Kuroo's no culinary genius, but he's picked up a few things here and there, and for the most part it's all trial and error anyway. He's had a lot of summers to experiment and he's mostly perfected the ratio of yoghurt to juice and how to stagger the process so the fruit settles with even distribution. The trick to popsicles, though, is that you have to freeze them twice: four to six hours in the mould, then an extra half hour out of it, carefully wrapped, so they'll hold their shape better when finally served.
"It's because you were impatient," Kuroo says, and watches with helpless fascination while the mess dribbles down Kenma's knuckles, one enterprising glob fast approaching a claim on his elbow. The shape of the popsicle's barely recognisable in Kenma's hands and Kenma is losing the race to lap up the melt before it all drips right off the stick. He's never been the type to bite in, either; he takes the slow sucking approach, the unintentionally erotic ingenue approach straight out of the movies--and it would be, except that he looks wholly disinterested the entire time his tongue twists slow circles around the tip, slides up the sides, sucks at the sticky residue left on his lips.
"It's hot," Kenma says, and his tongue darts a quick swipe between his spread fingers, but he's not fast enough to catch a new droplet of peach cream that lands, instead, on his tshirt.
"Gross," Kuroo agrees, and literally cannot look away from where it's seeping into the cotton over Kenma's clavicle, probably forming a stain.
Kenma's going to complain, because they're in public, insofar as Kenma's back garden veranda is public, but it really can't be helped. Kenma's making a small grunt of annoyance in the back of his throat but the popsicle's only half gone, and quite frankly the whole sordid affair is an assault on common decency.
"Let me get that," Kuroo offers, like a good citizen ought. Like a melting popsicle's too much luggage for Kenma to carry.
"What," Kenma says, at exactly the same time Kuroo catches his forearm and drags his tongue over one long sweet trail of residue down the pale inside of his wrist. Kenma squirms against the grip and more stickiness spills over to land on his stomach and lap, but Kuroo's not finished lapping into his palm where the peach flavour's tempered by salt. "I wasn't done," Kenma protests with what little half-assed outrage his body can muster, then adds, like an afterthought, "that's disgusting."
"You're disgusting," Kuroo replies, through his soft slurping noises. "Stop wiggling. I've got a hard-on."
Kenma freezes and says, "Why are you telling me that," and it's a good thing Kuroo happens to find deadpan resignation very appealing, because he's already on his knees and working his way down from Kenma's forearm to that seductive peach slime melting into Kenma's stomach. The cotton is rough under his tongue, a bit tart from the fruit, more damp now with his own spit than anything but probably too thick for Kenma too feel it on his skin as more than warm pressure. Kenma starts to shift around again and Kuroo can feel the abdominal muscles working under his mouth while he sucks at the fabric. It makes his own dick twitch a little in his pants, which is all pretty nice, but there's still a scatter of popsicle drops on Kenma's shorts, and Kuroo's thorough. It's one of his best qualities. With his hands on either side of Kenma's thighs he can hold his body still enough to get his tongue over the pinkish stain on Kenma's crotch.
Kenma drops the sad remnants of popsicle into the grass and makes a flustered little squawk, dirty hands hovering in the air near Kuroo's face like he's not sure what else to do with them. "The neighbours will see you," Kenma hisses, red-faced in the aftermath of his own involuntary noise. Kenma's scuffed knees are shaking a little, probably more from mortification than Kuroo's prowess, but it's all his own fault, Kuroo figures. He's been seduced.
"I am the neighbours," Kuroo points out, then starts mouthing the contours of Kenma's dick.
It could be vengeance or an unintended consequence that Kenma's sticky spitty hands both latch into Kuroo's hair, but it's not like he's having a good hair-day anyway. He hollows his cheeks and slurps hard at the last of the peach flavour, and cargo shorts are not a very good conductor for blowjob but Kenma's small hands are tight in his hair, alternately pushing him away and pulling him forward in fits. Kuroo slides his palms under Kenma's ass and laps at him, sloppily, a cheerful hum in the back of his throat.
"Kuro," Kenma finally snaps, so Kuroo pulls back a bit, rests his face on Kenma's skinny thigh and looks up from under his lashes. Kenma's lower lip is swollen from where he's bitten down too hard, and there's a flush high on his freckled cheeks, in his ears. It's such a good look on him that Kuroo spontaneously evolves a passionately dissenting opinion on the virtues of the twice-frozen popsicle.
