Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/3718843.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Kuroko_no_Basuke_|_Kuroko's_Basketball
  Relationship:
      Hanamiya_Makoto/Imayoshi_Shouichi
  Character:
      Hanamiya_Makoto, Imayoshi_Shouichi
  Additional Tags:
      Anime_Spoilers, Established_Relationship, Consensual_Violence, Mildly
      Dubious_Consent, Dom/sub, Crying, Biting, Blood, Cruelty, No_Plot/
      Plotless, Plot_What_Plot/Porn_Without_Plot, Unhealthy_Coping_Mechanisms,
      No_Aftercare
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-05-01 Words: 3795
****** Filth ******
by tastewithouttalent
Summary
     "Imayoshi looks surprisingly ordinary when he answers his door."
     Hanamiya comes to gloat and Imayoshi doesn't react the way he
     expects.
Imayoshi looks surprisingly ordinary when he answers his door.
Hanamiya doesn’t know what he was expecting. Tears, maybe, or at least some
evidence of them, a frown or a sigh or something to stand testimony to Touou’s
loss earlier in the day. That’s more than half the reason he came over, was to
investigate the open wound of Imayoshi’s failure, to see how sadism and grief
fall into place together; it’s something of a disappointment, to see that
nothing in Imayoshi’s expression has changed, not the sharp edge of his smile
or the deceptive friendliness in his eyes. He’s precisely as he always is, if
slightly paler from the exertion of the afternoon than he usually is.
“Makoto,” he says, all his usual pristine politeness in place in his tone, and
steps aside in unspoken suggestion. “I didn’t expect you to be by.”
“Of course,” Hanamiya says, fights back the irritation of disappointment in his
chest into a slippery purr as he comes forward, skimming a little too close to
Imayoshi so he’s just crossing the boundary of the other’s comfort. “I wanted
to make sure you were okay after losing.”
It’s a shallow attempt to elicit a reaction; Imayoshi’s hardly likely to forget
the day’s events, particularly when his uniform is lying across a chair in
plain sight of the door. But Hanamiya has to try, has to make the attempt at
rubbing salt into wounds he can’t see, because they have to be there, even
Imayoshi can’t be completely stoic at the end of his high school basketball
career.
“Did you watch the game?” Imayoshi asks, his voice coming from so close over
Hanamiya’s shoulder that anyone else would jump and startle. Even Hanamiya
flinches from the rush of adrenaline too instinctive to repress, tensing for a
moment before he deliberately relaxes, lets his shoulders go boneless and
languid as he leans back to brush against the support of Imayoshi’s chest.
“A little.” He frames his mouth into a false-sympathy pout, widens his eyes
until they’re dark with the impression if not the truth of tears when he looks
up to gaze at Imayoshi. “I was cheering for you, senpai.”
Imayoshi’s push at his shoulder is hard but deliberate; it lacks the rough edge
Hanamiya wants, the snapping of the other’s control he was hoping to elicit.
It’s still enough to knock his balance out from under him, send him stumbling
forward nearly to the chair holding the abandoned uniform.
“What do you want, Makoto?” Imayoshi asks, slow and smooth and certain. When
Hanamiya looks back Imayoshi hasn’t moved towards him, has just folded his arms
over his chest and tipped his head like his glasses are letting him see
straight through everything that Hanamiya is, his flaws and darkness and
bloodstained dreams, a piercing consideration that would be more daunting if
Imayoshi weren’t half the cause of the red blurring Hanamiya’s memories.
Instead it doesn’t feel like a threat as much as an offer, contemplation
weighted heavy with meaning, and Hanamiya’s blood is burning in his veins, his
pulse trembling in his throat and sticking heavy in his chest until it’s hard
to put shape to the words he wants.
“You know what I want,” he manages, his voice skidding off an edge into dark
suggestion that Imayoshi hasn’t yet made explicit. He doesn’t need to. They
both know what happens when they’re together, both know that the only reason
Hanamiya is ever here is to try to draw blood from Imayoshi and that he always
leaves marked in his own; being coy serves no purpose at all, beyond teasing,
and that’s far from their style.
