Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1582034.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      No_Archive_Warnings_Apply, Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Kuroko_no_Basuke_|_Kuroko's_Basketball
  Relationship:
      Aida_Riko/Hyuuga_Junpei
  Character:
      Aida_Riko, Hyuuga_Junpei, mentions_of_others
  Additional Tags:
      First_Time, Dom/sub, Femdom, Riko_is_absolutely_Not_Good_at_Domming,
      Hyuuga_adapts, Underage_Sex, Rope_Bondage
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-05-07 Chapters: 1/? Words: 3734
****** Hands Up, Hands Tied ******
by manhattan
Summary
     Hyuuga is a man of his word.
Notes
     i haven't finished the manga yet - so this is an au where, despite
     everyone winning everything there is ever to win in the world
     (because seirin deserves it), hyuuga confesses naked anyway
“My parents are out of town,” Riko says, and that’s why Hyuuga ends up having
to walk her home in the pouring, heavy rain. “You know, because of the
perverts! You wouldn’t let a cute girl go home by herself, right, Hyuuga?”
He says: “Where’s the cute girl?” and she hits him, but he walks her home
anyway (like the entire team knew he would). Her umbrella is tiny – her father
took the only other one in the house – and Hyuuga’s has been stolen by some
fucking asshole who’s going to grovel for forgiveness if he ever finds who did
it, he swears it. By the time they get home, the icy wind has assured the pink
plastic wires give out, and Hyuuga is soaked to the bone on his entire left
side. Riko gives him a look when they’re by her porch, and Hyuuga feels the
back of his neck heat. His chest, too, and his face, and the pit of his
stomach, something deep and curling.
Riko turns her face away, fiddling with her keys, and Hyuuga looks at her damp
hair, at her wet socks, white and short like an athlete’s.
“Just come in, or you’ll get sick,” Riko says, and though her tone is casual he
has this urge to spin her around and look at her face, he doesn’t know why. He
doesn’t question it, just nods and then says ‘okay’ when he remembers she’s not
looking at him.
Her house is dark, despite the blinds being open; her curtains are also pushed
to the side, but the sky outside is gray and dark, and the corridor is only
palely, dimly lit. Her knees glisten when she leans over to take off her shoes,
the gesture practiced and easy. Hyuuga’s glasses slide down his nose when he
looks up, aching for the end of her skirt, rising higher; he feels himself
flush, embarrassed for trying to look and frustrated for not managing it.
Riko walks on, leaving him struggling with his outdoor shoes. She climbs the
stairs with fleeting, quiet steps, and it’s a full minute before he manages to
see her again. His breath is a little winded, but he’d rather die than let her
hear it, because Riko would put him through hell just to make sure he’s on top
shape. He breathes in so slowly he thinks he might die from asphyxiation.
Riko steps out of her parents’ room holding a shirt and pants, and gives him an
odd look when she finds him loitering outside her room.
“Just hurry up,” she says, impatient, giving him a shove. The door to her room
swings open, and hits the wall with a thud. Hyuuga gives her room a once-over
while he’s stumbling, searching for something without really knowing why. Riko
glances at him so meaningfully he can see it even though the leg of his glasses
cuts into his periphery. The back of his neck flushes, but he pretends she’s
not going to notice.
“What’s that for?” Hyuuga asks, pointing at her father’s clothes. Like he’s
stupid.
“I’ll get the water running,” Riko replies, ignoring him as she walks out
again. He hears a door opening in the distance, and then realizes he’s in her
room, by himself. Hyuuga briefly entertains himself by picturing his hands
searching through her underwear drawer, and then shuffles his wet socks around
a bit, dragging them around her pink carpet.
He hasn’t been here in a while; not since he was tutored by her in one subject
or other back when they’d first discovered Kagami was shitty at Japanese.
They’re older now, more accustomed to each other, but he still feels at a loss.
Her room is pinker now, softer, and he can’t stop checking the corners for
dirty underwear, because that’s where he piles his. Shit, he thinks, closing
his eyes, bringing his fingers up to pinch at the bridge of his nose. Why can’t
he stop thinking about underwear?
