Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/4393955.
  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:
      Established_Relationship, Love_Confessions, Commitment, Consensual
      Violence, Blow_Jobs, Grinding, Kneeling, Hair-pulling, Choking,
      Breathplay, Sadism, Masochism, Insults, Finger_Sucking, Dom/sub, No
      Aftercare
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-08-16 Words: 4703
****** Reflection ******
by tastewithouttalent
Summary
     "'I’m graduating next month,' Imayoshi says, breathing the words
     against Hanamiya’s hair. 'I’m not going to keep playing with you
     forever.'" Imayoshi tells Hanamiya to make a commitment and Hanamiya
     does.
Notes
     I may have taken the possibility of deliberately destroying
     SuggestiveScribe as too much of a challenge.
     I'm sorry I'm not more sorry about this.
Hanamiya doesn’t tell Imayoshi he’s coming over.
He doesn’t need to. Partially this is because he doesn’t care if he’s
interrupting the other; concern for the comfort of anyone else never makes it
high on his list of priorities, after all. Mostly it’s because he knows
Imayoshi, and Imayoshi knows him, sometimes knows him so well Hanamiya can read
himself better from the reflection in Imayoshi’s glasses than he can from the
knowledge in his own head. Imayoshi’s shadowed eyes see through whatever
deception Hanamiya attempts, cut past polite lies to the broken machinery
underneath, the cogs and gears that don’t sit quite right, that grind out-of-
sync with each other until Hanamiya is ready to do anything to relieve the
tension. He suspects Imayoshi could fix him, if anyone can, could jolt the
pieces of him back where they belong to make him into the functional human
being he plays at being.
It almost makes it better that he doesn’t.
Hanamiya is anxious for it, tonight. It’s been almost a week, days of too much
free time and too little of his favorite kind of stimulation, until by the time
he’s knocking on Imayoshi’s door the movement has an aggression to it he
doesn’t intend, the edges of his facade fraying over the distance his fist
travels to rap against the door.
“Come in,” Imayoshi’s voice comes from inside, the deadening effect of the
barrier not enough to completely pull the amusement clear of his tone. “It’s
open.”
Hanamiya reaches for the handle, twists the latch free of the frame. The door
creaks inward under his push, gives way to the indoor-bright illumination of
the apartment. Imayoshi is sitting at the table, a textbook open on the surface
in front of him, but he’s leaning back against a braced arm, his mouth quirking
into a smile even as Hanamiya sees him.
“Were you expecting me, senpai?” Hanamiya drawls, steps forward so he can push
the door shut behind him. He doesn’t step forward; instead he leans back,
braces his shoulders at the door so he can let himself sag into a slouch
against the support, tip his hips sideways to draw Imayoshi’s eyes to the edge
of his jeans.
Imayoshi takes the suggestion without a flicker in his expression, that same
vague appreciation still clinging to the corner of his mouth and tucked into
the shadows of his eyes. It’s his hands that Hanamiya watches while Imayoshi
looks him over, the long fingers of one hand angled casually against the floor
while the other toys with a pencil, taps out a rhythm against the tabletop with
deceptive gentleness to the motion. Hanamiya can see the flex of Imayoshi’s
fingers, the tension pinning the weight of the pencil in place, can already
feel the anticipatory ghost of Imayoshi’s touch against his wrist, his hip, his
throat.
“I’m not surprised,” Imayoshi finally says, after the quiet between them has
gone on long enough for Hanamiya’s skin to prickle in expectation under the
weight of Imayoshi’s consideration. The pencil clicks against the table,
Imayoshi carefully setting it aside, and then he’s getting to his feet, an
elegant shift of limbs to catch Hanamiya’s gaze, to haze his vision with
fantasies of that grace shattered into clumsy injury, Imayoshi’s composure
broken beyond repair. It catches his breathing hot in his chest, aches the
tension of desire into the grip of his hand on the doorknob, but he doesn’t
move to meet Imayoshi’s slow approach, doesn’t try to tangle his foot between
the slow stride of the other’s motion.
They both know which of them is the broken one, after all.
“Senpai,” Hanamiya repeats as Imayoshi draws closer, tilts his head back and
slightly to the side with enough slur to the motion to imply it’s accidental.
The curve of his spine gives Imayoshi a clear advantage in height, makes it
easy for him to interpose his shoulders between the glow of the light and
Hanamiya’s features the way he likes to; Hanamiya grins into the shadow, his
lips pulling involuntarily taut against the anticipation in his veins. “Did I
interrupt you?” He forces his expression into a frown, draws his eyebrows
together in half-panicked apology so over-the-top it wouldn’t fool one of
Imayoshi’s teammates, much less Imayoshi himself. “I can leave if you were
busy.”
