Work Text:
They say that if you find a job doing something you love, you never have to work a day in your life.
Well, Kenma isn’t sure who they are, but he knows they’re wrong. He loves playing video games, but a long day hunched over his computer leaves him with a backache that would rival any workaholic businessman’s. He enjoys editing videos, but there are times when he’s spent hours on the same five minute clip, editing until it’s just right, when he reconsiders his decision not to hire an editor to outsource the job to.
And Kuroo? Kuroo loves volleyball—but his job is definitely, absolutely, work. Kuroo’s been a workaholic since before either of them could spell the word, and time hasn’t lessened his intensity. If anything, he’s honed the art of working too hard over years of unpaid overtime and shitty breakroom coffee. He knows how to nap in his suit so it doesn’t get wrinkled, and exactly how many days he can sleep at the office before Kenma storms in and drags him home.
An exhausted, overworked Kuroo is an all too familiar sight. Kenma thinks he works too hard, and his supervisors never appreciate him enough, and he says as much to Kuroo often, but Kuroo always smiles and waves the sentiment away. Kuroo can charm the pants off a department store mannequin and it seems like he always knows what to say, except on his longest days.
On those days, Kuroo is quiet. Nobody who has spent more than an hour with the man would describe him as quiet, or at least, nobody but Kenma. Kenma knows just how quiet he can be when his energy is drained. He watches from the couch, where he’s been lying for an hour or two—playing video games, and not pathetically waiting for his boyfriend to come home to him after work—as Kuroo staggers through their apartment door with heavy footsteps.
“I’m home. Kenma?” Kuroo calls, and even his voice is exhausted.
“Living room,” Kenma calls back. He turns back to his game, listening to Kuroo strip his shoes and clothes off, abandoning them in a messy path from the front door to the living room. He slings his suit jacket over the back of a chair, tosses his tie carelessly onto the kitchen table. Kenma recognizes it and smiles; it was a gift from him, and Kuroo wears it more than any of the others. He insists that it’s because the multicolored cat print matches his eyes, but Kenma knows Kuroo’s a lot more sentimental than he is color-coordinated. He doesn’t bother pointing this out.
Kuroo is grumbling wordless nonsense as he walks, his eyes barely open. He manages to collapse with unerring accuracy, onto the couch that Kenma is currently lying on. He’s too long by several feet, with his face planted in Kenma’s belly and his long arms wrapped around Kenma’s waist, his legs dangle off the other end of the couch, revealing two colorful mismatched socks.
“Long day?” Kenma asks, though he knows the answer. Kuroo nuzzles his face against the thick cotton of Kenma’s hoodie and grumbles, his words too muffled for Kenma to understand them. That’s okay, he’s more than used to Kuroo’s tendency to grumble for the sake of grumbling, until he wears himself out and he really goes quiet.
Kenma shifts a little, making space for Kuroo’s broad body between his legs, and returns to his game. He runs his fingers through Kuroo’s messy hair during cutscenes, scratching his nails gently against Kuroo’s scalp the way he likes, and feels him go boneless as the minutes pass.
Kenma loves this, loves the weight of Kuroo’s body pinning him down. He doesn't have to do anything but be here and let Kuroo hold him, which is a marvel in itself. The minutes pass and Kuroo’s breathing gets suspiciously even.
“If you’re gonna fall asleep, do it in bed,” Kenma chides quietly with a poke to Kuroo’s shoulder. He’s done it before. He does it often actually, and ends up trapping Kenma on the couch beneath him for hours. Kenma’s usually too lazy and cozy to put any real effort into escaping, but blaming Kuroo for the inconvenience is easier. It really is Kuroo’s fault for being so long and heavy and snuggly.
“‘M not sleeping.” Kuroo’s voice is muffled where his face is planted in Kenma’s hoodie.
Kenma rolls his eyes, but luckily Kuroo isn’t looking at him, so he can’t see the fond smile on his face. “Not yet.”
Kuroo tries to bite him for his impertinence, but he just gets a mouthful of cotton. He makes little grumpy noises as he uses his face to ruck up Kenma’s hoodie until he’s nuzzling against bare skin. But somewhere along the way he must have entirely forgotten his goal, because the sting of teeth never comes. He just rubs his cheek against the warm skin of Kenma’s belly, sighing contentedly.