“Hyuuga,” Riko calls, over the sound of rushing water. Hyuuga swallows, aching
for a glass of something cool, but eventually steps out. She hands him a towel,
and it smells like her house. The bath is full, steaming into the wall and
fogging the white tiles. “Don’t take too long,” she adds, commanding as usual,
“I want to take a bath, too.”
He straightens, pushes his glasses up his nose. Suddenly, he is aware of how
wet her shirt is, on the shoulder, and the strap of her bra is black. Hyuuga
thinks about how flat she is first, and how black is such a mature color later.
He swallows.
“You go first, then,” he says, throat tight.
“What? No,” Riko says, giving him another odd look. “We can’t risk you getting
sick. Hurry up and take your clothes off.”
Hyuuga is glad years of getting punched have honed him into a poker-faced man
when it comes to her, because he manages not to laugh. But he blushes, and he
feels it, and Riko sees it. Of course she does.
“You’re flushing,” Riko hisses, livid, and Hyuuga is, for the first time,
ecstatic that she’s so obsessed over her players’ health. “Get into the bath
right now before I make you,” she adds, stomping out of the bathroom and
closing the door behind her while he watches dumbly. Her steps, heavy with
annoyance, eventually fade into distant whispers. Hyuuga unbuttons his shirt,
peels it off with too unsteady fingers.
The water is too hot when he slips inside the bath.
Hyuuga, too.
===============================================================================
It’s still raining by the time he walks out of the bathroom, toweling his damp
hair. It smells like her father’s shampoo, but Hyuuga will admit, at least to
himself, that he considered using hers and excusing himself with his lousy
eyesight. Maybe to Teppei, if they ever man up and try buying drinks after the
Winter Cup.
He knocks on the door of her room even though it’s half-open; Riko is sitting
on her bed, bare legs crossed, a towel around her neck. Her wet hair fans over
the white like it’s meant to be there. He frowns, looks away.
“I used the one downstairs, because you took so long,” Riko tells him, smirking
a little. Hyuuga sniffs indignantly, and pushes his glasses up his nose. Then,
as an afterthought, he tugs at his collar, feeling warm – the gesture is
needless because Aida-san is bigger than him, and his shirt hangs from Hyuuga’s
neck like it’s not meant to be there. Riko’s eyes lock onto his fingers as they
curl around the first button, and he stills, caught. Her gaze flickers away;
Hyuuga tries not to think of Aida-san’s glaring face, tries not to think of
what he’d do to if he knew Hyuuga is here, with his daughter, alone –
He makes to leave, then, beginning to excuse himself, and Riko looks right past
him and out the window of her room, like he’s made of glass.
“Ah, it’s still raining,” she says, “so you can eat here—“
“That’s not necessary,” Hyuuga says swiftly, setting a hand against his stomach
without meaning to. Riko frowns, that one wrinkle under her eye twitching, and
he stiffens, repentant.
“You’re free to leave,” she says breezily, uncrossing and crossing her legs.
Her hands rest on her bare knees; her nails are cut short and coated with, he
presumes, some kind of transparent nail polish. His eyes shift to the side,
find her bare legs, the end of her shorts. He thinks they might be pajama
shorts, but he doesn’t want to linger on that thought any longer than he
already has, so he pays mind to her hoodie instead. Pajamas are too intimate,
too much – they’re not childhood friends, he remembers, because sometimes he
feels like he’s known her for a lifetime.
Riko’s hands slip inside the pocket of her sweatshirt, dragging out the
numbers, her name in caps lock. Teppei had told him, let’s put her first name,
and Hyuuga had thought it too forward, but the taller boy had been unmovable.
It’s his best kept secret, but every time he sees her wearing it, he feels – he
feels –
“Oh,” Riko cuts in, distracted, “but the only umbrella I have with me is mine –
daddy stole the other one, for whatever reason.”