Hanamiya can’t see Imayoshi’s eyes. The glass over them has caught the light,
turned itself briefly opaque to disguise whatever expression he is allowing in
his gaze, but it doesn’t matter. Hanamiya can see the other’s consideration in
the tilt of his mouth, the tug of almost-a-smile at the corner of his lips, the
huff of an exhale he gives through his nose. Hanamiya tips his head back in
suggestion, lets his breathing come louder in anticipation, and Imayoshi
reaches up, as Hanamiya hoped he would, expected he would, places the flexing
strength of his fingers against the line of Hanamiya’s throat. The contact is
gentle, the friction a promise but not a fact, and Hanamiya’s lungs shudder on
an inhale, breathing rendered a struggle by the anticipation of pressure.
More doesn’t come. Imayoshi’s fingers fit into their favorite position, his
palm spread wide to encompass the whole tremor of breathing in Hanamiya’s
throat, and then he goes still, silent and unmoving while Hanamiya’s adrenaline
rises, peaks, and finally chills into an ache of frustration enough to tip his
chin down a half-inch, to fix his gaze on Imayoshi with a glare he has almost
never used on the other boy.
“What the fuck?” he demands, his fingers tightening against his own palms like
he can somehow move Imayoshi’s hold by his own effort. “What are
you waiting for?”
“What do you want, Makoto?” Imayoshi says, as level and calm and unruffled as
if Hanamiya hadn’t spoken at all. There’s almost no inflection in his words at
all; he could be talking to a teammate, could be talking to a stranger, could
be talking to any one of the dozens of acquaintances he has
that aren’t Hanamiya, that don’t know the way his eyes look when he lets his
smile go sharp, when he lets his eyes go dark. The distance his tone imposes
burns along Hanamiya’s spine, coils anger hot in his stomach, and when he
answers it’s accordingly raw in his throat, the insulting gentleness in
Imayoshi’s touch aching worse than complete absence would.
“What?” he spits, brings his hand swinging up towards Imayoshi’s extended arm
to bat away the overlight touch. “You know what I--”
His hand hits the inside of Imayoshi’s wrist, knuckles smacking against the
suddenly solid resistance of the other’s hold, and it’s like hitting a wall.
It’s Hanamiya’s hand that snaps back, Imayoshi’s fingers immoveable at his
throat, and suddenly Imayoshi is leaning in, his hold going taut to press the
weight of his thumb hard against Hanamiya’s pulse point.
“Be quiet,” he orders, the words dipping into the low purr Hanamiya knows as
sincerity, and Hanamiya goes still, lets his hand fall limp and unresisting at
his side. Imayoshi is close, near enough that the light doesn’t reach the
details of his face; Hanamiya can get a glimpse of dark eyes, a flash of teeth,
and then Imayoshi is too close to see, the sound of his breathing gusting hot
against Hanamiya’s ear. There’s a knee shoving between Hanamiya’s, throwing his
balance wide and shaky, but Hanamiya doesn’t try to recover his balance or grab
for support at Imayoshi’s hip or shoulder; he lets himself sag instead, the
weight of his body and that iron grip at his neck enough to give him the
leading edge of the pressure he’s craving.
“I know what you want me to do to you,” Imayoshi says against his ear, almost
whispering, the words sounding more like endearments than the almost-threat
Hanamiya knows them to be. “You’ve wanted the same thing for four years.” His
thumb slides up, catching at the bottom edge of Hanamiya’s jawline, and
Hanamiya rocks his hips forward, angling for pressure against Imayoshi’s thigh
he can’t quite manage from their current angle. There’s a chuckle against his
ear, a hand coming out for his hip, and then Imayoshi’s fingers are drawing
through his beltloop, holding him back against the door by his clothing instead
of the bruise-deep hold against his hip he usually favors.
“It’s been years,” Imayoshi says, hot and soft at Hanamiya’s ear. He still
sounds nearly calm, untouched by the overfast thud of Hanamiya’s pulse under
his fingers except for the raw edge creeping into the spaces between his words.
“I’m happy to humor you in your little kinks--”
“Like they’re not yours too,” Hanamiya coughs, the shape of a laugh too rushed
to be amusement in truth.