Kenma pauses his game altogether to use both hands to touch Kuroo, to card fingers through his hair and stroke a hand over his shoulders. He works too hard. It’s something Kenma loves about him, always has, but sometimes it hurts to see him this tired.
It hurts less like this, with Kuroo’s body pressing him into the couch and his hair soft against Kenma’s fingers.
“Hungry?” Kenma asks. “We can order in tonight.”
“Mmm. Later.” Kuroo’s voice is sleepy and warm. “Just want this.”
Kenma smiles and goes back to his game. Kuroo’s weight against him is relaxing, grounding. Kenma could fall asleep like this too, if it wasn’t eight pm on a Thursday night. Maybe he could nap with Kuroo for an hour before he has to get up to finish editing tomorrow’s video.
Kuroo, on the other hand, definitely isn’t sleeping. He keeps dragging his cheek against Kenma’s skin like a cuddly cat, humming so quietly Kenma can barely hear it. He feels it though, the vibration against his skin. It tickles.
Kenma manages to ignore it until it stops tickling, until it’s slow, lazy kisses over his stomach and ribs and hipbones, and Kuroo’s hands splayed wide across his back, under his hoodie. The kisses are sweet at first, almost chaste, then Kenma feels the wet heat of Kuroo’s tongue, and he can’t ignore that. Kuroo doesn’t seem to have a destination in mind; he kisses Kenma’s stomach slowly, mindlessly, tasting every inch.
There’s something about Kuroo when he’s like this that unravels Kenma at the seams. He gets greedy, and all he wants is Kenma.
Kuroo’s hands push his hoodie up higher until they find his chest, fingertips dragging over Kenma’s nipples. Just glancing touches, more teasing than stimulating, because Kuroo knows Kenma. He knows it drives him crazy.
Kuroo knows how to make Kenma feel just as needy as he does.
Kenma squirms under Kuroo, the muscles in his thighs clenching automatically and trying to squeeze together, but Kuroo’s torso’s still in the way. He feels exposed like this, on display for Kuroo; he can’t hide the way he throbs, or the sticky heat pooling between his legs, even if he wants to.
Kuroo has Kenma spread open and pinned there on their couch, like a feast laid out below him.
And Kuroo’s dark, half-lidded eyes are hungry.
“Kuro…”
“It’s okay, you can keep playing,” Kuroo murmurs between kisses.
He won’t stop kissing Kenma’s soft belly, won’t stop touching Kenma’s nipples, rolling and pinching and playing with them. He touches Kenma indulgently, seemingly without purpose, but Kenma can see where this is headed. He sees the dangerous glint in Kuroo’s gold eyes, and feels the intent in each suckling kiss. He could try to entice Kuroo to hurry up and do whatever he plans on doing, but that approach usually backfires on him.
So Kenma tries to just play his game and ignore his boyfriend. He really does try.
He blocks the view of Kuroo’s roaming mouth with his switch, mashing buttons, and even managing to clear another level, but Kuroo isn’t easy to ignore. He feels Kuroo’s wet mouth and his big hands, pleasure rippling out from each place their bodies meet. He feels the ache in his thighs where they’re spread wide around Kuroo’s shoulders, then they’re spread wider to accommodate Kuroo’s biceps as he shifts lower and slides his arms under Kenma’s thighs.
Kuroo dips his tongue into Kenma’s belly button, long fingers artfully spread out over Kenma’s skin as his hands press his hips into the couch. Kenma yelps—it felt like Kuroo licked into him, and he’s not sure if he likes it—and his hips buck reflexively. They try to buck, at least, but Kuroo holds Kenma still with dizzying ease. He kisses lower and lower until he’s sucking light marks into the skin just above Kenma’s waistband.
It comes in waves, the tug of Kuroo’s lips, the release. His breath ghosts cold over the skin he’s left wet and sticky, but he doesn’t slow. He doesn’t speed up either, just continues mapping out the shape of Kenma with his greedy mouth.
