
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/3557477.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Kuroko_no_Basuke_|_Kuroko's_Basketball
  Relationship:
      Himuro_Tatsuya/Murasakibara_Atsushi
  Character:
      Himuro_Tatsuya, Murasakibara_Atsushi
  Additional Tags:
      Locker_Room, Blow_Jobs, Facials, Licking, Hand_Jobs, Showers, Established
      Relationship, No_Plot/Plotless, Plot_What_Plot/Porn_Without_Plot, Dom/
      sub, No_Aftercare
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-04-04 Words: 2098
****** Messy ******
by tastewithouttalent
Summary
     "Murasakibara is always the last to change." Murasakibara lingers in
     the locker room, and Himuro ends up messier than when they started.
Murasakibara is always the last to change.
Himuro can count on it, now. Regardless of how long practice goes or how tired
they are, they will always be the last ones to leave, caught a step behind
everyone else while Murasakibara finishes his snack, while Murasakibara lingers
in the shower, while Murasakibara towels his hair dry. Today he’s not even
trying to keep up with everyone else’s pace. The rest of the team has said
goodbye and left, taking their conversations and casual friendliness with them,
and Murasakibara remains where he dropped at the end of practice, shoulders
resting against the corner of the lockers and eyes idly drifting against
Himuro’s features while the other collects his things with more habit than
urgency. He’s just contemplated changing himself, taking a shower to rinse the
sticky catch of sweat off his skin, when the other speaks without moving.
“Muro-chin.”
There’s no emotion to the sound, just the flat weight of boredom that is a
constant presence in Murasakibara’s voice. Himuro is expecting to look up to a
demand for another drink, a request that he go buy another bag of chips or a
box of candy. He’s not prepared for the hand that lands on his shoulder,
Murasakibara’s fingers closing against him and pulling him forward off the
bench.
“Knees,” Murasakibara says without any preamble at all. His hand is still at
Himuro’s shoulder, pushing down harder, now, as he uses it as a prop as he
pushes to his feet. He’s impossibly tall when Himuro is kneeling, his usual
overwhelming size actively surprising with the difference in their positions,
but Himuro doesn’t try to get to his feet. This isn’t a particularly common
event, in the list of things Murasakibara is likely to want, but Himuro knows
to take his opportunities when they arise, is happy to submit to Murasakibara’s
whims anytime it gives him an opportunity like this. He looks up through his
hair, an attempt to read the other’s expression that proves mostly futile for
the perpetual half-sleepy boredom that dominates the other’s gaze. It doesn’t
really matter, anyway. Himuro could have his eyes shut completely and he would
still be able to feel the heat radiating off Murasakibara’s body, the thin
fabric of his shorts doing nothing to block the warmth.
Murasakibara gets his balance over his own feet, the weight pressing down at
Himuro’s shoulder lifts, and Himuro is responding immediately, rocking up over
his knees as the hand at his shoulder loosens. The shift digs his knees in
against the floor, burns the ache of almost-torn skin out over them, but he
doesn’t move away, leans in closer to press his forehead to Murasakibara’s
stomach, to reach for the waistband of the other’s shorts to tug them down off
his hips.
Usually Himuro is the one who has to persuade Murasakibara into interest,
either through slow seduction or teasing him into one of the uncannily quick
responses the other sometimes shows when pressed. But this time the other boy
is more than half-hard before Himuro has his shorts off, flushing harder under
the warmth of the other’s breathing until there’s almost nothing left for
Himuro to do at all. All he has to do is duck in, open his mouth and fit
Murasakibara’s cock past his lips, and Murasakibara rocks forward immediately,
pressing himself far back over Himuro’s mouth until the other thinks he might
be able to just hold still and let Murasakibara thrust in against his lips.
