checks the
time, then grabs his mechanical pencil and turns towards Bokuto with searching
eyes.
He clicks the end and slides the lead inside with his other hand. Slowly enough
that Bokuto’s eyes widen and follow the gesture; slowly enough that he tries to
think of what the next step might be. Bokuto isn’t lacking in stamina, but he
gets bored all too easily, and Akaashi wants this to be longer than … practice?
That’s too long, and Bokuto gets bored of it halfway anyway. Class? Everyone
knows he sleeps those away. What, then?
“I – I won’t,” Bokuto says, with a petulant pout. Between those two perfect
coils of red, his dick twitches. The rope follows the roll of his hips,
straining from the inside of his thighs to behind his neck.
Akaashi turns away on his chair, sets his pencil on the desk, and takes a deep,
quiet breath.
“I want this to last longer than your detention,” he finally decides, and turns
back. The kitchen chair’s hinges scream, then, but Akaashi had been expecting
it, and he only sets his chin on his hand. Awards Bokuto with a long, bored
look.
“A-Ak—“
“You should have considered your actions a little better, Bokuto-san. Was
wrestling the baseball ace worth it?”
“Akaashi,” says Bokuto, who is frowning, “you know how I feel about melonpan.”
“You mean you missed practice for a melonpan,” Akaashi replies coolly.
“Well, it’s not—well, yeah. But so did he,” Bokuto mutters.
Akaashi closes his eyes; pinches his nose, and takes a loud, long breath.
Bokuto shifts again, dick still standing at attention, and bites his lip.
“I said I was sorry.” It’s that sulky waver in his voice again. The kid caught
with his hand in the baseball captain’s collar by their math teacher, honestly—
Akaashi breathes in, and sets his mechanical pencil back on his desk. An
exercise in patience, he’d said, and he’d meant it. It will fail if Akaashi
doesn’t hold his temper, and Akaashi doesn’t want to disappoint anyone –
neither Bokuto, nor himself. He turns to his captain again, and nods his head.
“I take it to mean it won’t happen again, Bokuto-san,” he says, cocking his
head very slightly. Bokuto’s eyes find the line of his jaw immediately. Always
starved for it, he is, and his teeth worry the left bend of his lower lip. It
makes something in Akaashi’s stomach twist and burn, then lower into his dick.
“It won’t,” Bokuto replies, voice hitching a little.
“Good,” Akaashi says, and leans into him again.
A finger curls around a rope and pulls. It shifts against Bokuto’s thigh, hard
enough that he goes straight, and Akaashi bends again, knees against the soft
fabric of his carpet. Bokuto’s face reddens, but his eyes are focused, piercing
even, as they set on Akaashi’s mouth. Akaashi can’t help what to waste of focus
it is, when it could be applied to a ball’s trajectory instead – but he can’t
also squash the budding pride inside his chest.
“Pay attention, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says, and his tongue welcomes Bokuto’s
dick inside his mouth.
It’s thankful that Bokuto has a nice voice – it can be grating, especially when
he is feeling down or unappreciated, but when Akaashi touches him it is never
that. Now it is only a mix of breathy relief and groaning that doesn’t know
whether it wants to be heard or bitten down. The cords of Bokuto’s neck flex
along with the rope, a strain that makes Akaashi congratulate himself on being
a pervert.
He doesn’t waste time with that, though. Not now, at least. He kisses Bokuto
there, closing his lips around the part he likes, and presses cool hands into
the curve of his stomach. It has always been thicker than Akaashi’s, but he
still feels an odd sense of marvel every time his fingers can’t quite close
around it.
“A-Ak—ahh—“
 That’s a good sign. Akaashi swallows him again, thumbs digging into the space
between his hipbones, and the chair groans.
Akaashi pulls back. He wipes his mouth, straightens his back, and sets his
hands in his warm lap.
“No – no way, Akaashi – holy shit—“
“Yes way, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says sternly. The effect might be diminished by
the way his dick is straining out of his pajama pants, but Akaashi prizes
himself in having the best poker face in Fukurōdani, and he manages to keep a
level stare in spite of all the blood rushing away from his brain.