Kenma doesn’t get any warning before Kuroo’s kissing his sensitive inner thigh, so the prickling pressure, the slick stroke of Kuroo’s tongue and the faintest impression of teeth catches him off guard. If Kuroo notices the little cry that slips out of Kenma’s mouth, he doesn’t acknowledge it.
Kenma holds his switch up between his eyes and Kuroo’s creeping kisses, held in hands that tremble and fingers that have long stopped pretending to actually play. If he looks, he won’t be able to control himself. He’ll start playing again any second now. He just needs a minute—
Without the battle sounds and music, the wet smack of Kuroo’s mouth is loud. He leaves hickeys and marks in the shape of his teeth all over the pale skin of Kenma’s inner thighs. He kisses the hem of Kenma’s shorts, lower lip meeting skin through the lace trim, and it makes Kenma’s muscles there twitch, hard enough that he knows Kuroo can feel it.
Kenma might die of anticipation. He can feel each movement of Kuroo’s body where it touches his own, his stroking thumbs, his flexing forearms against his hips. He can feel each individual stitch in the shoulder seam of Kuroo’s dress shirt as he leans in closer.
This is it, Kenma thinks, and his thighs flex uncontrollably again. No pressure comes, no touch, just Kuroo’s hot, damp breath through the satin of Kenma’s shorts.
Kenma can’t take it anymore. He looks.
Kuroo’s eyes are burnished gold and hazy, captivated by Kenma’s body beneath him. It’s been years—decades, really—and Kenma still isn’t used to the way Kuroo looks at him. Like he’s the only thing in the world that matters, like he’s utterly and entirely Kuroo’s, ripe for the taking.
Kenma has to bite back a high, needy sound when Kuroo drags his nose over his mound, inhaling deeply. He groans on the exhale, dipping down until his nose and lips and chin are flush against Kenma’s cunt, only a thin layer of satin separating them.
“You always smell so good…”
The words are spoken directly into Kenma’s shorts, lips moving against the silken fabric. Kenma can almost really feel them. It’s not enough, it never is. Kuroo knows it too. He makes Kenma whine, mouthing at his pussy through the thin, silken fabric, holding Kenma’s hips down with no effort at all. Kuroo rubs at his thighs with both thumbs, soothing passes back and forth. Maybe Kuroo intends them to be soothing, but the tips of his thumbs catch on the hem of the shorts and drag them up, up, up.
Kuroo doesn’t stop kissing him through the fabric, mouth open and sloppy like he’s making out with his pussy. Kenma sees a flash of white just before Kuroo bites his mound gently, rolling tender flesh between his teeth. Kenma feels wetness dripping out of him at the sight of Kuroo there, the hunger in his eyes.
Kuroo catches his eye and grins. That grin spells danger like the word’s printed on his teeth, and it makes Kenma shiver.
“Don’t let me distract you, kitten,” Kuroo coos. “Keep playing your game.”
Kenma can normally play through any distraction. The apartment could catch fire around him and the heat and smell of smoke wouldn’t make him pause his game. But fire can’t compare to the sensation of Kuroo licking over his clothed pussy, or the sheer hunger in his expression as he looks at Kenma. The fabric of the shorts sticks to Kenma and he throbs. Kuroo groans, the low vibration of the sound rippling over Kenma’s skin.
Kuroo had loved the ratty old pairs of workout shorts Kenma liked to wear at home, even though Kenma knew they weren’t anything special. The seams were unraveling, they were torn and some of them were stained, and if it weren’t for the way Kuroo slid his big hands under the seams whenever Kenma wore them, he couldn’t imagine ever feeling sexy in something so old and worn out.
The shorts he has on now are a different story. They’re the first thing Kenma ever bought with the intention of driving Kuroo crazy, and they worked almost too well. Kenma ordered three pairs, and the first time he put a pair on, Kuroo had torn them open in his haste to get inside Kenma. He’s learned to be a little more careful since then—and he bought Kenma three more pairs to apologize. (That was as much for Kuroo as it was for Kenma, even if he won’t easily admit to it.)