“The pink one?” he asks, because he’s a gentleman and he resists the urge to
say: “the one that will never recover from today?” because he saw the way the
plastic was bending by the time they got home, and he’s not enough of a fool to
think she’ll be able to use it again.
“Yes, Riko says, eyes bright. He sighs, only mildly horrified as she sits up
and walks out of the room, giving him a look that makes him catch up. She’s
laughing as she skips downstairs, bare feet pale against the wood.
Her kitchen continues as clean as ever – the dark day outside is enough for
them to see, though, and Riko doesn’t turn on the light, instead leaning over
to check the contents of her fridge. Hyuuga stills, takes a good look at her
thighs, at the patch of fabric he can see if he hikes his neck to the side, a
flash of pale blue hidden under pajama shorts. His throat is dry.
“Can I have some water,” he says, starting to feel sick.
“Don’t be such a big baby,” Riko says, not looking at him, “these are just
leftovers, I didn’t cook them.”
The relief spreads through him like warm butter, but he still thinks he might
need a glass of water. Hyuuga’s mouth is dry and tasteless and his lips are
noticeably chapped when he runs his tongue over them. Riko looks over her
shoulder then, picking up tupperwares with a steady hand, and her eyes catch
his. Hyuuga feels the customary chill that strikes whenever she uses her eyes
on him, staring at him without giving him the slightest hint of interest. He
closes his fists, warm.
“You’re tense,” she says, walking past him to set the leftovers on the counter.
The plates are on the cupboard above the sink, and Hyuuga knows this despite
not having been around much, so he helps her set the table. The sun is setting
outside, and Riko hasn’t turned on the lights, just opened the exhaust hood
over the stove – its bulbs are tiny and yellow and they make shadows where
there shouldn’t be any. The back of her knees, the dimples there. “Wasn’t the
training enough?” she teases.
He startles, tensing even more, because there is no way she’s not enjoying
herself.
Hyuuga tells her, “It was,” in a practiced, shell-shocked tone, “so please
spare us from more torture.”
Riko gives him an amused look, sliding his rice and chicken into the microwave
before she directs him to the forks and knives. He sits at the table after he
sets it, sipping at the glass of water Riko has served him effortlessly. She
battles with her fibrous chicken leg, before giving up and exchanging it for
another piece. The microwave dings; Hyuuga stands up to fetch it, but she’s
faster, and when she sets the plate in front of him, she leans in far more than
she needs to.
He takes another sip.
The chicken smells nice, and looks nice, and he searches around it with his
fork when she’s not looking, just making sure she hasn’t slipped him any
vitamins. She hasn’t, and the knowledge of it makes him want to kiss her. Riko
sits in front of him, crossing her legs, her bare feet brushing against Aida-
san’s pants once. He bites the inside of his cheek before resuming the meal.
It’s a pleasant ordeal, somewhat. The rain doesn’t let on, and he’s starting to
wonder if he should just ask his dad to come pick him up, or something, when
Riko begins speaking in the exact same tone she uses before an important match.
Hyuuga, conditioned by years of training with her, listens attentively, feeling
like Pavlov’s dog and hating himself for it. He can’t help it – when Coach
talks, everyone listens.
“Hyuuga,” she starts, closing her cutlery on top of her plate politely, “if I
were to – come forward with some … sensible information, what should I expect
your reaction to be like?”
He chokes on the rice, distinctly feels the pain of someone who’s inhaled food,
and then swallows down the rest of his glass. Her house is too quiet, and his
awkwardness too loud, but Riko doesn’t laugh. His neck is so warm. Her eyes,
too, burrowing into his so easily.
“What are you saying,” he manages eventually, slightly croaky, setting down the
empty glass. He plays it off with a smile, but he’s already halfway there,
already starting to see why she’s been so insistent.
“You know what I’m saying,” Riko replies, and it clicks, everything, from the
start.
“Oh,” Hyuuga says dumbly, watching her lean back on her chair.
