Ship: Aomine/Midorima Fandom: Kuroko no Basuke Major Tags: TAGS OMITTED Other Tags: TAGS OMITTED Word Count: 405
this slots right into my fave aomido au so thank you for this
***
“Babe,” says Aomine. “I know you got this.”
“Then why are you here?” says Midorima.
There’s one out and a runner at first, the perfect situation to induce a ground ball and be done with it. Midorima doesn’t trust his fielders as much as he trusts himself (especially when it’s not Aomine out there at third), but still. A routine play, one that they’ve made a million times. They can handle it; Midorima doesn’t need to waste time trying to pick off the runner. Unless he’s going to try and steal on Aomine's rifle of an arm, which would be stupid—but that doesn’t mean he won’t do it. Midorima sighs.
“Just strike him out, Ace.”
“You’re the power pitcher.”
“Eh, true, but it’s not like you can’t,” says Aomine, that cheeky grin of his splitting his face. “You got this."
The umpire’s starting to walk out; Aomine squeezes Midorima’s ass (definitely not the normal buddy-buddy ass slap that the other catchers give him, and probably not appropriate for the middle of the game, but whatever). Midorima’s cheeks are flaming with more than the usual sunburn. He waits for Aomine to pull on his mask and crouch behind the plate; he checks the runner and looks in for the sign. Changeup, okay. He fires from the stretch; the batter’s looking for a fastball and seizes up; Aomine frames the pitch perfectly. Strike one.
Midorima checks the runner again; he’s not going. Aomine calls for the curve and Midorima shakes his head. Another changeup, and he nods, fires. The batter makes contact, but his swing is early and pulls the ball foul. Two strikes, the runner taking a bigger lead but not worth throwing over. Midorima could get him like that, but he knows exactly what Aomine wants now. He’s ready for the fastball before Aomine even signs it.
The batter swings over it; Midorima doesn’t have to look to know the runner’s going. Aomine’s throw is sharp, sizzling, a perfect strike from nearly twice the length of a pitch, straight into Sakurai’s glove where he smacks the tag on the runner’s leg with plenty of time left. Three out.
“Nice throw,” Midorima says, catching up with Aomine on their way back to the dugout.
Aomine beams (are compliments from him that rare?) before launching into a flowery description of Midorima’s pitching that leaves him blushing furiously and almost wishing the game was over sooner.
FILL: TEAM HIMURO TATSUYA/NIJIMURA SHUUZOU, T
Fandom: Kuroko no Basuke
Major Tags: TAGS OMITTED
Other Tags: TAGS OMITTED
Word Count: 405
this slots right into my fave aomido au so thank you for this
***
“Babe,” says Aomine. “I know you got this.”
“Then why are you here?” says Midorima.
There’s one out and a runner at first, the perfect situation to induce a ground ball and be done with it. Midorima doesn’t trust his fielders as much as he trusts himself (especially when it’s not Aomine out there at third), but still. A routine play, one that they’ve made a million times. They can handle it; Midorima doesn’t need to waste time trying to pick off the runner. Unless he’s going to try and steal on Aomine's rifle of an arm, which would be stupid—but that doesn’t mean he won’t do it. Midorima sighs.
“Just strike him out, Ace.”
“You’re the power pitcher.”
“Eh, true, but it’s not like you can’t,” says Aomine, that cheeky grin of his splitting his face. “You got this."
The umpire’s starting to walk out; Aomine squeezes Midorima’s ass (definitely not the normal buddy-buddy ass slap that the other catchers give him, and probably not appropriate for the middle of the game, but whatever). Midorima’s cheeks are flaming with more than the usual sunburn. He waits for Aomine to pull on his mask and crouch behind the plate; he checks the runner and looks in for the sign. Changeup, okay. He fires from the stretch; the batter’s looking for a fastball and seizes up; Aomine frames the pitch perfectly. Strike one.
Midorima checks the runner again; he’s not going. Aomine calls for the curve and Midorima shakes his head. Another changeup, and he nods, fires. The batter makes contact, but his swing is early and pulls the ball foul. Two strikes, the runner taking a bigger lead but not worth throwing over. Midorima could get him like that, but he knows exactly what Aomine wants now. He’s ready for the fastball before Aomine even signs it.
The batter swings over it; Midorima doesn’t have to look to know the runner’s going. Aomine’s throw is sharp, sizzling, a perfect strike from nearly twice the length of a pitch, straight into Sakurai’s glove where he smacks the tag on the runner’s leg with plenty of time left. Three out.
“Nice throw,” Midorima says, catching up with Aomine on their way back to the dugout.
Aomine beams (are compliments from him that rare?) before launching into a flowery description of Midorima’s pitching that leaves him blushing furiously and almost wishing the game was over sooner.