Kuroo keeps licking at the shorts,long tongue stroking over red satin. The material is so soft and slick against Kenma’s skin, the fit breezy and effortlessly comfortable. Kuroo sucks at the fabric and groans at the taste of Kenma that comes through; he’s glad he decided not to wear anything under the shorts today.
The pressure against Kenma’s hips lessens and he feels Kuroo’s fingertips digging into the fabric over his pussy, pressing into the seam of it and spreading his folds open under the soaked fabric. His arms keep Kenma captive, wrapped around slender thighs, as his tongue finds Kenma’s clit.
The sensation is muted through satin, delicious but not enough. Kenma needs more.
Kuroo either doesn’t notice how needy Kenma sounds, or he doesn’t care. He flicks his tongue over Kenma again and again, until he’s shaking and soaked, and only then does he wrap his lips around Kenma’s clit and suck. Kenma gasps, hips writhing in Kuroo’s hold, but there’s nowhere for him to go.
Kuroo holds him down and makes him take it, every rhythmic pull of Kuroo’s lips, every flick of his tongue against the bundle of nerves held captive between his lips. When Kenma looks down, Kuroo doesn’t look back—his eyes and attention are on Kenma’s cunt, an intense single-minded focus that makes Kenma whine. Kuroo traps Kenma’s clit between his teeth and bites down carefully, just enough for Kenma to really feel it.
Kenma’s chest is heaving, rocking his body in Kuroo’s hold with each hard breath. He knows Kuroo hears it, knows he feels it, and he doesn’t relent. If anything, he seems driven by the rhythmic clenching of Kenma’s thighs around his neck. He’s always like this, greedy for the sight of Kenma coming entirely undone that he drags everything out to syrupy slowness.
Kuroo flattens his tongue and licks over the fabric again and again, until the sound is wet with slick and spit. The wet satin sticks to Kenma’s skin, so drenched it’s shining, almost transparent. Kuroo alternates between licking and biting and sucking at the fabric. His eye lashes flutter and his mouth is a spit-shiny mess.
He’s so fucking hot.
Kenma bucks up against Kuroo’s tight hold, demanding more, but refusing to say the words. He hates begging. When Kuroo’s ready—when Kenma’s breath goes loud and needy and his hips are shaking nonstop with how hard he’s trying to roll them, to fuck up against Kuroo’s mouth—he finally relents.
His eyes find Kenma’s, and the look in them is a perfect match to the dangerous smile on his swollen lips. Kuroo hooks two fingers in Kenma’s shorts and pulls them to the side. His smiling, hungry mouth hovers over Kenma’s pussy, breathing wetly on it but not touching, and his glittering, hungry eyes map out the shape of it like he’s trying to memorize every detail.
Kuroo’s eyes flick back to Kenma’s, and he says, “Keep playing.”
Kenma whines, shuddering with need. “Kuro…”
Kuroo turns his head and sucks a hickey into Kenma’s inner thigh, riding the line between stinging pain and pleasure, before pulling off with a wet pop.
“I thought you were a pro, kitten,” Kuroo teases. His thumb traces the seam of Kenma's folds, swollen from Kuroo’s mouth and sticky with need. Eyes never leaving Kenma’s face, he pushes between them. Kuroo rubs Kenma’s clit almost absentmindedly as he speaks, in too-light, too-slow circles. “World famous Kodzuken can’t lose focus from every little distraction, can he?”
Kuroo’s thumb never stops. It never speeds up or slows either, it just goes on and on, teasing and infuriatingly patient. Kenma tries to hump up against the touch, to get a little more pressure, just a little more, then he could—Kuroo holds him down with just one arm across his hips now, the muscles in his forearm flexing with the effort. Kenma collapses with a huff.
His hands are sweaty where they're wrapped, white-knuckled, around the switch. He’s on autopilot, opening the game at the last checkpoint he reached; Kenma’s vision is too blurry to make out the details on the screen, and his fingers are clumsy and loud on the buttons. The sounds of the game fill the silence between their loud breaths, and finally, finally—
Kenma feels Kuroo’s fingers spreading him open again, cool air kissing the wet skin. He hears Kuroo make a low, almost wounded noise and has to squeeze his eyes closed to keep from looking past the switch again. He can’t wait anymore, he needs—
“So wet for me,” Kuroo says, sounding almost dazed. “So pretty—perfect—”
Kuroo dives right in, licking Kenma from his hole, leaking slick and clenching around nothing, up to his swollen clit. He does it again and again, lapping at Kenma like a cat with a bowl of cream. Kuroo devours him, making desperate, hungry noises against Kenma’s cunt with every mouthful.