The clock in her corridor ticks into another minute, and he listens to it over
his drumming chest, somehow. They’d agreed, before, not to act on whatever is
between them. Not until the Winter Cup, was what Riko said to a girlfriend of
hers, or something, Hyuuga doesn’t remember the details but he remembers the
seriousness of her voice, how steady it was. Dating is weird to Hyuuga, but the
team always complains about how lovey-dovey the two of them seem when they plan
the more horrifying practices – so maybe this would be –
“Okay,” he eventually mutters, his hand climbing to soothe the side of the
first button. Aida-san’s shirt hangs and shifts when he unbuttons it; Riko
doesn’t move her eyes away from his face, and Hyuuga almost appreciates it. The
kitchen is warm, somewhat, the tiles warm against the flesh of his feet, but
Hyuuga still shivers when Aida-san’s shirt parts, each side hanging off either
shoulder. It’s too large, but this he already knew, and when the fabric brushes
against his arms, it feels breezy and soft. He steels through it, willing
himself to play the part of captain, willing to spare himself the shame of
what’s to come.
“On your feet,” Riko says, using the voice, the coaching voice, and Hyuuga is
standing up before he knows it, her kitchen chair skidding backwards with a
screech. Neither of them turn to look at it. She’s staring straight into his
face, resting hers into her hand. Her feet shakes along a beat only she hears.
“Would you like some dessert?” she adds, then, as if she’s only just remembered
she is at home, where she can eat anything she likes. Hyuuga closes his eyes,
wills himself to think of how terribly basketballs smell after years of use.
He shakes his head.
“Your loss,” Riko says, smiling impishly as she lifts off the table without a
sound, turning to her fridge. The freezer is one of the new, high-powered ones,
and the steam rolls off of it in waves of white, parting where it meets her
chest. He looks into the ice, averting his eyes from there; she brings out
chocolate ice cream, sets it on the table, and produces a tiny spoon. Her
fingers pull the lid off, and then she’s staring at him again. Hyuuga takes it
he’s supposed to continue – he does.
“Um,” he breathes, shaky, dropping Aida-san’s shirt on the back of his chair,
practically feeling her eyes as they rake over the trembling muscles of his
arms. “As previously promised,” he adds, not looking at her, “I, um—“
“You missed a spot,” Riko helpfully cuts in, eyes darting down below to strike
at her father’s pants, and Hyuuga’s fingers twitch in the direction of the
button before he can help himself. She notices; he notices her. The spoon draws
an arc and finishes inside her mouth. He has to be obvious to see, but her
tongue cradles it before her lips close, and there’s a brief pause before she
swallows. Hyuuga mimics her. “Well?”
“Y-Yes,” he replies, and then feels warm for taking her orders this easily,
because in the end this isn’t the field and they’re just two high-school
students. His fingers still fumble with the pants, but when he nails it they
fall to his ankles, too large to hold properly. What the fuck is Aida-san
eating, Hyuuga thinks, and then shudders, wondering if Riko puts vitamins in
his food, too.
“Nice boxers,” Riko says, easy and honest.
“Thanks,” he replies, automatically, leaning over to step out of them. He’s
already used to being watched while changing, but it’s different, like a
nervous sort of energy is piling steadily onto his stomach. He grabs at the
pants, a little tighter. They’re dark, and contrast against the white shirt
when he folds them across the chair’s back. His boxers feel tiny, but at least
he’s not wearing briefs, and he’s got a cute butt, anyway, so.
Riko’s still staring at his face, almost as if – expectant? He swallows,
remembers what she’s waiting for.
“I’m in love with you,” he says, holding himself high, but Riko lifts a hand,
eats with the other. Her tongue slides over her upper lip in a fast line and he
watches it all like it’s the first time he’s seen it happen.
“Hyuuga-kun,” Riko says, all flushed sweetness, pursing her lips as she plays
with the melting chocolate ice cream. There’s a drawing on the dessert, on top,
and he strains to see what but she keeps on talking: “Do you understand the
meaning of the word naked?” And there it is, there it is – he hears it, and he
hears it loud and clear and reverberant, both the word and how soft and shy her
voice sounds for a half-second. God, Hyuuga thinks, I’m not a religious person,
but.
