Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/4035814.
  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:
      Mildly_Dubious_Consent, Locker_Room, Sadism, Masochism, Dom/sub,
      Established_Relationship, Begging, Consensual_Violence, No_Plot/Plotless,
      Plot_What_Plot/Porn_Without_Plot, No_Aftercare
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-06-26 Words: 2939
****** Poison ******
by tastewithouttalent
Summary
     "Imayoshi doesn’t need to turn away from his locker to know that
     voice. There’s a purring resonance under it, weighted and slurring
     itself into a poisonous heat that gives away the owner even over the
     babble of conversation of the rest of the team." Hanamiya wants to be
     noticed. Imayoshi notices.
“Captain, do you have a minute?”
Imayoshi doesn’t need to turn away from his locker to know that voice. There’s
a purring resonance under it, weighted and slurring itself into a poisonous
heat that gives away the owner even over the babble of conversation of the rest
of the team.
“Of course,” Imayoshi says, pushing the locker door shut to offer a final
click. “Whatever you need, Hanamiya.”
Hanamiya has timed his question well. The rest of the team is moving towards
the door with the unconscious flow of a crowd, and none of them hesitate to
look back at the two lingering behind them. Imayoshi can watch the movement of
the others in the motion of Hanamiya’s eyes, wide-eyed innocence clinging to
his features as he watches the last of their audience vanish out the door.
Imayoshi sees when the last stragglers vanish in the shift of Hanamiya’s
eyelashes, the way the shallow gold of his eyes goes dark and shadowed, and by
the time his attention is back on Imayoshi he’s smiling too, a weird lopsided
dig of his mouth into the smooth lines of his expression.
“Hanamiya,” Imayoshi says, lets his own mouth shift itself into an echo of
Hanamiya’s, the outline of a threat hot against his skin. “What can I do for
you?”
“Senpai.” Hanamiya’s chin goes down, his hair falls to cast his eyes into
shadow; when he bares his teeth it’s violence instead of pleasure in his
expression. “Haven’t I been doing well in practice?”
Imayoshi raises an eyebrow, keeps the flat meaninglessness of his smile in
place. “Are you looking to be praised, Hanamiya?”
Hanamiya’s smile pulls wider, his eyes go darker. “No.” He takes a step in -
- well within the line of danger, given the sorts of maneuvers Imayoshi has
seen him pull off before -- but Imayoshi makes no attempt to move back, lets
Hanamiya approach until the toes of their shoes are nearly touching. “Not
praise.”
“Ah,” Imayoshi says, reaches up to adjust his glasses against the bridge of his
nose. “I see.”
Hanamiya’s watching the movement of his fingers on his frames, his mouth soft
and almost-open around his inattention; he’s not looking at Imayoshi’s other
hand, the curl of his fingers into the weight of a fist, and he’s not braced
for the impact that rides high up under his ribs. Imayoshi can feel the gust of
breath that blows out of the other boy, steps back smoothly so Hanamiya
collapses to his knees instead of against him as his stability vanishes from
under him.
“Are you confessing to cheating?” Imayoshi asks the top of Hanamiya’s dark
head. He’s smiling wider, now, the edges of his smile tugging at his control,
but his voice is even, only barely showing the tension of amusement under the
words. His knuckles throb, a steady heartbeat of an ache from their impact with
Hanamiya’s ribs, but he doesn’t shake his hand to give away the hurt under his
skin.
Hanamiya’s laugh is jagged in his throat, tearing into the air until it grounds
out rough and raw at Imayoshi’s ears. When he lifts his head his eyes are
shining, pupils dilated out so wide the color is eclipsed into endless
darkness, his mouth open and damp.
“Yes,” he says.
Imayoshi backhands him, cracking his hand across Hanamiya’s slurred-open smile.
Hanamiya doesn’t resist, just lets his head swing sideways so his hair sweeps
in front of his face like a curtain, but Imayoshi can hear the hiss of pain on
his breathing, the faint huff of amusement on his voice.
“Are you trying to get my attention?” Imayoshi asks, lets the words swing high
and amused in his throat. When he grabs at Hanamiya’s hair the other boy tilts
his head back, so aggressive in his offer of the pulse in his neck that he’s
pulling back faster than Imayoshi can drag him.
