[ Not in the least bit because far as personalities are concerned, they have— a lot in common, come to think of it. Kuroo spares it the bare minimum of his attention, thinking about the parallels of his own practicality against Akaashi's pragmatism as he catches the roll of Akaashi's hip with a hard grip. He's loosened his hold on the setter's shirt, opting instead to boldly go where his hands have never dared to hope to go — warm hands map the smooth expanse of pale skin underneath high-end cotton as Kuroo leans up to kiss Akaashi properly.
It's a wet thing. Akaashi kisses the same way he plays - forceful, graceful, sharp as a goddamn knife, and every time his teeth grazes dangerously on Kuroo's tongue his own arousal spikes to new heights. Over and over. Kuroo catches every sigh, chases after every drawn breath, refuses to relent when Akaashi meets him halfway.
He doesn't realize he's pushed up and braced their mutual weight on an elbow until it starts to ache against the hard floor. ]
Hang on.
[ Kuroo strips Akaashi of his shirt in a single, fluid movement, practiced from years of managing Kenma as the younger sibling he never had. But Akaashi isn't Kenma - Kuroo's never wanted to sink his teeth into Kenma's neck, has never jerked off to the thought of his shoulders, hasn't ever dreamed of kneeling between Kenma's legs as he took his hard length deep into his throat and held it there. Akaashi, though — Kuroo's wanted all of that and more.
He's wanted to for some time now. It dawned on him too late, the realization of it, in the middle of training camp at the tail-end of his second year while Akaashi and Bokuto were talking about nothing important. It crashed into him like a car crash, a train wreck - Akaashi's narrating his class schedules while unscrewing a water bottle and Kuroo stood dumbstruck in the middle of the court, thinking: I want to know how he tastes like when he comes.
Kuroo's never questioned it since, and he's certainly not questioning it now, drawing away from Akaashi's mouth to bite along the column of the setter's neck all the way to the rise of his shoulder, sucking a mark there. And his hands wander - over Akaashi's slim waist, over his belly, almost shyly soothing over his chest before Kuroo decides to skip the pretense and settles both over Akaashi's ass.
They're flush against each other like this; there's no space in between, no hiding the fact that they're both hard and they're grinding against each other. Kuroo pulls away long enough to press a gentle kiss at the hollow of Akaashi's throat, and when he speaks again his voice is roughed up by need. ]
I'm into you, too. Have been for a while now. [ A kiss against the hard spur of a collarbone. Against Akaashi's adam's apple. Just under the soft dip of his jaw, near the ear. ] Let me suck you off.
ay dios mio
[ Not in the least bit because far as personalities are concerned, they have— a lot in common, come to think of it. Kuroo spares it the bare minimum of his attention, thinking about the parallels of his own practicality against Akaashi's pragmatism as he catches the roll of Akaashi's hip with a hard grip. He's loosened his hold on the setter's shirt, opting instead to boldly go where his hands have never dared to hope to go — warm hands map the smooth expanse of pale skin underneath high-end cotton as Kuroo leans up to kiss Akaashi properly.
It's a wet thing. Akaashi kisses the same way he plays - forceful, graceful, sharp as a goddamn knife, and every time his teeth grazes dangerously on Kuroo's tongue his own arousal spikes to new heights. Over and over. Kuroo catches every sigh, chases after every drawn breath, refuses to relent when Akaashi meets him halfway.
He doesn't realize he's pushed up and braced their mutual weight on an elbow until it starts to ache against the hard floor. ]
Hang on.
[ Kuroo strips Akaashi of his shirt in a single, fluid movement, practiced from years of managing Kenma as the younger sibling he never had. But Akaashi isn't Kenma - Kuroo's never wanted to sink his teeth into Kenma's neck, has never jerked off to the thought of his shoulders, hasn't ever dreamed of kneeling between Kenma's legs as he took his hard length deep into his throat and held it there. Akaashi, though — Kuroo's wanted all of that and more.
He's wanted to for some time now. It dawned on him too late, the realization of it, in the middle of training camp at the tail-end of his second year while Akaashi and Bokuto were talking about nothing important. It crashed into him like a car crash, a train wreck - Akaashi's narrating his class schedules while unscrewing a water bottle and Kuroo stood dumbstruck in the middle of the court, thinking: I want to know how he tastes like when he comes.
Kuroo's never questioned it since, and he's certainly not questioning it now, drawing away from Akaashi's mouth to bite along the column of the setter's neck all the way to the rise of his shoulder, sucking a mark there. And his hands wander - over Akaashi's slim waist, over his belly, almost shyly soothing over his chest before Kuroo decides to skip the pretense and settles both over Akaashi's ass.
They're flush against each other like this; there's no space in between, no hiding the fact that they're both hard and they're grinding against each other. Kuroo pulls away long enough to press a gentle kiss at the hollow of Akaashi's throat, and when he speaks again his voice is roughed up by need. ]
I'm into you, too. Have been for a while now. [ A kiss against the hard spur of a collarbone. Against Akaashi's adam's apple. Just under the soft dip of his jaw, near the ear. ] Let me suck you off.
Please?