Work Text:
“Kagami-kun,” Kuroko breathes, tongue flickering out to try and moisten his chapped, dry lips. Kagami watches, fascinated, as it presses here and there – a flash of soft, wet pink that makes his palms go slick with sweat. It makes holding the handle steady that much more difficult.
The blade digs deeper; draws a rivulet of blood that spills over Kuroko’s chest, warm and coppery. The paleness of his skin is like a canvas waiting to be sullied; waiting to be painted in the vivid carmine and blue-black hues of freshly punctured veins and broken blood vessels.
In this, Kagami isn't the artist as much as he’s the brush.
His hand is the broad sweep of a rough stroke, the knife almost alive beneath the tenuous grip of his fingers.
He could measure time in the little gasps and moans that pour from Kuroko like water from a broken dam. And with each stifled inhalation, with every indrawn hiss of pain, Kagami falls more and more in love with him.
“Harder, Kagami-kun,” Kuroko urges, and the knife point slips deeper; sheathes itself in Kuroko’s flesh like it’d been made to fit. The skin on either side of the blade first indents and then divides; it parts to reveal the hidden layers of fat and muscle and sinew beneath it like a precious secret.
With his unoccupied hand, Kagami reaches for his cock – it’s been neglected long enough, he decides. He strokes himself off with quick, hard thrusts, and each time he bucks forward into the tight hot circle of his fist, the knife slides up a little further. It’s like watching a keen pair of scissors glide through silk.
“Kagami-kun,” Kuroko pants, face twisted, a careful hand on his own cock, movements slow and measured and torturous. “Kagami-kun, please.”
Kuroko begging is enough to send him over the edge, and Kagami comes hot and hard and shuddering. The blade drags, catches and then slips when his hand can’t hold it any longer. Kuroko cries out, body drawn tight with counterpoint pain and pleasure, even as it tumbles onto the sheets and leaves a trail of brilliant red in its wake.
Afterwards, Kagami smears the drying remains of his orgasm over Kuroko’s chest, absorbed in the way Kuroko hisses and squirms at the contact.
“You’re perfect,” he tells Kuroko, leaning forward to nip at a spot where Kuroko had worried his lip to bleeding. “Perfect,” he repeats and his words taste faintly of metal.
Every masterpiece is.