“I just want you to notice me, senpai,” Hanamiya purrs, his voice twisting the
words into a mockery. His cheek shows the red of impact with Imayoshi’s hand;
Imayoshi can almost see the imprint of individual knuckles flushed across
Hanamiya’s unhealthy pallor.
He reaches out with his free hand, fits his fingers in against Hanamiya’s
volunteered throat. Hanamiya’s eyelashes flutter, his throat thrumming with a
whine of sound under Imayoshi’s touch; Imayoshi presses in harder, fits his
fingers to the sound like Hanamiya is an instrument under his hand.
“You’ll have to work harder than that,” Imayoshi says, the lie coming easy to
his lips, as if the thought of Hanamiya’s spilled blood doesn’t burn him like
fire, as if the idea of bruising fingerprints along the high inside of
Hanamiya’s thighs doesn’t have his cock hardening inside his shorts. Hanamiya
doesn’t comment on this disconnect aloud, though his eyes dip down to the
tightening fabric, swing back up along with a dragging smirk that says he
knows, that says he’s not fooled by the shape of deception on Imayoshi’s
tongue. But then he blinks himself into the appearance of disappointment, drags
his lips into a pout instead, and Imayoshi’s smile goes wider, threatens the
limits of his control as Hanamiya trails his tongue over the swell of his lower
lip and reaches out for the elastic of Imayoshi’s shorts.
It would be easy for him to drag too hard, to snap the elastic back against
Imayoshi’s skin or to dig his fingernails in against Imayoshi’s stomach. But
there’s no rebellion in Hanamiya’s expression, just glazed-over shadow, and his
mouth is open as he tugs Imayoshi’s clothes off his lips, his tongue licking
over his mouth like he’s impatient for anticipated friction. It burns up
Imayoshi’s spine, cracks his smile into a knife-edged grin well beyond the
bounds of acceptable, but it doesn’t matter; Hanamiya’s not looking at him,
isn’t responding to the drag of Imayoshi’s fingers in his hair. It’s like all
his attention has centered in on the flushing heat of Imayoshi’s cock, like the
rest of the other boy doesn’t exist at all, and when he leans forward it’s with
a groan of anticipation sharp and hot against Imayoshi’s skin.
Imayoshi lets him get in close, lets Hanamiya’s lips tighten against the head
of his cock with the slick promise of satisfaction; then he snaps his hips
forward hard, braces Hanamiya’s head in place with his hand so he can fuck deep
into the other’s mouth. Hanamiya jerks, makes a sound that is something between
instinctive whimper and appreciative moan, and Imayoshi is going hotter and
harder, pleasure drawing into his blood to meet the slide of Hanamiya’s tongue
along the underside of his cock. There are hands coming out, closing into a
hold at Imayoshi’s hips, but whatever force Hanamiya is exerting isn’t enough
to overcome Imayoshi’s advantage of position and angle. He draws back, thrusts
forward again at his own pace, and Hanamiya makes that sound again, a coughing
inhale as Imayoshi draws back and a groan as he comes forward. His fingers
flex, nails digging in against Imayoshi’s skin, but it’s not enough to register
as more than pressure, maybe barely the suggestion of a threat.
Imayoshi drags sharply at Hanamiya’s hair anyway, jerking the other back as he
slides his cock free of damp-bruised lips. “Behave,” he says, holds Hanamiya in
place until dark eyes blink up to gaze hazily in his general direction. The
print of the impact is fading from Hanamiya’s cheek, the pale of his skin
returning like the tide washing in over the beach, but his focus is still
shattered beyond repair, even the open gasp of air past his lips breathless and
wrecked. Imayoshi can feel it tighten in his stomach, a twist of reaction
sweeping up into his blood, and he purrs a low note of satisfaction, drags
Hanamiya back in to push himself in against the other’s mouth once more.
He’s not considerate. It’s the heat in his own blood that drives the sharp
thrusts of his hips, desire unfurling like a bruise from a broken vein, and
he’s not certain Hanamiya can catch a breath the way he is, wonders distantly
if the other boy might pass out from the interruption to his airflow. He’s not
worried; if anything the lack of air will just blow Hanamiya’s eyes darker.