This is no exception. Imayoshi ducks his chin in a nod of agreement, his smile
pulling wider as he lifts a hand to push his glasses up, and when he speaks
it’s to say “Put that on” with a gesture towards the uniform like it’s trash
more than clothing.
Hanamiya doesn’t hesitate. It’s no weirder a request than most of the things
they’ve done, far less so than some, and it’s not like he has anything worth
hiding, not when he’s here to be laid open the way only Imayoshi can do. He
sheds his shirt before he’s reaching for the jersey, unfastens his shorts with
one hand while he shakes the uniform out, and when he kicks his clothes free of
his legs he’s briefly stripped naked before he slides the jersey on over his
head. It’s cold with the damp of Imayoshi’s sweat, clammy against his skin, but
that’s no reason to hesitate when it’ll be off him again in a few minutes; the
shorts go on next, a little too big at the hips but still tight enough to stay
up. The jersey is larger, fabric hanging over Hanamiya’s arms as if to
highlight the extra muscle he can see even under the t-shirt covering
Imayoshi’s shoulders, but he doesn’t bother with that either; he turns instead,
spreading his arms at his sides and tilting his head so his hair falls and
catches against the fabric over him.
“This what you wanted?” he asks, lilting the words into a taunt even though
he’s not sure exactly which kink he’s playing to, now. Easy enough to get him
in a basketball uniform, and one that fits better than the borrowed one; maybe
it’s about the mismatch in their sizes, Imayoshi getting off on seeing Hanamiya
in the other’s uniform. Or possibly it’s some new and exciting brand of
humiliation, a test to see if Hanamiya would hesitate at putting on a uniform
stained by the exertion of a game. Hanamiya doesn’t care what the underlying
reason was; whatever it is, he’s apparently fulfilling it, to judge from the
way Imayoshi’s eyes are going dark watching him.
“Mm,” Imayoshi hums instead of fitting words to the shadow in his eyes, and
then he’s there, moving in so fast Hanamiya doesn’t have a chance to pull back.
The smile is right in front of his eyes, now, reflexive understanding of danger
fluttering hot in his veins, and then Imayoshi’s hand is at his shoulder, a
thumb pressing hard against the dip at Hanamiya’s throat.
“Down,” Imayoshi says, and “Make me,” Hanamiya hisses, and everything falls
into a blur of motion. Hanamiya’s bringing his hand up in expectation of
Imayoshi’s grabbing fingers, slapping the other’s wrist down and out-of-reach
before it’s even made contact, but Imayoshi is moving his feet, too, stepping
into the movement and kicking his foot in between Hanamiya’s. It gives him the
advantage of balance, lets him lean in until Hanamiya has to fall back or take
the impact of the other’s motion. He takes the impact, holds his ground until
Imayoshi’s mouth slams against his, and then the burst of pain from his lip
catching at the edge of his teeth is too much to push aside. He stumbles
backward, a hand coming up to press against the hurt blossoming out into his
mouth along with the iron-tang of blood, and Imayoshi turns his foot so
Hanamiya’s stumbling motion catches against the obstacle. It’s one of his own
moves, a favorite he’s used on more than one occasion, and in the brief time-
dilation of panic Hanamiya is impressed at the twist of using his own move
against him. Then he’s reaching out to seize at Imayoshi’s shirt, reflexive
attempt to prevent the fall that is coming for him, and there’s a double
impact, floor first and then Imayoshi landing on him, the force so strong it
doesn’t register as pain right away. Hanamiya can feel his chest cramping,
lungs seizing on breath he can’t get, and then Imayoshi pushes up off him and
the pain hits, washing out over him like a full-body bruise blossoming out into
his skin.
“Fuck,” he hisses, reaches out to sink his fingernails hard against Imayoshi’s
wrist where he other is holding himself up. “You’re such an asshole.”
“Takes one to know one,” Imayoshi smiles, and he’s reaching under Hanamiya’s
hip, sinking his fingers in against the other’s ass in a hold so tight it’s
sharply painful before he shoves to roll him over onto his front. Hanamiya’s
face hits the floor, his nose crushing against the surface, and he spits a
protest, the sound leaving a smear of blood against the floor from his torn-
open lip. The color brings a shudder down Hanamiya’s spine and the spark of an
idea into his thoughts, turns his head so he can look back over his shoulder at
Imayoshi’s calmly concentrated expression.