When Kuroo wraps his lips around his clit again and sucks hard, Kenma nearly screams. His blood moves slow and syrupy through his veins, thick with pleasure. Distantly he hears the sound of his character dying. He’s never cared less.
The suction around Kenma’s clit releases, replaced with Kuroo’s swirling tongue, before it returns. There’s no way to predict the ebb and flow of Kuroo’s mouth; Kenma can’t settle into the rhythm. It’s a time-delay attack, a trick of timing that leaves Kenma wound up, all his nerves alight and aflame. Kenma stops even pretending to play, watching Kuroo eat him out with his eyes closed, his expression euphoric. His mouth and chin are sticky with slick and spit, even the tip of his nose is pink from the friction.
Kuroo’s eyes flutter open and find Kenma’s on him. He doesn’t tell him to go back to his game, thank god. Kenma might throw the console right at his stupid head if he tried. Kuroo’s burnished gold gaze stays on Kenma’s face as he uses his long fingers to spread Kenma open further and plunges his tongue right into his hole.
The switch clatters to the ground; Kenma doesn’t notice.
He’s got his hands in Kuroo’s hair and he’s grinding his hips up against his face while Kuroo tongue fucks him. Kuroo’s clever fingers find Kenma’s clit and rub quick, slippery circles over it. He’s relentless. Kenma’s thighs are shaking; the pleasure pulses through him until he’s crying out, until he’s coming, gushing wet and messy against Kuroo’s lips.
Kuroo doesn’t stop when Kenma comes.
He pulls back for a second or two to watch Kenma’s clit twitch and his hole clench rhythmically around nothing, then he dives back in. Kuroo licks and sucks at his clit with no mercy, shoving two fingers inside him as he does, making Kenma sob. Kuroo pushes him higher and higher; it feels like he’s still coming, like he can’t stop coming. Every muscle in Kenma’s legs has curled tight, pain flaring in the soles of his feet as they clench and cramp.
Kuroo eats him out like he’s starving for it. He looks nothing like the sleepy businessman that had collapsed into Kenma’s lap an hour ago. He looks wild, already messy hair made messier by Kenma’s grasping fingers. Kuroo fucks Kenma for a while with two fingers before adding a third; the stretch is almost too much for him, a sharp note of pain tangled in the pleasure.
He feels so full, of Kuroo, and somehow, he wants more.
Kuroo finger fucks Kenma until his hole is convulsing around his fingers, until he’s squirting all over Kuroo’s chin and throat and his vision goes white. Kuroo moans low and long, swallowing everything Kenma gives him in big, messy gulps. When Kenma starts to come down, his muscles relax by degrees, tension replaced with a deep, exhausted ache. Kuroo is still kissing him, soft and sweet; he kisses Kenma’s mound, his thighs, his sharp hip bones. Kuroo kisses all the way up Kenma’s body until he can feed the taste of his cunt into his mouth with sloppy strokes of his tongue, spilling filth between kisses.
“This is what you do to me—fuck—”
Kuroo grinds his dick against Kenma’s pussy with slow rolls of his hips. His slacks are rough against Kenma’s tender skin; the way Kuroo uses Kenma’s overstimulated body to get off makes him burn. Kenma wraps his limbs around Kuroo’s body and sucks on his tongue as Kuroo humps against him harder, faster.
“So hot—I need—”
Kuroo sits back on his heels and pulls Kenma’s shorts down to mid-thigh and groans when he sees Kenma’s cunt, wet and swollen and dark pink from the friction of his mouth and fingers. He fists a hand in the fabric of Kenma’s shorts, squeezing so hard wetness wells up between his clenched fingers and drips onto Kenma’s stomach. He jerks when each cold drop falls, but he can’t get away. The way Kuroo’s holding his shorts has both thighs trapped in the fabric, and Kuroo uses them to bend Kenma’s knees to his chest.