Not that he intends to. It’s far more satisfying to reach out to brace himself
at the other’s hips, to fit his thumbs into the dip of the other’s waist like
he’s pretending he has some control over the other boy’s movements. When
Murasakibara rocks forward Himuro ducks in to meet him, opening his mouth wider
and shutting his eyes so he can focus on the hot slide of the other’s cock over
his tongue. Murasakibara tastes hot, like strength and sweat and all the things
Murasakibara pretends not be but is, under the boredom and the laziness. The
thought makes Himuro whimper in the back of his throat, accidental vibration
sliding across his tongue, and Murasakibara groans low and hot and grabs at his
hair, his fingers tightening against the back of Himuro’s head to pull him in
forcibly. The motion brings Himuro in past the point of comfort, slides
Murasakibara’s cock in against the back of his throat and down until he can’t
breathe, but he doesn’t push at the other’s hips to urge him away. He can feel
his throat working reflexively, attempts to breathe that turn into awkward
choking noises on his tongue, but Murasakibara is breathing harder, leaning
forward so he can press his free hand flat against the locker and brace himself
to move into a deliberate rhythm.
Himuro keeps his eyes shut, keeps his hold at Murasakibara’s hips to hold
himself in place, to keep his sense of his surroundings fixed against the
motion over his lips and against his aching throat. He wants to lean in closer,
wants to swallow Murasakibara back until he’s rewarded with the sticky heat of
the other’s come spilling over his tongue, but he can’t move free from the fist
tangled into his hair. All that’s left is to hold onto his awareness in the
moment, open his mouth wider and lick harder at the other’s length and let
Murasakibara fuck into his mouth at whatever pace the other wants to set.
Himuro is expecting Murasakibara to finish in his mouth. That’s the way this
has always gone in the past, after all, and the other usually likes the minimal
clean-up required by blowjobs. But the heat of Murasakibara’s cock is just
starting to flush hotter, the twitch of extra resistance speaking to how close
he is, when he draws back, leaves Himuro gasping for air and without any
pressure at his lips at all. The unexpected movement persuades Himuro to open
his eyes, to look up in pursuit of some kind of explanation, and as he moves
Murasakibara lets his hair go, reaches down to replace Himuro’s mouth with the
grip of his own fingers. He moves fast, falling into a far faster pace than his
hips set before, and Himuro can see the faint crease of attention forming
across Murasakibara’s face, the shadow of intensity in the stare fixed on him.
“Atsushi--” he starts, and Murasakibara grates “Open your mouth” like every
word is costing him. Himuro’s words die in his throat, his lips part in instant
obedience, and he’s just looking back at Murasakibara’s taut stomach when the
other groans, the movement of his hand going jerky and arrythmic. Himuro’s
mouth goes wider, he tips his head back in a motion as much for aesthetics as
it is sincere, and Murasakibara comes, hot come splashing across Himuro’s
tongue and lips and up against his cheek, too, catching sticky in his hair
before he has a chance to pull back. He chokes at the surprise of the impact,
starts to flinch away, but Murasakibara doesn’t stop the motion of his hand,
keeps stroking the last few spills of heat out against Himuro’s lips. Himuro
catches his motion after a breath, goes still in time to catch the last of
Murasakibara’s come against his tongue, and then the other is pulling away,
pulling his shorts up over himself in one quick motion while Himuro swallows,
licks his lips, swallows again. That gets his mouth clean but does nothing at
all for the mess across the rest of his face, the liquid so thick Himuro
hesitates to wipe at it with his hand and just make the mess worse.
A hand comes down against his jaw, tilts his chin up to the light. “You’re
sticky, Muro-chin,” Murasakibara observes, the words so flat they lack the
suggestion of criticism they might otherwise have. Himuro looks up, meets the
other’s eyes, and there’s something there he hasn’t seen before, something
that’s a little bit like curiosity and far closer to appreciation.