Imayoshi isn’t so blind as to miss the tipped-up angle of the other’s throat or
the way he went taut and trembling at the pressure on his neck the last time
they did this. So there’s no hesitation, nothing to stop him, and he’s
thrusting in harder, deeper, until Hanamiya’s lips are brushing against the
taut line of his stomach on each stroke. Imayoshi’s body is tensing,
anticipation arching itself low along his spine, and his rhythm is going
reflexive, instinct taking over the swing of his hips as he moves, and it’s at
this moment that Hanamiya’s hands tighten, the heels of his palms digging in at
Imayoshi’s hips to push him back.
Imayoshi’s rhythm falters, his movement falling into stillness and the tension
in his blood twisting into irritation. He drags at Hanamiya’s hair, forcibly
pulling the other back and off him, and he’s aching from the burn of
unsatisfied heat and his smile is twisting vicious, a threat rising in his
throat.
“Is this not what you wanted?” Imayoshi purrs, his voice going softer as
aggression tears his tone into malicious softness. “I thought you wanted to
be noticed.”
Hanamiya shakes his head, the motion sharply abbreviated by Imayoshi’s hold in
his hair. “No,” he says, words blurring in his throat. “Senpai.” Almost
teasing, a catch of spirit in the word again. “Fuck me.”
Imayoshi’s throat tightens, spasms into a low chuckle before he realizes he’s
amused. “Fuck you?” His fingers loosen on Hanamiya’s hair, shove through the
oil-dark strands to close against the side of the other’s neck. “You want my
cock in your ass, Hanamiya?”
Hanamiya groans, low and thrumming into sexual resonance in his throat. “Yeah,”
he says, tongue dragging against his mouth again to leave his lips slick and
wet. “I do.”
Imayoshi laughs again, a sharp dig in his throat as he closes his hold tight on
Hanamiya’s shoulder. “Fair enough,” he says, and shoves hard, knocks Hanamiya
off his shaky balance to skid over the floor. Hanamiya’s hand snaps out to
catch himself but Imayoshi moves faster, closes his fingers against the back of
Hanamiya’s shorts to haul him back over his knees and toss him face-down over
the locker room bench.
“Is this all you want?” Imayoshi says, pulling Hanamiya’s clothes off his hips
while he speaks. “All you have to do is ask.”
Hanamiya groans, low and louder than is at all reasonable, but Imayoshi doesn’t
try to hush him. There’s no one around anymore, not with the evening practice
over, and the echo of Hanamiya’s voice off the walls is satisfying, the way the
reaction sounds a little like a sob and a lot like a laugh, hysterical heat
filling the space around them as Hanamiya rocks against the bench and Imayoshi
reaches out to shove his fingers against the slick of the other’s lips.
Hanamiya opens as easily to his fingers as he did to his cock, his tongue wet
and hot and sticky-slick on Imayoshi’s skin, and Imayoshi thrusts in hard,
shoving his fingers so far back over Hanamiya’s tongue he can feel the other’s
throat work and close up against the intrusion.
“I don’t mind,” Imayoshi says, leaning in close so the words spill against the
weight of Hanamiya’s hair. He turns his hand, lets his fingers stretch and hold
Hanamiya’s jaw open while the hot of the other’s tongue drags slick friction
against his skin. “I’ll fuck you into the floor anytime you want.”
Hanamiya makes a sound, wet and unintelligible until Imayoshi draws his hand
free of his lips. “Yeah,” he says, sounding raw and grating in his throat. “I
want it now.”
“That’s what you’ve been saying,” Imayoshi smiles, and reaches down to shove
his fingers inside Hanamiya’s body. Hanamiya’s back arches, his shoulders
rocking up off the bench before Imayoshi reaches out to shove between his
shoulderblades and pin him where he is. Hanamiya’s hot around his fingers,
clenching tight resistance to the force of Imayoshi’s thrust, but he groans as
Imayoshi shoves in deeper, his knees skidding out wider into an invitation that
stretches at the drawn-down waistband of his shorts. Imayoshi draws his hand
back, thrusts in hard and fast, and Hanamiya jerks under him, the motion
thrumming visibly through his thighs.
Imayoshi doesn’t bother to give him long to adjust. The friction against his
fingers is too tempting, and however painful it must be for Hanamiya the other
boy is bucking against the bench, panting breathless sound into the air and
trembling like he can’t control his body. Hanamiya groans when Imayoshi draws
his fingers out, twists to stare over his shoulder at the other’s movements.
