Ship: Aomine/Momoi Fandom: Kuroko no Basuke Major Tags: TAGS OMITTED Other Tags: TAGS OMITTED Word Count: 450
(non-childhood friends au!)
***
Aomine’s never met anyone like Momoi. That’s not true, strictly speaking; he can’t say any one of her traits are unique to her--he’s met smart people, gorgeous people, people who know basketball as they do an intimate partner (though perhaps, other than himself, no one else to this degree), people who rush headlong into things so sure of what they want before they realize that’s not what they want at all, and make it out unscathed. With her it’s rarely luck; it’s always preparation, her ability to subconsciously second guess her own sharp intuition. And as a collection; it’s not even these traits that make her so damn amazing. There is no why in how much he likes her; it just is, intense, intoxicating, breathing in too much cologne from a sample.
And he still chokes on his words; it’s so hard to just say it; it’s hard to put himself in the position where he lets her know. She knows everything; she has to know how he feels--but that’s the coward’s way out, and even if she knows that doesn’t mean she doesn’t want to hear it from his mouth. It doesn’t mean he shouldn’t tell her, spoil her, give this to her. But it’s still going out on a limb, far from the safety of the strong trunk of what they’ve built up, the foundation of mutual affection.
(Is he scared? He’s fucking terrified.)
“Dai-chan,” Momoi says (she calls him that so easily, almost childlike; he accepts it from her because from her lips it suits him). “We’ll meet up later?”
She slides out of his bed, stretching; her hair is tangled in a knot below her shoulders and his eyes follow the shape of her bare arms, one breast fallen out of his old tank top she’s wearing, the neckline as it were uneven across her. She turns back, eyes sleepy, mouth half-open.
“I wouldn’t mind,” he says. “If you’d stay a little longer.”
“I have stuff to do,” she says, turning away again.
“Do it here? I want you to stay.”
(It’s not a total admission; he’s just taken maybe half a step forward and he’s still waiting for the free fall to start.)
“Okay,” she says, turning back; he pulls her down on top of him, kissing the side of her jaw.
Her hair falls into his mouth and he spits it back out; she’s already laughing and it’s getting tangled between them again (where the hell did her hair tie go?) and his stomach feels like it’s full of helium, as if he’s going to soar into the air and float away. And it’s fine as long as he can take her with him.
FILL: TEAM HIMURO TATSUYA/NIJIMURA SHUUZOU, T
Fandom: Kuroko no Basuke
Major Tags: TAGS OMITTED
Other Tags: TAGS OMITTED
Word Count: 450
(non-childhood friends au!)
***
Aomine’s never met anyone like Momoi. That’s not true, strictly speaking; he can’t say any one of her traits are unique to her--he’s met smart people, gorgeous people, people who know basketball as they do an intimate partner (though perhaps, other than himself, no one else to this degree), people who rush headlong into things so sure of what they want before they realize that’s not what they want at all, and make it out unscathed. With her it’s rarely luck; it’s always preparation, her ability to subconsciously second guess her own sharp intuition. And as a collection; it’s not even these traits that make her so damn amazing. There is no why in how much he likes her; it just is, intense, intoxicating, breathing in too much cologne from a sample.
And he still chokes on his words; it’s so hard to just say it; it’s hard to put himself in the position where he lets her know. She knows everything; she has to know how he feels--but that’s the coward’s way out, and even if she knows that doesn’t mean she doesn’t want to hear it from his mouth. It doesn’t mean he shouldn’t tell her, spoil her, give this to her. But it’s still going out on a limb, far from the safety of the strong trunk of what they’ve built up, the foundation of mutual affection.
(Is he scared? He’s fucking terrified.)
“Dai-chan,” Momoi says (she calls him that so easily, almost childlike; he accepts it from her because from her lips it suits him). “We’ll meet up later?”
She slides out of his bed, stretching; her hair is tangled in a knot below her shoulders and his eyes follow the shape of her bare arms, one breast fallen out of his old tank top she’s wearing, the neckline as it were uneven across her. She turns back, eyes sleepy, mouth half-open.
“I wouldn’t mind,” he says. “If you’d stay a little longer.”
“I have stuff to do,” she says, turning away again.
“Do it here? I want you to stay.”
(It’s not a total admission; he’s just taken maybe half a step forward and he’s still waiting for the free fall to start.)
“Okay,” she says, turning back; he pulls her down on top of him, kissing the side of her jaw.
Her hair falls into his mouth and he spits it back out; she’s already laughing and it’s getting tangled between them again (where the hell did her hair tie go?) and his stomach feels like it’s full of helium, as if he’s going to soar into the air and float away. And it’s fine as long as he can take her with him.