(no subject)
Here's two of the fics I've been working on since yesterday, I have about 3 more but for now, my brain is dead, so I'll just share these ones. ♥
"I can't really figure out this one...or this one.......or this one either......"
The redhead's voice is sleepy, perpetually monotone with just an edge of disappointment. It's the sort of thing that luls Tsuna to a sort of half sleep in the warm, dim room, feeling a wave of nostalgia over just how familiar that disappointment. The kind of tone that is just apologizing for existing. Constantly gnawing away with the reminder that you're a helpless failure. Tsuna used to have that tone. It's like he's hooked up on his past self's mental wavelength when he talks with Enma. He wonders half if he could help Enma get out of that rut the same Reborn helped him, because he can understand it so well. Then he worries that if Enma gets out of his rut he'll decide not to hang around his fellow loser, Tsuna. Mentally comparing himself as a 'confidence building friend' like Yamamoto or Gokudera, he gets a nauseating headache from the pressure and decides to drop it all together.
He gets himself off the subject by looking at Enma's strange red eyes instead. That's when he realizes he hasn't been saying a single word, and the boy's been staring at him expectantly with a worried look. Afraid of offending him, he blurts out something trying to reconcile him. "Your eyes are really pretty!"
It doesn't get the response he expects. Instead of freaking out or making a face like the brunette himself is doing- because did he really just say that oh god- he simply pinkens, staring at the carpet as he picks at its stray threads with bandaged fingers. "You want me then?"
The small question isn't the one he was expecting. And he wasn't expecting the nod that his head made by its own accord either. Or the fact that his new friend starts slowly climbing into his lap, like he's done this before, and it's completely natural.
He's moving and doing and shifting all at once, but at the same time not doing anything. Pouting, chapped lips move close to his, ghosting through the air like he's just trying to kiss the sparkling electrons of his skin, trying to tempt Tsuna into doing it first. His jacket, jeans, clothes- it's all big and bulky, but the friction that their bodies make without even really touching is astounding. Tsuna falls back, gasping on the rug, and it's then that he takes ahold of the other's hips and Kozato says "Come on," and they're kissing.
He does everything, and Enma just lies there and takes it with slow moving hands, calm breathing, drowsy eyes. It doesn't feel wrong. It's almost strange how un-wrong it feels. In the sleepiness of the room, he's worrying about the fact that he isn't worrying about the fact that Enma's hand is encased by his hand, forcing it to pump the hard aching thing burning between his legs.
Enma didn't seem to mind, quickly going along with it, cheeks burning a soft glowing pink as his palm got sticky. And he didn't seem to mind when Tsuna started yanking at his pants either, wrapping his own calloused fingers around the boy's self with a bravery he didn't know he had. Pushing, pulling, rolling, insistantly touching that firm, clean skin until it was full and red and they were both aching, breath fast. Pressing together, the awkward slipperiness of two dripping cocks trying to grind, each fumble pressing their swollen sacs together with a gasp, making them growl with impatience and rut faster, trying to get as much friction in, careless of how it happened.
When they both come, hot and calm and white running down thighs and heaving stomachs, their tongues are wrapped together, kissing and breathing and sharing a look that doesn't see.
The birds chirp, and Tsuna still doesn't know how to help Enma with that math homework.
Giotto is the boss.
He's the boss, and as boss, G will follow whatever he says, whether it's to murder this man, to blow up that building, to fill out this paperwork or buy this kind of coffee from the store. To lick his shoes. To iron his cape. To turn up the A/C.
He's done all of this. Because Giotto is the boss, and G is his right hand man, his subordinate. Right hand isn't just a title- he follows Giotto just as the body follows the brain. G would reach out and kiss someone if Giotto told him to. Would kneel to cover a puddle in the street with his body. Would pick his nose.
He's done, sadly, all of this too.
But there is one thing that G will do, even if Giotto doesn't tell him to. Will do even if Giotto tells him not to. Giotto is still boss, and G is still the right hand, but sometimes the body can tingle on its own, can shift and twitch and tempt the brain autonomously. They say the Left Hand is really the one that houses temptation, il diavolo. But G is ambidexterous, and G is devoted, and so G can fulfill the role of both hands as necessary. Right now, G was the left hand that was cupping Primo's curved asscheek, holding him up and against the wall. G was the right hand, dragging calloused fingers across his chest, grinding his thumb down onto a pert rosy nipple. And G was the mouth that was ravishing his boss' throat as Giotto cried out hoarsely, fucked mercilessly by the Storm's cock. Pushing him up, yanking back, the noise slick and lewd from the lotion they clumsily applied; thrusting back up, and dropping him sloppily back down onto it making the blonde scream, fucking him with gravity and hips and loyalty.
Afterwards, cum dripping down Giotto's thighs, and G on his knees murmuring soft guilt filled apologies, Giotto goes back to being the boss, and G goes back to being just his right hand, his subordinate.