“Gorgeous…” Kuroo murmurs, pushing two fingers into Kenma again and watching them get swallowed by his hole. His other hand is curled around Kenma’s ankles, long fingers spanning around both of them with ease.
Kenma’s legs look dainty and tiny in Kuroo’s grip; it’s obscene. It’s so hot.
“Kuro, please—”
Kenma’s hands flutter uselessly against Kuroo, trying to pull him closer with nails digging into his forearm, but all he gets is those long fingers shoved into him as far as they’ll go, curling and stroking the spot that makes him whine with oversensitivity.
Kuroo pulls his fingers slowly out, leaving Kenma empty for only a moment before the head of his cock takes their place. He pushes inexorably into Kenma’s cunt until he bottoms out, sharp hip bones digging into the back of Kenma’s thighs. He’s so full, and still he wants—Kenma scrabbles for Kuroo’s hand, still messy with slick, and brings it to his own mouth. Kenma licks between the fingers, tasting himself on Kuroo’s skin, and feels Kuroo’s dick twitch where it’s buried deep inside him with each stroke of his tongue.
Kuroo’s cock feels so good, thick and squeezed tight by the fleshy softness of Kenma’s thighs, his fingers feel so good against Kenma’s tongue as he sucks them into his mouth one by one. Kenma meets Kuroo’s heated gaze as he gives him a show, making a mess of Kuroo’s fingers and his own lips. Kuroo starts moving inside him, slow rolling thrusts that drive deep, as he pushes his fingers into Kenma’s mouth with the same rhythm. Pushing in and in until they hit the back of Kenma’s throat and he’s swallowing desperately around them.
Kuroo fucks him slow and deep with thrusts that squelch wetly with Kenma’s arousal; his work slacks are messy with it where they still hang off Kuroo’s narrow hips. The metal teeth of the zipper sting Kenma’s tender skin but he barely notices, too caught up in the stretch of his body around Kuroo’s length, overwhelmed by how full he is.
Kuroo is babbling, words Kenma can barely hear or understand, as he fucks into him harder. Kenma’s practically bent in half now as Kuroo rails him, both of his legs flung over one of Kuroo’s shoulders. Kuroo’s breath is hot and wet when he presses his mouth to Kenma’s calf and moans shakily.
The sensations build and build and Kenma finds himself back on the edge again, impossibly, his own keening sounds drowning out Kuroo’s. He’s so close to oblivion, to shattering apart and losing himself in Kuroo so deeply that he’ll never find all the pieces, and Kuroo must feel it.
“I wanna see—wanna feel it, kitten, please,” Kuroo pants, “Need you to come one more time for me, need it so bad.”
Kenma can feel it coming, looming like a thundering storm on the horizon, but he needs—he needs something more. Before he can open his mouth or try to string words together, Kuroo spreads Kenma’s legs until he has one over each shoulder, hips never even pausing as he drives into Kenma’s wet heat.
Like this it’s easy for Kuroo to reach down and thumb at Kenma’s throbbing clit. He strokes the way he knows Kenma likes, light and fast, as fills Kenma up over and over, until there’s no room inside him for anything but Kuroo. Kenma feels himself cracking apart, his nails digging into Kuroo’s bicep hard enough to draw blood, his back arching and a helpless moan falling from his mouth Kuroo makes him come. He feels the flood of wetness spilling out of him, splashing over Kuroo’s skin with each push into his body and soaking into Kuroo’s slacks, the couch under them; he hears Kuroo’s low curses and the filthy squelch of his cock sliding through the mess as he just keeps fucking him through it.
It never ends. It goes on and on and Kenma loses himself in it, the shock of pleasure through his muscles like lightning, his blood slow and syrupy in his veins. Then Kuroo bends him further, almost to the limit of his flexibility, breathlessly begging, “Kiss me, kiss me—” So Kenma does, wrapping an arm around Kuroo’s neck to pull him down into a sloppy kiss. Tongues sliding, breath coming hot and wet between their teeth as Kuroo chases his end, slamming into Kenma relentlessly.