"Didn't want to waste it," Kuroo says, smiling crooked. "Want to come inside?"
It's an inveterate charm point that even half-hard in spit-sogged shorts, Kenma completely ignores the double-entendre.
FILL: "sticky" (kuroken, no warnings)
"It's because you were impatient," Kuroo says, and watches with helpless fascination while the mess dribbles down Kenma's knuckles, one enterprising glob fast approaching a claim on his elbow. The shape of the popsicle's barely recognisable in Kenma's hands and Kenma is losing the race to lap up the melt before it all drips right off the stick. He's never been the type to bite in, either; he takes the slow sucking approach, the unintentionally erotic ingenue approach straight out of the movies--and it would be, except that he looks wholly disinterested the entire time his tongue twists slow circles around the tip, slides up the sides, sucks at the sticky residue left on his lips.
"It's hot," Kenma says, and his tongue darts a quick swipe between his spread fingers, but he's not fast enough to catch a new droplet of peach cream that lands, instead, on his tshirt.
"Gross," Kuroo agrees, and literally cannot look away from where it's seeping into the cotton over Kenma's clavicle, probably forming a stain.
Kenma's going to complain, because they're in public, insofar as Kenma's back garden veranda is public, but it really can't be helped. Kenma's making a small grunt of annoyance in the back of his throat but the popsicle's only half gone, and quite frankly the whole sordid affair is an assault on common decency.
"Let me get that," Kuroo offers, like a good citizen ought. Like a melting popsicle's too much luggage for Kenma to carry.
"What," Kenma says, at exactly the same time Kuroo catches his forearm and drags his tongue over one long sweet trail of residue down the pale inside of his wrist. Kenma squirms against the grip and more stickiness spills over to land on his stomach and lap, but Kuroo's not finished lapping into his palm where the peach flavour's tempered by salt. "I wasn't done," Kenma protests with what little half-assed outrage his body can muster, then adds, like an afterthought, "that's disgusting."
"You're disgusting," Kuroo replies, through his soft slurping noises. "Stop wiggling. I've got a hard-on."
Kenma freezes and says, "Why are you telling me that," and it's a good thing Kuroo happens to find deadpan resignation very appealing, because he's already on his knees and working his way down from Kenma's forearm to that seductive peach slime melting into Kenma's stomach. The cotton is rough under his tongue, a bit tart from the fruit, more damp now with his own spit than anything but probably too thick for Kenma too feel it on his skin as more than warm pressure. Kenma starts to shift around again and Kuroo can feel the abdominal muscles working under his mouth while he sucks at the fabric. It makes his own dick twitch a little in his pants, which is all pretty nice, but there's still a scatter of popsicle drops on Kenma's shorts, and Kuroo's thorough. It's one of his best qualities. With his hands on either side of Kenma's thighs he can hold his body still enough to get his tongue over the pinkish stain on Kenma's crotch.
Kenma drops the sad remnants of popsicle into the grass and makes a flustered little squawk, dirty hands hovering in the air near Kuroo's face like he's not sure what else to do with them. "The neighbours will see you," Kenma hisses, red-faced in the aftermath of his own involuntary noise. Kenma's scuffed knees are shaking a little, probably more from mortification than Kuroo's prowess, but it's all his own fault, Kuroo figures. He's been seduced.
"I am the neighbours," Kuroo points out, then starts mouthing the contours of Kenma's dick.
It could be vengeance or an unintended consequence that Kenma's sticky spitty hands both latch into Kuroo's hair, but it's not like he's having a good hair-day anyway. He hollows his cheeks and slurps hard at the last of the peach flavour, and cargo shorts are not a very good conductor for blowjob but Kenma's small hands are tight in his hair, alternately pushing him away and pulling him forward in fits. Kuroo slides his palms under Kenma's ass and laps at him, sloppily, a cheerful hum in the back of his throat.
"Kuro," Kenma finally snaps, so Kuroo pulls back a bit, rests his face on Kenma's skinny thigh and looks up from under his lashes. Kenma's lower lip is swollen from where he's bitten down too hard, and there's a flush high on his freckled cheeks, in his ears. It's such a good look on him that Kuroo spontaneously evolves a passionately dissenting opinion on the virtues of the twice-frozen popsicle.
"Didn't want to waste it," Kuroo says, smiling crooked. "Want to come inside?"
It's an inveterate charm point that even half-hard in spit-sogged shorts, Kenma completely ignores the double-entendre.