Bokuto looks as if he might cry.
Akaashi keeps his hands on his lap, and they do not tremble with the effort of
holding them there. They do not.
“God, I’m – okay, Akaashi, just, okay?”
Akaashi smiles, languid (and the right amount of cruel), and snakes his hands
around Bokuto’s middle again. The pads of his fingers rest into the knot
pressed against Bokuto’s spine, then around it, and he tugs on the rope at the
same time he licks down Bokuto’s dick.
“That’s so fucked up, man,” Bokuto grits out, toes curling and legs tensing.
“That’s – ahh, man, you can be so—“
Akaashi knows. He rewards Bokuto’s perceptiveness with a soft hum that makes
every muscle in his stomach go taut, and then takes him in deep. Bokuto’s mouth
falls open, eyes going a little crossed, and the rope digs into his arms.
Akaashi struggles to find his wrists where they are bound, just a short way
above the end of his back, and hums again when the rope holds.
And the chair’s hinges sing again, just as Bokuto curses. Akaashi swallows
before leaving, this time, and rests his right arm on Bokuto’s thigh. Adopts a
bored expression, leans his chin on his hand, and stares up at him. Bokuto’s
breaths are clipped at the ends as he tries to catch them, and it’s one of
Akaashi’s favorite sounds.
“This is so unfair,” Bokuto gasps.
“So is missing practice,” Akaashi says. “The team depends on you, Bokuto-san.”
Bokuto’s shoulders hike a bit, his eyes narrowing. They’re both aware this
isn’t really about Bokuto’s detention; it is more about Bokuto’s helplessness
and Akaashi’s control.
A shiver titters across Akaashi’s spine like even his own body is mocking him.
Bokuto’s eyes catch the trembling motion, narrowing further as he leans in as
far as the rope allows him to.
“So, what,” he says, sarcasm and doubt pouring out of his mouth, “you’re
punishing me, Akaashi?”
That’s right, is what Akaashi should say. That’s right, Bokuto-san. But his
tongue is thick and wet inside his mouth as his dick twitches, and only silence
fills the room. Akaashi takes the easy way out, pressing another cruel kiss to
the side of Bokuto’s dick.
Bokuto behaves for a long time, after that – even as Akaashi pulls and sucks
and moans. Even as the groans claw out of his throat, exhausted, even as the
taste of his dick goes more and more intense. The ropes dig, and the skin
whitens, and Bokuto remains stubbornly still. Akaashi nearly feels
disappointed, for some reason, and then realizes that this was his goal all
along. Stupid,Akaashi thinks as he withdraws, jaw aching.
He glances up at Bokuto.
“W-Well?” his captain asks, voice gritty and cracked. The grin on his face is
lopsided, just a bit, and his cheeks are redder than the ropes looping around
his body. They glisten in the dimming sunlight as he moves, a thin sheen of
sweat bringing out the glow of near-orgasm in Bokuto’s expression. It is lovely
to see; lovelier still to know Akaashi is the cause.
On cue, his thighs tremble, inner muscles wishing for something, someone.
“Adequate,” Akaashi replies evenly.
“Ade—!?”
“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi interrupts, getting onto his feet and then onto Bokuto’s
lap. “Where are the condoms?”
The chair squawks at the same time Bokuto does, shoulders tightening and hips
driving up into Akaashi’s ass.
“But I still haven’t—“
“The condoms, Bokuto-san.”
“R-Right,” Bokuto manages, looking dizzy, “right, um, bag.”
Akaashi rewards him with a kiss, because for all Bokuto claims to have no
preferences he still goes a bit loopy when there’s mouths involved, and then
goes off to search Bokuto’s backpack. The pink and white packaging is easy
enough to find amidst the smelly practice clothes. Akaashi can’t help but to
smile at the fruit pattern, if only because he knows Bokuto can’t see.