“Better be careful,” he purrs, sucking deliberately loud at the spill of liquid
from his torn lip. “I might bleed on your precious uniform.”
This fails to get the response he was hoping for; Imayoshi neither frowns, nor
growls, nor smacks Hanamiya’s head back to the ground. He just shrugs, the
movement slack with a complete lack of emotional response, says, “It doesn’t
matter if you do,” and grabs for Hanamiya’s wrist to twist his arm back behind
him.
Hanamiya doesn’t resist, for once. He’s caught in confusion, lost in the
context of the situation and struggling to gain traction. “Doesn’t matter?” he
tries, letting Imayoshi’s hold push him forward against the floor as a hand
pushes the oversized jersey up against his spine, drags the shorts
unceremoniously off his hips. He forces a laugh, as sharp and manic as he can
manage, twists his wrist in Imayoshi’s unbreakable hold so he can feel his skin
catch and pull raw under the other’s fingers. “But senpai, it’s your uniform, a
memento of all your hard work.” He rock his hips forward, drags the head of his
hardening cock against the front of the half-loose shorts so the heavy fabric
will catch him closer to satisfaction. “You don’t want me ruining all that.”
Hanamiya can’t help the way his voice dips low and sultry on the words,
anticipation flooding hot into him. It’s intoxicating to have something so
valuable pressed against his skin, like borrowing the evidence of effort and
pressing it in against him where he can stain it with his own blood and come at
will, turn it filthy and useless. But Imayoshi doesn’t let him go, doesn’t drag
the clothes off him in the fit of defensiveness Hanamiya was half-hoping for;
he just laughs, the sound as sharp and clean as it ever is, and when he says,
“I don’t care,” it sounds more sincere than anything Hanamiya has ever heard
from the other’s lips.”It’s just garbage, now.”
Hanamiya’s blood goes hot, a shudder of resonant understanding running through
him, and when he opens his mouth the sound that comes out is a groan, vocal
proof of the flush that runs through his entire body like a shock. The clinging
damp of the jersey shoved up around his waist and down against his knees
transforms, the possibility of intended humiliation evaporating, and he can
feel his cock jump in instant response, go hard and painful against the floor
under his hips.
“You’re right,” he admits, pushing his free hand down between his stomach and
the floor, crushing his fingers in against himself so he can rock up against
the too-rough friction. “Now that you’ve failed. Doesn’t that make you trash,
too, senpai?”
Imayoshi doesn’t answer. There’s weight at Hanamiya’s spine, extra pressure
crushing him into the floor, and then the other’s knee is pinning him down
instead of his hand. There’s motion, sound Hanamiya could pull apart into
meaning if he cared to, but he doesn’t bother; he’s distracted by the near-
painful ache in his stomach, the desire for friction that is coaxing the first
spill of pre-come out of his cock to stick and stain against the inside of
Imayoshi’s uniform shorts.
“I guess that makes us a perfect pair,” he says, dipping his head down so he
can bite against the collar of the jersey and imprint a mark of his bleeding
lip there, too. His shoulder aches from the weight of Imayoshi’s knee, it’s
hard to catch his breath with the crush of the other boy atop him, but he gasps
a breath anyway, twists his thumb in under his hips so he can manage a half-
grip on himself. “Nothing left but to use each other, right?”
“Shut up,” Imayoshi says, his voice still perfectly level. He shifts himself
back, reaches down to catch slippery fingers against Hanamiya’s skin. Hanamiya
didn’t even hear him open the lube.
“What, did I hit a nerve?” He barks a laugh, drags at his arm in a futile
attempt to wrest it free from the bruising force of Imayoshi’s knee. “Who
exactly do you think you’re fucking?”