“I do,” he replies blandly, his throat scratchy. Riko averts her eyes, the
flush rising to her face, the spoon slicing another wave of dark chocolate.
There are bits and pieces around the cream, and he stares at those, because
it’s better than to drool all over her just because she’s blushing. Hyuuga
thought he’d be better at hiding his feelings, but it seems not; doesn’t
matter, anyway, because this isn’t the field, and Riko is no opponent.
His fingers ghost over the gray elastic band, his breath stuttering. He can
feel the heat rushing towards his dick, and tries his best not to shift his
legs, bothered. Hyuuga’s not new to the subject of male arousal (like Kagami’s
permanent frustrated demeanor suggests the other boy might be), and he has a
routine for it and everything, just to make sure he’s not caught by surprise in
the middle of practice or something life-ruining like that. But – is she – is
she telling him to act on it now, or is he just reading too much into it? Fuck,
Hyuuga thinks, hands tightening.
Riko eats her last spoonful of ice-cream, closing the lid with steady hands.
She looks at him, after.
“I’ll wait for as long as you want.”
He nods, thankful, and then exhales, long and frustrated, pushing his boxers
down to his ankles and stepping out of them. They hang off the chair like Aida-
san’s clothes, and why the fuck is he still thinking about her father at a time
like this? He lifts his head, stares at her, chin high, and Riko’s face flushes
all over, down to her neck, down to her ears, but she doesn’t look down.
Proving she is much stronger than him – if it were him in her position, then,
well. Well.
“I’d like to ask you out sometime,” Hyuuga says, strained, feeling something
twitching in his neck, “like, like on days off or whenever we don’t have
practice, or, uh—“
“Okay,” she replies, and shrugs, but her face is turned away. Her cheeks are
bunched up, like she’s smiling, and the line of her nose is pink. “I’ll have to
think about it,” she adds, teasing, like he doesn’t know she’s given it enough
thought already.
“Thanks,” Hyuuga breathes, and Riko stands up from the table. For a second, he
tenses in anticipation, his fists brushing against his hipbones as he tries to
cover himself as best as he can, the adrenaline gone with his confession. But
she only turns around, slipping the chocolate-stained bowl inside her washing
machine. He looks at her legs and manages to, this time. Her underwear is dark-
blue, without a pattern, and it digs into her buttock like it’s been drawn
there. Hyuuga covers his dick, ashamed, and resolutely glares at the plates
until she lifts those, as well. All that remains is his half-full glass of
water.
“Do you want to sleep over,” Riko says, breaking him out of staring at the slip
of underwear she’s been rewarding him with. She sounds kind of choked up, like
she’s trying not to cough, and the low tone shoots straight into his stomach,
tightening. “The rain,” she tacks on lamely, “isn’t letting up.”
His answer is immediate, trained out of him like only she can, and his yes
reverberates through her kitchen.
Riko nods to herself, grabbing his glass of water and walking right past him,
what the fuck. Hyuuga tightens, surprised, his hands betraying him and covering
his dick without him really wanting to. She doesn’t pay it any mind, just pads
away into the corridor and up the stairs. Hyuuga looks at the table, empty, and
then at the windows, half-open. A beat passes. Is he supposed to wait? To
follow? Riko always punctuates her orders with a smile, but this time there is
no suggestion of either.
He closes his eyes, deep and tight, and then releases a breath, spinning on the
ball of his foot. She’s leaning on the jamb, eyes lifting off somewhere around
his waist to meet his.
“Cute butt,” Riko says, approving, and it kills him how she tries to keep her
voice steady and dominating despite its shivers, her pink face. He pushes his
glasses up his nose to divert himself. His hands are so sweaty. “Are you
coming?”
“Y-Yes,” he says, like she’d expected anything else.
And then his eyes catch on the jumping rope, curled around her wrist and behind
her back like it's a tail, wagging happily to see him.
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