Imayoshi can see the shadow of gold-dark eyes under the tangle of his hair, the
open-mouthed inhale of desperation at his lips, and whatever heat has faded
from his blood during the delay sweeps back to shoot fire up his spine and
under his skin.
“You look good like this,” he says, reaching out to shove Hanamiya’s hair back
from his face. Hanamiya flashes a lopsided grin; Imayoshi smiles back, careful
to keep the expression teetering at the edge of propriety, as if they don’t
have their shorts around their knees, as if he’s not spitting against his palm
to stroke slick against his flushed-hot length. Hanamiya rocks back, scrabbles
his fingernails against the bench to brace himself into the movement, and
Imayoshi has to grab at his thigh, dig his fingers in hard to hold him in place
as he moves. Hanamiya’s eyelashes flutter at the pressure, his hold at the edge
of the bench going slack, and it’s into the brief open-mouthed shock of his
reaction that Imayoshi moves, snapping his hips forward hard enough that he
sinks deep into Hanamiya’s body on the first motion.
The sound Hanamiya makes is a wail, a moan, a shout all at once. It breaks
against the walls like a wave, rings in Imayoshi’s ears, and when he moves
again he gets another one nearly before the sound of the first has died, a
groaning, animal sound of hurt and raw pleasure wound inextricably together.
Imayoshi doesn’t have to reach down to feel how hard Hanamiya is; he can hear
in it the sounds the other is making, can feel it in the ripples of involuntary
reaction running through the other’s body. He closes his fingers at Hanamiya’s
waist, pins him still to the bench as he speeds his movement, and Hanamiya
starts to shake, then, trembling helplessly against the bench without making
the least attempt to wrench himself free. He might succeed, if he tried to
fight back -- Imayoshi is distracted, his vision starting to go hazy as his
body rushes towards the edge of orgasm for the second time in ten minutes, he’s
not sure he has the ability to recover the upper hand if he loses it. But
Hanamiya doesn’t try, doesn’t do anything except offer those torn-loose noises
like he’s being punched with every motion of Imayoshi’s hips, like he’s begging
for something that has nothing at all to do with mercy. Imayoshi can feel
tension turning into expectation in Hanamiya’s body, the ripples of heat
tightening faster around him, until it’s Hanamiya who comes first, his orgasm
jerking through his body until he falls limp and exhausted against the bench.
It whites out Imayoshi’s vision, sends his movements reflexive and unthinking,
and somewhere in the haze of sensation his fingers tighten, his nails dig
crescent bruises into Hanamiya’s skin, and he thrusts forward and into the wash
of heated satisfaction as he comes.
It feels like it goes on forever, the pleasure made long by the enforced
patience in finding it; by the time Imayoshi breathes himself into clarity
Hanamiya is still, sprawled so boneless against the locker room bench Imayoshi
would think he were unconscious but for the slow instinctive shift of his
eyelashes as he blinks. It’s easy to slide back, the motion made slick by the
spill of Imayoshi’s come; Hanamiya doesn’t even move at the other’s withdrawal,
doesn’t appear to notice at all. Imayoshi lets him lie still while he
rearranges his own clothes, straightens his shorts and smooths his hair back
into alignment; he even pauses to wipe his glasses clean of what dirt they’ve
accumulated. By the time he walks around the edge of the bench to squat in
front of Hanamiya’s blank stare, he’s completely composed, right down to the
chill in his eyes and the sharp almost-threat of his smile.
“All you have to do is ask,” he says, carefully slow on the words so Hanamiya
can follow them. Hanamiya blinks, his eyes sliding to stick at Imayoshi’s
mouth, and that’s enough to stand-in for true attention. Imayoshi smiles wider;
then he stands, a single smooth motion, reaches out to shove his hand through
Hanamiya’s tangled hair. His fingers catch knots, drag an involuntary hiss of
pain from Hanamiya’s throat, but the other doesn’t put words to the protest, as
Imayoshi knows, now, he won’t.
“Make sure you keep the bruises covered,” he says.
There’s a pause, long with meaning. Then: “Yeah,” Hanamiya says, his words
rubbed raw and grating, and it is enough. Imayoshi lets him go, moves towards
the door without looking back.
He can feel poison on his lips when he smiles.
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