Fingers close over his mouth, callused fingertips digging in pain at the edge
of Hanamiya’s mouth. “Be quiet,” Imayoshi says, his voice still calm in
contrast to the tension in his fingers, and thrusts a pair of fingers into the
other’s body. It makes Hanamiya jerk, the stretch too much to be even faintly
pleasurable for the first moment, but the pain feels like heat and draws a
strangled groan from his throat, muffed and damp against the press of
Imayoshi’s palm. It’s easier, after that first thrust, even when Imayoshi
starts to shove into him with absolutely no evidence of consideration for
Hanamiya’s comfort. He’s hard already, it’s not like he needs more persuasion,
and the uncaring force is satisfying too, the same vicious sadism Hanamiya has
come to crave at Imayoshi’s hands. He keeps his mouth open, breathes hard and
wet against Imayoshi’s palm as he grinds his fingers roughly over himself,
while some back part of his thoughts notes the unusual demand for silence.
Imayoshi has never had a problem with Hanamiya’s jabs before, has been
perfectly willing to let Hanamiya moan and curse and spit vitriol in the past.
He only gets aggressive when it comes to physical violence, and even then it’s
more simple control that he attains and holds, like now, with the force of his
knee bruising against Hanamiya’s spine and twisting painful in the other’s
wrist.
Hanamiya can feel his torn lip pulling taut and aching when he grins,
psychological satisfaction uncurling into his blood better than his fingers can
do alone. “Stressed, senpai?”
The hand tightens against his mouth, a pair of fingers shoving past his lips to
hold his tongue down and cut off the last pretense of intelligibility, and
that’s better answer than Hanamiya expected to ever get.
He doesn’t stop pushing his fingers in over himself. It’s still satisfying,
takes the edge off the vicious desire for more than what even the shove of
Imayoshi’s fingers can give him, and his body is willing enough to respond even
as his mind tries to feel out the unfamiliar shape of this new dynamic and
decide how he feels about it. Being used is nothing new; that’s what Hanamiya
likes, anyway, what he suspects Imayoshi enjoys as much as he does. It’s more
than half the other’s fault that Hanamiya even parsed his own preferences,
years and years past, it seems a simple matter of efficiency to use each other
for satisfaction. But this is something different, sadism layered atop the
self-destructive urge that Hanamiya is used to claiming as his own, and he’s
not entirely sure he’s ready to act as the stand-in for the abuse Imayoshi
wants to throw on himself.
Imayoshi doesn’t give him time to work through all the implications. He moves
his knee, lets Hanamiya’s arm free before his fingers draw back all at once, a
jerk of motion that makes Hanamiya moan as much in anticipation as in shock,
and then he’s pressing in so quickly he must have taken the time to unzip his
jeans before he even spilled lube on his fingers. There’s a moment of
resistance, difficulty in the angle, Hanamiya thinks first, and it’s not until
Imayoshi shifts his hips and shoves in hard that he realizes it’s because the
other boy isn’t as hard as he usually is, his cock speaking to the disconnect
between this and their more usual interaction. It’s a strange feeling, the
pressure of Imayoshi flushing into full arousal while he’s half-inside
Hanamiya, but then he’s moving, thrusting forward to press his hips flush with
Hanamiya’s and giving the other all the stretched-wide fill that pushes all the
air out of his lungs in one gusting rush. Hanamiya groans, loud and damp around
Imayoshi’s fingers in his mouth, and he’s moving his newly freed hand but only
to brace himself against the floor, to drag his fingernails grating over the
surface like they’ll give him some kind of traction to push himself back.
Imayoshi doesn’t hesitate in this anymore than he ever has. He’s sure in his
movements, apparently no more hesitant to fuck Hanamiya out of frustration than
out of his usual pleasure in destruction. And it feels good, it aches and burns
and sparks under Hanamiya’s skin like it always does, the painful pull of his
body skidding by inches over the floor whetting his desire as much as the
fingers he has pressed around himself. But they’re both quiet, much quieter
than usual -- Hanamiya because of the fingers in his mouth, Imayoshi for
reasons Hanamiya doesn’t know but can guess at. He can feel the other’s gaze
locked at his shoulders, can hear the steady focus in Imayoshi’s breathing as
his moves, and there’s no trace of the catch of a smile behind it or the purr
of almost a laugh under the sound. It’s just focused, determined, like
shattering Hanamiya apart is a job instead of the pleasure it usually seems,
and the awareness of that is curdling sour and far more agonizing in Hanamiya’s
stomach than any of the surface-layer hurt.