“Strawberry-flavored, Bokuto-san?” he asks, returning.
“Ah, uh, yeah, I – shit, I kinda forgot—“
It’s far too late for Akaashi to bother with arguing. Besides, Bokuto likes it
better when Akaashi’s mouth is thereas opposed to being behind plastic
coverings. Akaashi supposes he would like it better raw, too, but there are
things he’s not ready to try just yet – and Bokuto seems like the kind of boy
to come inside because it felt way too good, Akaashi, I’m sorry, lemme make it
up to you—
However silly, the thought brings a wet heat to Akaashi’s belly. He takes a
deep breath, tucking the condom wrapper between Bokuto’s chest and a coil of
rope, and slides out of his pajama pants. The chair groans, low and keen, as
Bokuto’s dick twitches and weeps.
“You really do look good, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi murmurs, hooking fingers on the
collar of his sweatshirt and taking it off. When he looks again, there is
another drop of pre glistening there.
“Don’t tease, ‘Kaashi,” Bokuto replies, half-pouting. He gyrates his hips as
best he can, as the ropes don’t allow for much, and nods rudely at Akaashi.
“Come on, come on, wanna go already.”
Akaashi ignores him, walking off to his nightstand and grabbing his lotion.
Bokuto’s eyes practically sear the flesh off his ass, and Akaashi rolls his
eyes.
“Love those boxers, man. Makes me wanna, like, I dunno, take a bite off your
butt, or something.” The look on his face suggests Bokuto means it. “I should
get you some—“
“Absolutely not.”
“I was gonna say—“
“No, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says, and pops open the lube. The sound attracts
Bokuto’s eyes immediately, a Pavlovian reaction that shouldn’t get Akaashi so
warm and proud inside.
“Edible undies,” Bokuto trails off, mouth going a little slack as the lotion
pools into Akaashi’s open hand. “Hey, hey, are you really gonna—“
“Yes,” and then, because Akaashi is cruel, he steps around Bokuto and murmurs:
“but I’ll be over here.”
Bokuto very clearly attempts to break out of his knots, chest puffing forward
and chair whining; for a second, the worry comes crawling back even as Akaashi
bends over to rest his forehead on Bokuto’s straining shoulder. He rolls down
his boxers with his free hand, and then:
“Ah,” Akaashi lets out, half-breath, half-moan, and Bokuto goes very still.
“You’re the worst,” his captain says, sounding as if he really might cry.
“Mm,” is Akaashi’s only reply, this time retrieved from closed lips.
He wonders if Bokuto can feel the press of Akaashi’s brow when it turns,
focused and wishing for more, for better, or if the hot wet breath against his
shoulder blade bothers him, or if the sound of sliding fingers and squelching
lotion are chipping away at his hardly-there composure.
He wonders, but Bokuto is always eager to clarify.
“You’re killing me,” he whines, along with the chair, “you really are, Akaashi,
how could you ever do this to me, I’ve never gotten to watch you do it to
yourself, Akaashi, you’re a monster—“
“And if I am, Boku—mm—Bokuto-san?”
The moan might be too much, because Bokuto lets his head fall backwards, clear
eyes staring at the sterile ceiling. Akaashi opens his mouth and bites down on
supple muscle, fingers curling upwards and still lacking the twist of Bokuto’s
usual method. He wants, he wants, but there are rules that he himself imposed,
and—
“I won’t mind it even if you are a monster, Akaashi.”
Fuck.
Akaashi grits his teeth and his lotion-covered fingers make an awkward,
humiliating sound that bubbles around his bedroom. He hates that, hates the
weird setting up time pre-sex, hates that he can’t control that as well as he’d
like – but there are more pressing matters now. Such as Bokuto’s dick, and the
fact that he’s not riding it at this very moment.
“A-Akaa—“
He presses his open mouth against Bokuto’s and wraps long pale legs around his
waist. Ah, he is so warm – the outside of the rope is cool to the touch, a
stark contrast to the heat emanating from Bokuto’s flushed skin. Akaashi wraps
his arms around his neck, basking in it, fingernails digging into the nape and
scalp as he directs Bokuto’s kiss like a driver.