Imayoshi’s hand tightens, presses so hard against Hanamiya’s throat that his
breathing is stalled silent, caught in his throat as cleanly as if cut through
with a knife. His blood roars hot into his veins, his cock flushing into full
hardness against the fly of his jeans, and for a moment Hanamiya can’t see for
the surge of adrenaline-satisfaction in his veins. He groans, or tries to
groan, his chest working on sound that runs up uselessly against Imayoshi’s
hold; then the pressure is gone, easing off into that same taunting gentleness,
and Hanamiya is coughing back into breathing as Imayoshi keeps talking as if
the interruption had never happened at all.
“I’m graduating next month,” he says, breathing the words against Hanamiya’s
hair. “I’m not going to keep playing with you forever.”
Hanamiya’s chest goes tight. There’s a strange pressure in his throat, friction
working its way from the inside out, like his body has decided to override his
broken mind and muster passive resistance to Imayoshi’s force. The heat in his
blood is cooling in his veins, leaving his skin hot to the touch but chill in
his limbs, like the taste of rejection is ice forming against the lines of his
ribcage.
“Senpai,” Hanamiya manages, the mockery only going a little rough over the ache
in his throat, the slip of anxiety over his tongue. “If you want to break up
with me all you have to do is say so.”
There’s a moment of silence, hesitation thick in the air between them. Then:
“Makoto,” thrumming hot and heavy, and Imayoshi is bearing down on Hanamiya’s
throat, pinning the knot in his airway between his fingers. “You
misunderstand.” There’s a moment of pressure, enough to suggest restraint; then
it’s gone again, easing off as Hanamiya groans frustration at the loss.
Imayoshi pulls back, drawing the heat of his breathing back from Hanamiya’s
skin. Hanamiya drops his chin, lets his hair fall over his features in a
pointless attempt to cover the flushed heat across his skin; Imayoshi just
stares at him for a moment, his smile clinging to his lips but not making it to
his eyes.
“Games are for children,” he says, finally, the words dripping condescension
that narrows Hanamiya’s eyes, twists his body taut with offended pride. “I’m
suggesting we take things more seriously.”
It takes Hanamiya a moment. He would like to think this is because Imayoshi has
never brought up something like this before, or because of the mismatch between
the suggestion of Imayoshi’s words and the weight of the hand against his skin.
In truth it’s simply that the possibility doesn’t occur to him, that of all the
times Hanamiya has made his way to Imayoshi’s door he has never thought about
anything beyond the present.
“Senpai,” he says, purring familiar taunting over the word because he can do
that without thinking, can reply before he’s decided whether the prickle
against his spine is fright or intrigue. “Worrying about the future in your old
age?”
It’s not a very good jab, and Hanamiya knows it. It’s no surprise when
Imayoshi’s smile doesn’t waver, when the tension dipping his eyes into shadow
doesn’t recede.
“We all have to eventually,” he says, almost-laughing and sounding entirely
unfazed. “You can keep playing for a while, if you’d like.”
The patronizing tone doesn’t bother Hanamiya, at least not beyond his usual
teeth-baring sneer. He’s been called worse things, has come to the sound of
insults in Imayoshi’s silk-smooth tones, quaking himself into orgasm to the
ring of truth on Imayoshi’s lips. It’s not the implied insult that bothers him;
it’s the way he can feel Imayoshi’s hold loosening instead of going tighter,
easing out away from the threat of a bruise instead of shoving the marks dark
against Hanamiya’s neck where they’re hard to hide.
“Wait,” Hanamiya says, reaches out to snatch at Imayoshi’s wrist as the
strength of his grip falls away entirely. Imayoshi steps back anyway, draws his
hand with him, and Hanamiya stumbles forward a step, closes his other hand
against Imayoshi’s arm. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“Let go of me, Makoto,” Imayoshi says with perfect equanimity. “If it’s games
you want you’ll need to find yourself another player.”
“What?” Hanamiya spits. “Just like that?”
“It’s been four years,” Imayoshi says, reaches around to pull at Hanamiya’s
hold with infuriatingly gentle fingers. “I’ve been patient with you.”
“Stop,” Hanamiya says. Imayoshi forces his hand free; Hanamiya grabs at his
other wrist, catches and holds Imayoshi’s prying fingers away from his hold.
“You can’t just stop, just like that.”
Imayoshi’s smile is colder than it has ever looked before. “Can’t I?”
“No,” Hanamiya growls. He wants to step in closer, wants to pick a fight, but
Imayoshi’s lingering smile says he might not get resistance, that he might hit
nothing but sticky-soft submission, and the idea churns nausea into his
stomach. “This isn’t what I want.”