Kenma can tell he’s close from the quaking of his thigh muscles against Kenma’s ass and his desperate fingers tangled in Kenma’s hair as he keeps fucking him, desperate for Kenma to keep spasming on his cock as he finds his own release. Kuroo moans into Kenma’s mouth and drives deep into him, flooding him with wet heat, twitching with each new spill into Kenma’s tight clutch. It’s too much, it spills out around Kuroo’s cock and drips down Kenma’s skin, adding to the mess beneath them.
“Fuck,” Kuroo says breathlessly. He pants against Kenma’s neck and leaves messy, graceless kisses on the skin he can reach.
“Yeah,” Kenma agrees. He knows they’re both filthy now, his shorts are cutting into his thighs where they’re bent and spread around Kuroo’s waist, and in a few minutes, he’ll care. In a few minutes he’ll probably be hungry, and he’ll need a shower and he won’t come back to the couch until Kuroo has thoroughly cleaned up the mess, but for right now, none of that matters.
Kenma strokes Kuroo’s sweaty hair and kisses the side of his head. He makes cute grumpy sounds when Kuroo tries to pull away from him, and pouts while Kuroo sits back on his knees enough to pull Kenma’s shorts off one leg, then the other, settling back between them with a heavy sigh.
“Hungry now?” Kenma teases, poking at Kuroo’s side with a finger. Kuroo swats at his hand half-heartedly and nods, his hair tickling Kenma’s cheek. Kenma reaches for his phone and punches in an order from their favorite restaurant, and the confirmation screen tells him they have half an hour before one of them has to be dressed and ready to answer the door.
“We’re gross,” he complains, pushing at Kuroo’s shoulders. “Come on, let’s go shower.”
“‘M not gross, you’re gross,” Kuroo mumbles, wrapping his arms tighter around Kenma stubbornly. If Kenma could see his face, he knows he’d find a pout there, one that should be far too childish on a man of Kuroo’s size and age, but always manages to be annoyingly cute.
“I am gross, and it’s your fault, so—” Kenma wriggles, but Kuroo is heavy and wrapped tight around him. “Kuro, come on.”
Groaning dramatically, as if Kenma asking him to sit up and clean the sweat and drying cum off his body is comparable to one of Hercules’ seven labors, Kuroo relents. He lets Kenma unbutton his dress shirt and slide it down his arms with a soft touch and a trail of lingering kisses. Their clothes go in a messy heap in the corner of the room, to be dealt with much later.
Kenma loves how smart Kuroo is, especially when his eyes light up as he explains some particularly complicated or interesting scientific concept, but there’s something special about moments like now, when his expression is fucked out and almost stupid. Kenma kisses him as the shower warms up, letting the sting of the hot water pull Kuroo back to his usual level of excitability.
Later, when the couch is mostly clean and they’ve eaten all the takeout they can handle, Kuroo pulls Kenma into his lap, where he fits perfectly. Kenma nuzzles into Kuroo’s throat and lets himself be held, lets the drag of Kuroo’s big hands up and down his back lull him almost to sleep.
“Kuro?”
“Hmm?”
“You know those shorts I had on?”
Kuroo’s arms flex around Kenma and despite everything they’ve done tonight, he feels Kuroo’s dick twitch in interest against his hip. Kenma rolls his eyes, and pinches Kuroo’s arm. “Ow! Kenma, don’t pinch me for that, I can’t control it!”
“Ridiculous,” Kenma mutters under his breath.
“What about the shorts?” Kuroo’s hand slides into Kenma’s still damp hair, rubbing at his scalp. It feels so good Kenma thinks one of these days he might just start purring.
“I think, mm,” Kenma says, distracted, “I think they sell matching tops.”
“O-oh?”
Kenma smirks. He gets up slowly, stretching out his slightly sore muscles, and bends down to kiss Kuroo’s cheek.
“I ordered two,” Kenma whispers, letting his lips brush teasingly against the shell of Kuroo’s ear, just to feel him shiver. “Try not to rip them right away this time.”
Kuroo’s grin is a bright, feral thing in the dark room.
“No promises, kitten.”