Never a lover.
"I can't really figure out this one...or this one.......or this one either......"
The redhead's voice is sleepy, perpetually monotone with just an edge of disappointment. It's the sort of thing that luls Tsuna to a sort of half sleep in the warm, dim room, feeling a wave of nostalgia over just how familiar that disappointment. The kind of tone that is just apologizing for existing. Constantly gnawing away with the reminder that you're a helpless failure. Tsuna used to have that tone. It's like he's hooked up on his past self's mental wavelength when he talks with Enma. He wonders half if he could help Enma get out of that rut the same Reborn helped him, because he can understand it so well. Then he worries that if Enma gets out of his rut he'll decide not to hang around his fellow loser, Tsuna. Mentally comparing himself as a 'confidence building friend' like Yamamoto or Gokudera, he gets a nauseating headache from the pressure and decides to drop it all together.
He gets himself off the subject by looking at Enma's strange red eyes instead. That's when he realizes he hasn't been saying a single word, and the boy's been staring at him expectantly with a worried look. Afraid of offending him, he blurts out something trying to reconcile him. "Your eyes are really pretty!"
It doesn't get the response he expects. Instead of freaking out or making a face like the brunette himself is doing- because did he really just say that oh god- he simply pinkens, staring at the carpet as he picks at its stray threads with bandaged fingers. "You want me then?"
The small question isn't the one he was expecting. And he wasn't expecting the nod that his head made by its own accord either. Or the fact that his new friend starts slowly climbing into his lap, like he's done this before, and it's completely natural.
He's moving and doing and shifting all at once, but at the same time not doing anything. Pouting, chapped lips move close to his, ghosting through the air like he's just trying to kiss the sparkling electrons of his skin, trying to tempt Tsuna into doing it first. His jacket, jeans, clothes- it's all big and bulky, but the friction that their bodies make without even really touching is astounding. Tsuna falls back, gasping on the rug, and it's then that he takes ahold of the other's hips and Kozato says "Come on," and they're kissing.
He does everything, and Enma just lies there and takes it with slow moving hands, calm breathing, drowsy eyes. It doesn't feel wrong. It's almost strange how un-wrong it feels. In the sleepiness of the room, he's worrying about the fact that he isn't worrying about the fact that Enma's hand is encased by his hand, forcing it to pump the hard aching thing burning between his legs.
Enma didn't seem to mind, quickly going along with it, cheeks burning a soft glowing pink as his palm got sticky. And he didn't seem to mind when Tsuna started yanking at his pants either, wrapping his own calloused fingers around the boy's self with a bravery he didn't know he had. Pushing, pulling, rolling, insistantly touching that firm, clean skin until it was full and red and they were both aching, breath fast. Pressing together, the awkward slipperiness of two dripping cocks trying to grind, each fumble pressing their swollen sacs together with a gasp, making them growl with impatience and rut faster, trying to get as much friction in, careless of how it happened.
When they both come, hot and calm and white running down thighs and heaving stomachs, their tongues are wrapped together, kissing and breathing and sharing a look that doesn't see.
The birds chirp, and Tsuna still doesn't know how to help Enma with that math homework.
Giotto is the boss.
He's the boss, and as boss, G will follow whatever he says, whether it's to murder this man, to blow up that building, to fill out this paperwork or buy this kind of coffee from the store. To lick his shoes. To iron his cape. To turn up the A/C.
He's done all of this. Because Giotto is the boss, and G is his right hand man, his subordinate. Right hand isn't just a title- he follows Giotto just as the body follows the brain. G would reach out and kiss someone if Giotto told him to. Would kneel to cover a puddle in the street with his body. Would pick his nose.
He's done, sadly, all of this too.
But there is one thing that G will do, even if Giotto doesn't tell him to. Will do even if Giotto tells him not to. Giotto is still boss, and G is still the right hand, but sometimes the body can tingle on its own, can shift and twitch and tempt the brain autonomously. They say the Left Hand is really the one that houses temptation, il diavolo. But G is ambidexterous, and G is devoted, and so G can fulfill the role of both hands as necessary. Right now, G was the left hand that was cupping Primo's curved asscheek, holding him up and against the wall. G was the right hand, dragging calloused fingers across his chest, grinding his thumb down onto a pert rosy nipple. And G was the mouth that was ravishing his boss' throat as Giotto cried out hoarsely, fucked mercilessly by the Storm's cock. Pushing him up, yanking back, the noise slick and lewd from the lotion they clumsily applied; thrusting back up, and dropping him sloppily back down onto it making the blonde scream, fucking him with gravity and hips and loyalty.
Afterwards, cum dripping down Giotto's thighs, and G on his knees murmuring soft guilt filled apologies, Giotto goes back to being the boss, and G goes back to being just his right hand, his subordinate.
Never a lover.