He doesn’t see Imayoshi move. It’s too fast, too sudden, and he’s staring at
Imayoshi’s face, all his attention focused on glaring at the inscrutable
darkness of the other’s eyes. Then he’s gasping, all the air leaving his lungs
in a gutteral groan of sound, his hold on Imayoshi’s wrists falling free as he
doubles over on himself against the impact of a knee at his stomach. His chest
convulses for a moment, the rhythm of his breathing briefly shattered by the
shock of the force, and then he’s falling, slamming back against the wall from
the shove of a fist in his hair.
“This is what you want,” Imayoshi says, and he’s too close and his smile is
cracking wider and Hanamiya is choking for air and agonizingly hard against his
jeans. “Right?” There are fingers at his throat, the hand not pulling at his
hair tightening over his pulse, and Hanamiya uses his first full breath of air
to whine agreement to Imayoshi’s rhetorical question. A knee comes between his,
Imayoshi rocking in close to pin him against the door, and the handle is
digging a bruise into Hanamiya’s spine and his scalp is aching from the
pressure of Imayoshi’s hold and he thinks he might be able to come just like
this, if Imayoshi would only push a little harder against the front of his
jeans.
“I’m the one you come to for this.” Imayoshi’s voice is lower, now, purring
satisfaction over the syllables as his fingers flex variation into the pressure
at Hanamiya’s throat. “You’re welcome to try to find a replacement.”
Hanamiya hisses half an inhale, rocks himself off the door enough that he can
fit his leg to press between Imayoshi’s, can angle himself to a moment of
grinding pressure against the resistance he knows he’ll find. For a moment
they’re pressed together, Imayoshi’s cock flush against Hanamiya’s thigh and
Imayoshi’s leg pinning Hanamiya back against the wall.
“You like it too,” Hanamiya gasps, reaching out to get his fingers in against
Imayoshi’s hip, to drag fingernails into the other’s skin in crescent-mark
bruises under the hem of his shirt.
Imayoshi’s laugh is startling, loud and sharp and deadly. “Of course,” he says,
smooth and easy in his confidence. “But you’re nothing special.” He leans in
close, his hold at Hanamiya’s throat easing as his mouth comes closer, until
the pressure is nearly gone by the time Hanamiya can feel the other’s breath
against his lips. “Trash is easy to come by.”
Hanamiya shudders. He can’t help it, doesn’t even bother trying. His throat
aches, pressure from Imayoshi’s fingers settling in deep with the promise of
bruises, and his jeans are grating against his cock, the friction too-much and
not-enough at the same time. Imayoshi isn’t even reacting to the catch of
Hanamiya’s fingernails at his side, is still smiling like he doesn’t feel the
pain, and Hanamiya can feel his thoughts going adrenaline-hazy, his rationality
flickering like a candle in the faint gust of Imayoshi’s breath at his mouth.
“Which is it, Makoto?” Imayoshi makes the question sound like a seduction, the
tension of his smile audible under the words. “Do you want to be serious with
me?” A tightening of his fingers, his thumb sliding along the line of
Hanamiya’s pulse; his weight tips forward, his hips rocking closer to dig
against Hanamiya’s jeans, and Hanamiya has to fight to keep his eyes open, to
hold Imayoshi’s gaze instead of fluttering into overheated instinct. “Or do you
want to try to find someone else to play with?” And he’s moving away again,
taking a half-step back, loosening his fingers until his hand is splayed loose
over the divot between Hanamiya’s collarbones. The action is chilling, the
absence of heat dropping cold all through Hanamiya’s blood, and the suggestion
of more -- the threat of a far greater loss -- is enough to tighten Hanamiya’s
hold at Imayoshi’s hip, enough to bring his other hand up to clutch at
Imayoshi’s shoulder.
“Stop,” he says, then, fast with honesty: “You know what I want, don’t be a
fucking asshole about it.”
Imayoshi’s eyebrow goes up, an elegant arc of shadow over the frames of his
glasses. “Do I?”
“Fuck you,” Hanamiya spits, and he’s grabbing at shirt, skin, reaching for
whatever he can get, the pain and the pressure and Imayoshi, the grace of those
fingers and the cruelty of his smile and all of it, even the dark taunt in his
eyes now. “I want you.”