“Akaashi,” Bokuto pants, when the kiss fades into a sharp breath. His voice has
gotten a little high.
“Yes,” Akaashi replies, black eyes on yellow, and plucks out the stupid
strawberry condom from under a shoulder knot. From where he sits, he can see
every shift of Bokuto’s throat, bobbing up and down with a wet swallow.
“You, uh, you’ve really—“
“Yes,” he cuts in, and slides the pink rubber over Bokuto’s dick. It pulses in
his hands, hotter than the rest of him, and Bokuto heaves a sigh of relief when
Akaashi releases it.
“I mean, really—“
“Yes,” and he is filled with a tight moan, eyes closed and hands gripping at
the kitchen chair’s back like he’s going to fall out of his room and into the
sky. Fuck, Akaashi thinks again, the tears gathering behind his eyelids as the
bliss spreads up his spine.
“God,” Bokuto hisses, forehead pressing into Akaashi’s collarbones as the chair
squeaks. “Not gonna last long, ‘Kaashi.”
Akaashi isn’t either. But he decides losing time verbalizing what is clearly so
obvious is the wrong choice – he circles his hips instead, heels digging into
the chair’s wooden slab, into where Bokuto’s ass begins. It feels so good, so,
so good, and Akaashi grips at Bokuto’s shoulders, angling back until his eyes
go a little crossed and Bokuto’s entire body tenses.
Akaashi is too full, too hot. It’s so different, like this! It’s not the press
of damp sheets into his skin and Bokuto’s hard, controlled thrusts – it’s not
Bokuto’s strong legs wrapped around Akaashi’s waist and his stupid hair
flattened by the pillow – it’s not even the rush of being caught or not as they
stay behind in the locker rooms because Bokuto can’t keep it in his pants for
just one afternoon.
It’s better. So Akaashi’s hips tug forward, and Bokuto’s dick twitches inside
him as his owner grits his teeth and makes a noise that will fuel Akaashi’s
nights for weeks to come. He tightens, legs sliding to the floor and feet
finding purchase on the dark-blue rug, and then presses down, until Bokuto
thrusts up and moans in a familiar way.
“Huh—holy sh—“ is what he says, face rising to meet Akaashi’s, “I’m g—uh—“
Yes, Bokuto-san, is what Akaashi should say.
It’s not surprising that they don’t last – Akaashi took the time to wind Bokuto
up, and with every minute of orgasm delay his dick was weeping too. He does
not, at all, consider the fact that he might have a thing for bondage.
Yes, Bokuto-san, is what Akaashi should say, if the saliva wasn’t pooling in
his mouth, if his stomach wasn’t tightening, if his voice didn’t decide to stop
working. If he didn’t come with a muted gasp and grinding, trembling legs. If
his orgasm didn’t stripe him of coherent thought and speech for a good twenty
seconds.
It is only when he peels himself off Bokuto’s chest that he realizes he came
hard – and for much longer than Bokuto, if the grin on his captain’s face is of
any indication. Bokuto looks down at his come-spattered chest and then up at
Akaashi, still catching his breath. And then smirks, mouth opening to say words
that Akaashi likely doesn’t want to hear.
“Anyway,” Akaashi says, averting his eyes to the floor like that will magically
erase the blush off his face, “that’s that.”
“Pffffttt,” Bokuto guffaws, “Akaashi, you’re such a—“
“Perhaps I should’ve gagged you as well,” Akaashi cuts in dryly, gingerly
removing himself off Bokuto’s lap.
The laughter dies inside Bokuto’s throat, murdered by the wide-eyed flushed
expression that replaces it. Akaashi’s chest grows tight and uncomfortably
full, a paradox that he is half-scared to think about. He stares down at
Bokuto’s reddening face, and feels a swirl of warm things that he would deny if
asked.
And then he smirks.
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