He whines, some shape of protest on his tongue, but Imayoshi doesn’t pause for
that any more than he ever has before, and after all Hanamiya hasn’t stopped
stroking with his hand. The heat under his skin is too insistent to be quelled
by the rising sense of unease, the weird discomfort between his shoulderblades
and drawing tight in his throat, and when he tips his hips up to get a better
angle for the motion of his hand Imayoshi slides in deeper, the head of his
cock shoving in against Hanamiya until any discomfort is gone in white-out
response. That helps, helps more than anything else, so Hanamiya does it again,
pushes his hips up off the floor until his thighs are shaking with the effort,
until his back is straining from the steep angle he’s forcing on it. And
Imayoshi just keeps going, steady hard thrusts that Hanamiya can feel jolting
up the whole length of his spine and grounding out at the back of his skull,
and his skin is flushed and his breathing is coming hard and his eyes are
burning, now, aching dully until he has to shut his eyes in a desperate attempt
to quell the hurt. He’s going harder under his own hold, his cock swelling in
the telltale pre-orgasmic ache, and his forehead is creasing with a pain he
can’t identify and can’t trace back to its source. Then the tension of
satisfaction gives way, snaps out into pulsing pleasure in his veins as he
bites down on Imayoshi’s fingers, and as he spills come over his fingers and
onto the floor he blinks and realizes his cheeks are damp.
“Fuck,” Hanamiya tries to say. But Imayoshi’s fingers are still in his mouth,
in spite of the bruising-force bite he delivered seconds ago, and even when
Hanamiya whimpers protest the other shows no sign of moving. He’s still moving
over him, the same unceasing rhythm of his hips as he thrusts into the other,
and Hanamiya is crying, his chest aching from the inside out with a pressure he
doesn’t understand, as if he’s borrowed more than just Imayoshi’s uniform.
There’s something painful about the situation, a weird emotional dissonance on
which he can’t gain traction, and usually this sort of thing would make him
laugh but the only humor to be found is bitter and dry as ashes on the back of
his tongue. Hanamiya shuts his eyes, squeezes them shut like that will somehow
stem the tears, but it does no good; the sobs are starting now, choking up his
throat with as much misery as if he’s feeling Imayoshi’s loss personally, like
he’s crying out all the grief the other isn’t showing. He’s choking, he can’t
breathe and he can’t stop crying, and Imayoshi’s fingers at his cheek are going
wet and there’s a sound over him, a faint sigh as if of relief, and Imayoshi
goes still as he spills inside Hanamiya.
It fades quickly, at least. Whatever borrowed emotion is trembling through
Hanamiya’s shoulders is gone by the time Imayoshi has pulled out of him and
slid his bruised fingers past Hanamiya’s teeth. Imayoshi doesn’t say anything,
either, not while Hanamiya is sitting up too-fast and dragging the jersey up to
swipe at the unfamiliar damp at his cheeks, so roughly he tears open the
scabbed-over cut at his lip and starts bleeding again. The blood is better than
the tears, the sharp burn of the taste enough to drown out the faint salt at
his lips, and by the time he emerges from Imayoshi’s jersey to toss it at the
other boy he feels very nearly himself again.
“What are you going to do with that?” he asks with as much taunt as he can
muster, glancing up through the weight of his hair at Imayoshi to make sure the
other isn’t laughing at him more than usual. “Throw it out?”
Imayoshi turns the jersey over in his hands, twists it into a ball like he’s
trying to press the stains farther into the fabric. “I don’t think so,” he
says, gets to his feet so he’s looking down at Hanamiya kneeling on the floor.
“I seem to have an affinity for filth, after all.” Then he smiles, tips his
head to turn the edge of the expression blade-sharp, and something in Hanamiya
breathes a sigh of relieved recognition.
“Feel free to shower before you go home,” Imayoshi says, turning away without
bothering to see Hanamiya get to his feet.
Hanamiya does, runs the water so long it’s going cold by the time he gets out
just to be an inconvenience to Imayoshi. When he leaves he leaves the uniform
shorts on the bathroom floor, too, pulls his own clothes back on and doesn’t
bother announcing he’s leaving.
It’s the end of high school basketball for Imayoshi, but nothing’s over between
them. Hanamiya’s not sure they will ever be done with each other.
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