He intends to snap something further, something along the lines of whether
that’s what Imayoshi wanted, if just words are enough to make him happy. But
his shoulders are slamming against the wall, Imayoshi suddenly too close to
see, and he can’t take a breath and he can’t see anything but the dark of the
other’s hair, and whatever token resistance he intended to put up evaporates
into the aching drawl of a groan in his throat.
“Good,” Imayoshi says, hot and too-loud at his ear, and Hanamiya’s head tips
sideways, offers the stretch of his neck for the other’s mouth. There are teeth
at his jawline, scraping pressure over his skin, and the fingers are back at
his throat, falling into their old position like the bruises they left are
handholds. Imayoshi shifts his weight back, rocking the pressure away from
Hanamiya’s jeans, but then his other hand is there instead, the palm of his
hand shoving in with more force than Hanamiya expected, and Hanamiya’s vision
flickers white and shocked for a brief breathless moment of sensation.
“Mine,” Imayoshi is saying, fitting the words against Hanamiya’s jawline. The
fingers at Hanamiya’s jeans tighten, shove the weight of the denim flush
against the other’s cock, and Hanamiya can feel the ache of sensation surge all
the way up his spine to ground out against the fingertips at his throat.
“Understand?”
Hanamiya chokes a laugh, or what is intended as one. It comes out as more of a
whine, air forced through a too-tight space, and his chest is starting to ache
with the familiar inside-out pressure of not enough airflow. Imayoshi is
shoving against his cock, grinding his palm against him more than really making
any attempt to get his jeans open, and Hanamiya doesn’t care, his attention to
the world has narrowed to the next few heartbeats of time and nothing else
matters.
“Tell me you understand, Makoto,” Imayoshi intones. His hands start to go
gentle, their force sapped by the demand in his words. “Say it.”
“I understand,” Hanamiya gasps. He doesn’t recognize his own voice for how raw
it sounds, dragged hot and torn against the ache in his throat. “Senpai.”
“Good boy,” Imayoshi purrs, and then he’s pushing again, and Hanamiya’s
awareness goes white from the outside in. He can feel Imayoshi’s breathing
coming hard at his jaw, panting hot like he’s never heard the other before, but
his own is stalled in his chest, his lungs working for air he can’t get.
Everything is hazy, white and warm and distant, even the reflexive panic
starting to form in the back of his head unimportant in comparison to the heat
surging up his spine, the liquid tension of pleasure collecting in his thighs
and between his shoulders. He can’t breathe, he can’t move, he’s forming
soundless words with lips going numb -- please, maybe, or senpai -- and then
Imayoshi twists his hand, digs his palm in hard against his jeans, and Hanamiya
comes, his fingers clutching involuntary desperation against Imayoshi’s
shoulder as his vision gives way to the white-burst explosion of heat in his
veins.
He doesn’t notice the tension at his throat easing, at least not in any sort of
conscious way, but Imayoshi must be loosening his hold through the shudders of
pleasure that tear through him. By the time Hanamiya sags shaky and overheated
against the door he can breathe again, nearly normally but for the lingering
contact of fingers against promised bruises.
“Good,” Imayoshi says again, and grabs at Hanamiya’s hair. His fingers wind
into the dark locks, drag painful and sharp into a fist, and then he shoves,
hard enough that Hanamiya’s unsteady footing gives way before he can process
what is happening. He just falls, knees slamming against the floor hard enough
to force a gasp of pain from his lips, and then Imayoshi is shoving him back,
slamming his head against the door and pushing a knee against his chest to hold
him in place.
“Open your mouth,” he says, keeping one hand fisted in Hanamiya’s hair while
the other reaches for his jeans. Hanamiya blinks away from his upward gaze at
Imayoshi’s face, refocuses on the one-handed elegance of Imayoshi undoing his
pants; it’s beautiful, in a strange way, or maybe that’s still lingering oxygen
deprivation turning everything warm and glowy at the edges. Hanamiya’s own
jeans are wet, sticking unpleasantly against his softening cock when he shifts
his weight, but he’s not really paying attention to that; he’s watching
Imayoshi’s zipper come down, the catch of a thumb against waistband, the drag
of fabric down to free the dark-flushed weight of the other’s cock for
Hanamiya’s gaze.
“What if I don’t?” he rasps, listening the the way the words grate into
insolence at the back of his tongue.
He’s expecting the shove in general even if he doesn’t know the specifics. His
laugh is cut short by the drive of Imayoshi’s knee into his chest, hard enough
to knock the pattern of his breathing loose, and then there’s a thumb in his
mouth, forcing in past his teeth and under his tongue to tighten into a brace
against his jaw.