The fingers drag sideways, up Himuro’s jawline to dig into his hair. The motion
catches at the sticky strands, drags them to the forefront of Himuro’s
attention, and he’s just taking a breath of hissing reaction when Murasakibara
says, “Even your hair” in what is unmistakably a purr of pleasure. Himuro
shudders at that sound, his body flushing hot with desire, and his self-
consciousness under Murasakibara’s stare is going shameless and wanton, pulling
his head to the side so he can shut his eyes and suck the other’s fingers into
his mouth. Murasakibara’s skin tastes salty, lingering hints of whatever he was
eating most recently clinging to his fingertips, and Himuro savours the texture
on his tongue, licks slow and thorough between each knuckle while Murasakibara
drops to a knee, reaches out to pull roughly against Himuro’s shorts.
Himuro is past the point of embarrassment when Murasakibara gets his fingers
against bare skin, the give of his shorts revealing his flushed cock and its
slick-smeared head. He just whines encouragement as Murasakibara pulls his hand
free to push at his hair again, lets his head fall back on a moan of
appreciation as Murasakibara’s thumb presses hard against him, and when the
other starts to jerk up over him his pace is rough and rushed and perfect. The
raw hurt at Himuro’s knees is forgotten, his attention abandoned to center in
on Murasakibara’s hand, skin, movement, his hips tilting up to arch in for more
without thinking. He’s clinging to the other’s shirt, dragging the fabric out-
of-shape with the force of his pull, and Murasakibara lets him, pushing his
hand harder against the sticky in Himuro’s hair. He’s smearing it, grinding it
in farther into the strands, and Himuro doesn’t care, he’s turning his head in
like he’s going to kiss Murasakibara’s palm, like he’s trying to spread the
viscous spill at his cheek over the other’s palm.
Murasakibara’s fingers tense, stalling Himuro’s motion before it has begun, and
for a moment Himuro thinks he’s gone too far, that the contact at his jaw and
in his hair is about to pull back. But Murasakibara is leaning in, not away,
and when the motion sidesteps the angle for a kiss Himuro has a brief,
breathless moment of understanding.
“Atsushi,” he gasps, and that’s all he has time for before Murasakibara’s mouth
is against his cheek, the other’s tongue trailing hot against the sticky smear
on Himuro’s skin. The heat is almost enough, the wet warm of the friction
against him, but Himuro has a clear image of what they look like, him with his
shorts tangled around his knees and thrusting desperately into Murasakibara’s
grip while the other licks his own come off Himuro’s face, and Himuro doesn’t
know if it’s his eyes shutting or just his vision fading into white that takes
his sight for a moment. All he knows, all that matters, is that he’s coming all
at once, sharp frantic motions of his hips pushing him up against
Murasakibara’s palm while the heat in him spills out thick and hot across the
other’s fingers.
Murasakibara’s pulling away almost as soon as Himuro can see straight again,
his lips and his hold and his touch all drawing away so he can lean back on his
heels. Himuro doesn’t move, stays still while his breathing rights itself.
Murasakibara isn’t looking at him; he’s considering his fingers, the pearly
liquid spread out over them, and it’s a sign of Himuro’s overheated distraction
that he doesn’t -- quite -- whimper as Murasakibara lifts his hand to his mouth
to lick his fingers clean.
He still stares, though, his focus utterly derailed by heat and shock and
lingering arousal, until it’s Murasakibara who says “You’re still sticky. Don’t
you need to take a shower?” while Himuro’s still kneeling against the floor.
“Oh,” Himuro says, looking down, and “Yeah,” stumbling to his feet and pulling
his clothes more or less back into place. “I’ll be right back.”
Murasakibara is still there when Himuro comes out with his hair twice-washed
clean and damp and his skin clean of any evidence of exertion. He doesn’t say
anything while Himuro puts his clothes back on, doesn’t move at all until
Himuro is all but ready to go. Then he gets up, pushes to his feet with a sigh
that says standing is an unpleasant but necessary chore, and when they leave
he’s right at Himuro’s side like he always is.
No matter when they finish changing, they always leave together.
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