Ship: Aomine/Kise Fandom: Kuroko no Basuke Major Tags: TAGS OMITTED Other Tags: TAGS OMITTED Word Count: 412
***
They are worn down but revitalized, pushed and torn but not broken, still holding on to the edge with sharp claws digging into the face of the cliff. There are seven games left; the series doesn’t have to go far but with their teams it almost always does, even matchups that somehow keep flipping the advantage, cats wrestling each other rolling over and over. It’s never an easy road to the finals, but they're always sure they’ll get there, always certain that they’ll toss their adversaries out and meet each other, as it should be (they don’t always do that, but often enough that there’s no reason not to be confident).
It’s like an eclipse, Aomine thinks, Kise blocking out the light of the championship trophy, the lights of the arena over him, ticker tape raining down on his victory once again. It’s like a blood moon, painted with a price, a sign. It’s Aomine’s fingers on Kise’s thighs, hips, waist, Kise’s mouth all over Aomine’s neck and shoulders and chest, marking him with bruises and bites. It’s probably obvious by now they’re from him, where Aomine goes off to every day they’re in Oakland, every night after another game that goes to OT when he’s almost too exhausted and spent and yet, here he is, nuzzling Kise in the afterglow, streetlights pouring in through the gauzy window curtains that don’t do shit, thinking about the championship so close he can feel the weight of the trophy in his arms, the texture against his fingertips almost as clear as Kise’s hair that he’s running his hands through right now.
“Let’s go again,” Kise says, but he doesn’t mean it because he knows AOmine won’t call his bluff.
“Save it for the court,” says Aomine, mouthing a sloppy kiss at the side of Kise’s neck, nipping the skin too light to leave anything.
“Kinky,” says Kise with a snort and Aomine shoves the pillow at him.
He’s counting down like a shot clock in his mind to the moment when Kise snuggles up, pulling the covers around them (it’s June and it should be stuffy but it’s not; they need each other’s body heat the way they do in winter, heat island city or no).
“You’d better congratulate me when I win,” Kise says.
“I would, but you’re not going to,” says Aomine. “But congratulations, for when you lose to me.”
“I’ll kick you out,” says Kise, but he’ll do no such thing.
FILL: TEAM HIMURO TATSUYA/NIJIMURA SHUUZOU, T
Fandom: Kuroko no Basuke
Major Tags: TAGS OMITTED
Other Tags: TAGS OMITTED
Word Count: 412
***
They are worn down but revitalized, pushed and torn but not broken, still holding on to the edge with sharp claws digging into the face of the cliff. There are seven games left; the series doesn’t have to go far but with their teams it almost always does, even matchups that somehow keep flipping the advantage, cats wrestling each other rolling over and over. It’s never an easy road to the finals, but they're always sure they’ll get there, always certain that they’ll toss their adversaries out and meet each other, as it should be (they don’t always do that, but often enough that there’s no reason not to be confident).
It’s like an eclipse, Aomine thinks, Kise blocking out the light of the championship trophy, the lights of the arena over him, ticker tape raining down on his victory once again. It’s like a blood moon, painted with a price, a sign. It’s Aomine’s fingers on Kise’s thighs, hips, waist, Kise’s mouth all over Aomine’s neck and shoulders and chest, marking him with bruises and bites. It’s probably obvious by now they’re from him, where Aomine goes off to every day they’re in Oakland, every night after another game that goes to OT when he’s almost too exhausted and spent and yet, here he is, nuzzling Kise in the afterglow, streetlights pouring in through the gauzy window curtains that don’t do shit, thinking about the championship so close he can feel the weight of the trophy in his arms, the texture against his fingertips almost as clear as Kise’s hair that he’s running his hands through right now.
“Let’s go again,” Kise says, but he doesn’t mean it because he knows AOmine won’t call his bluff.
“Save it for the court,” says Aomine, mouthing a sloppy kiss at the side of Kise’s neck, nipping the skin too light to leave anything.
“Kinky,” says Kise with a snort and Aomine shoves the pillow at him.
He’s counting down like a shot clock in his mind to the moment when Kise snuggles up, pulling the covers around them (it’s June and it should be stuffy but it’s not; they need each other’s body heat the way they do in winter, heat island city or no).
“You’d better congratulate me when I win,” Kise says.
“I would, but you’re not going to,” says Aomine. “But congratulations, for when you lose to me.”
“I’ll kick you out,” says Kise, but he’ll do no such thing.