“Then this,” Imayoshi says, dark and steady above him, and pushes, hard enough
to force Hanamiya’s jaw open even if he were really resisting. Hanamiya can
taste salt on Imayoshi’s skin, the suggestion of soap and a touch of graphite
from his pencil; he licks over the other’s knuckle, sucks sloppy and open-
mouthed against Imayoshi’s skin, and then Imayoshi’s cock is against his lips,
sliding in past his held-open mouth to interrupt the movement of his tongue.
It’s an ache, right away. Imayoshi is pulling too hard, holding Hanamiya’s
mouth open wider than is quite comfortable, and with the hand in his hair to
pin his head back Hanamiya has nowhere to go, no way to slow the thrust of
Imayoshi’s hips forward over his tongue and against his throat. But the sound
he’s making isn’t protest, is a half-strangled groan instead, and when he
reaches up it’s to grab at Imayoshi’s hips to pull him in closer rather than
push him away. The angle is awkward, the tip of his head a strain on his neck
to match the ache of his jaw, but when Hanamiya looks up he can see the way
Imayoshi is looking at him, his glasses gone transparent with the shadows over
his face, and the other’s expression -- the attention in his eyes, the lopsided
cut of his forgotten smile -- is enough to drop Hanamiya’s jaw open and
submissive. Imayoshi’s thumb slides in farther, pushes Hanamiya’s tongue up to
force it against the other’s cock, and Hanamiya keeps staring, holds Imayoshi’s
gaze as his mouth fills with the taste of salt, as the thrust of the other’s
hips threatens his breathing. Imayoshi drags at his jaw, Hanamiya tilts his
head, and then Imayoshi’s cock is pushing against the back of his mouth,
blocking his airway and dragging raw against his throat. Hanamiya moans,
something meaningless except in the hum of sound it produces, and Imayoshi’s
smile drags wider, flashes the white of his teeth as he draws back to thrust in
again, the stroke smooth with deliberation this time as he slides over
Hanamiya’s tongue and down his throat.
Hanamiya doesn’t know how long it goes on. He’s hazy to begin with, the heat of
satisfaction leaving him dreamy and detached from reality, and then there’s the
restriction on his breathing, the pace of his inhales made rushed and forced by
the rhythm Imayoshi sets for him. He just holds onto Imayoshi’s hips, lets his
grip keep him upright, and keeps his eyes open to watch Imayoshi’s gaze go
shadowed into something beyond dark. It’s all Hanamiya can focus on, the
absolute attention in that gaze, even more than the heat sliding heavy over his
tongue and against his throat, more than the speed of the inhales Imayoshi is
taking over him. He’s just staring, unresponsive to everything else, until when
Imayoshi finally shuts his eyes as he groans himself into orgasm Hanamiya is
more startled than otherwise by the sudden spill of liquid at the back of his
tongue. He tries to cough for a moment, but it’s too far back; after a moment
he gets enough control over his body to swallow hard enough to clear his throat
of the possible obstruction. There’s another pulse, less than the first, and
then the last, a slick taste of bitter more than any real quantity of liquid,
and Imayoshi is pulling back, sliding himself free of Hanamiya’s mouth while
Hanamiya’s tongue is still coated in the taste of him.
“Makoto.” That from over the top of his head, Imayoshi’s voice surprisingly
level given that he’s just now sliding his thumb free of Hanamiya mouth. It
comes away wet with saliva Hanamiya can’t be bothered to suck clean; he tips
his head up to follow the path of Imayoshi’s hand as he brings his fingers to
his mouth, presses his lips flush against his thumb and sucks it dry. The
fingers in Hanamiya’s hair loosen but linger, a bracing hold more than a fist,
and then Imayoshi slides his hand from his mouth and there’s no trace of his
usual smirk at his lips. “We’re not playing anymore.”
Hanamiya takes a breath, feels the way it aches in his throat, his inhale made
ragged by Imayoshi’s fingers and Imayoshi’s cock. His ribs are tender, too, the
bruises rising from the impact of Imayoshi’s knee blurring into one all-over
hurt under his skin. Then he tips his head back, hard enough that Imayoshi’s
hold on his hair tugs at the edge of pain again, drags up a smile shattered
enough for the both of them.
“I’m still trash, right?”
“Of course,” Imayoshi says, twisting his hold at Hanamiya’s hair into a knot.
“But you’re my trash, now.”
When he smiles, Hanamiya can see the reflection of his own expression at
Imayoshi’s lips.
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