"No." He looked down at the pink-haired bitch standing by him, by the metal fence that caged in the basketball court. It was always the same basketball court and it was always night and streets were always empty and really she shouldn't be walking down them alone but he never walked her home.
"No," he told her, even though she was already half undressed, her large breasts heaving to get out of her bra, her porcelain marked by angry red. She was so angry at him but she wasn't even his type; when he liked girls, he liked little skinny girls half his age with as little confidence as fat, he didn't like women with full curves who could almost tell what he was thinking.
Hanamiya had told him at middle-school graduation that he had the worst personally and boy was he right. This had all just started as mere coincidence—mere coincidence, that's what she had said but Imayoshi was not stupid. He knew she didn't just run into him at the same basketball court he went to every night, like a madman, every night after he fucked some pretty thing in a bathroom, made them come on his fingers, made them come on his cock.
And she had asked so prettily too, with eyelashes and chocolate she had most certainly not made herself. He had said yes because he knew how fucked up it was, because he knew from the beginning that they were not fucking each other. She was fucking Daiki Daiki Daiki, her voice calling out to the dark as if he could hear her far away on another continent, as if he would fucking care. He knew she must have all the NBA games recorded on her TV, knew she must go home and masturbate on the couch, call out Daiki and imagine him fucking her open, in out in out, until she couldn't walk, until she couldn't fucking breathe. He knew because he did the same, because when he was drunk, he would only ever fuck men taller than him.
He said, "No," even while her tights and panties pooled around her ankles on the ground because he always did what people hated most.
"Why not?" she demanded, crossing her arms and pushing her breasts up, as if that would help change his mind.
He leaned in close, but didn't touch her. "Listen here, you little slut, I'm not going to be Aomine anymore. At least whores give me my own name."
"You're jealous? Didn't you know what you were getting into at the start?"
"I'm not stupid, Princess. I did this for the same reason you did, but now I'm going to stop." He turned away from her and walked over to the goal to collect his abandoned basketball. It was time to go home.
"What if..." he paused, half-bent over to pick up his basketball, and waited for her to finish. "What if we, you and me, fucked, not that's not right. What if we...made love, just us, no third person? How about that Imayoshi?" Her voice was trembling, and it would be wrong not to take advantage of that.
He stood up and dribbled over to her. Her eyes watched the ball. He grabbed her chin and forced her to look up at her. "Afraid of using my name, Satsuki? Still you think you have any pride?"
She swallowed. "No, Shoichi, I'm not afraid."
His hand traveled down from her chin, down her neck and her collarbone, down to one of her breasts and he squeezed it, tight. She made a gasping sound. "You're not even my type."
"Not here," she said, "this place is haunted."
He dropped his basketball to free his other hand. He cupped her face with it, thumb stroking her cheekbone. "Satsuki wants to make love, she wants to make the kind of love where she takes off my glasses and we use each others name and stay in bed afterward."
"Yes," she breathed and she reached up to take off his glasses and he didn't refuse. Imayoshi was not stupid. He always knew when he had lost and always knew when he had won.
A/N: I hoped you guys enjoyed this!