OMG FICS
She never knew her father.
Or her mother, really. Well, she has a face. A few memories. The soft touch of hands like rice paper- of hard nails painted beet red, the thick billowing steam of fresh rice that makes her eyes water. The sound of crickets, a warm body so very big and awkward and adult in the bed next to her. Mother. Long hair. Bones. Something special, but empty. It encases the bed in her chest with a lukewarm dew, with scratchy
sepals.
She thinks of a father, and that flower begins to peek out. A dabble of color, like fresh paint bleeding into the center of a white canvas. The scent of sweat, callouses, hard work. Hands that are rough but tender. A smile that is both intimidating and wise. Eyes, eyes that sparkle with the world of men. Men, the stars that twinkle in the inkwell of this strange and terrifying thing called being a girl. She's young. She's not fond of speaking, doesn't like to pipe up around the adults when they come to buy mom's powder. Young.
Too young.
When mother dies, in a fight on the streets over the price of the powder, she's still too young. And alone. Bad things tend to follow young girls who are alone, especially ones who grow right in the center of the powder market, where toothless women and men with thin hairlines and knives in their shirt sleeves roam.. But she is lucky. Because mother had a secret, a special secret that will come to help her heart bloom before those monsters can click their jaws on her heels.
An uncle.
He's different than the strictly masculine image, somewhat. His hands are softer than mother's. His movements, graceful, not broad and loaded with confidence and ostentatious strength. His face, clean shaven, hair, long. Pretty even. Not rugged, raw and mysterious like a man. It's too familiar, this girlishness.
But his eyes, they sparkle. And they are calm. She feels the grief in her still, and when he first takes her to his modest home atop that hill, away from the city's edge and practically akin to a hermit, she sleeps thinking of him as a father.
She never calls him it. It seems like to voice such a wonderful, secret thing would make that slow bud wither with the intensity of the sun. She learns moderation, the sunshine, the water, the wind. He gives her lessons. And the first time she has gyoza, she pukes. But even with her nerves trembling, her mouth wet and rancid and bitter, all she can think is- father made these for me. My father. My very first dumpling. From my very first father....
He's strong in a different way than her imagination had conjured. And he is so very smart, too. Everyday they meditate, and he teaches her how to move with the flow of nature, to not fight the current of the wind, the water, the air. She hangs on every word like it's the gospel truth. She stays awake at night, willing herself to remember everything. She practices until her bones are whittled down, her muscles are aflame, her skin is flush with sweat. He never seems to sweat, not really. But that doesn't stop her imagination- she finds herself wondering if she can't find some scent, beside him in bed, nose buried in those long raven locks.
But they don't share a bed, not like her and mother.
She's not that young anymore.
Her heart has bloomed now, revealing that sweet center that girls her age use to bring in suitors. She hides it, covers it with the sleeves of her dirt and leaf covered tunic. She's hoarding it, keeping it hidden and sacred for something that's a secret. Only the sly smile on her face and the pink on her cheeks when she looks at Fon gives anything away.
Sometimes it's hard, because that flower wants so very badly to burst. She has nothing but fear holding her back, and she tells herself day after day that father has no other flower, has noone else who will eat his gyoza and help him scrub the floors or admire the malai vembu tree's shrunken lilac flowers. No mother, no
Queen Clytemnestra, not even Aegisthus. Or so she thought.
Aegisthus comes in the form of a crisp Armani suit, a fedora, coiled sideburns that she wants to pull pull pull pull til they pluck just like her mother's black thread did when she bit the last stitch off. He is an old friend of father's, makes him laugh and frown and even occassionally stumble, like a real person. She hates his guts, and has to keep herself from purposefully dumping the teapot into his lap when she brings the zongi and a fresh batch of ku ding. She sits there, eats the gyoza smugly, almost challenging him with her tiny daring smile because this is what she has to show for her love. She can eat this special food her father made, and this Italian Aegisthus will never take that away.
She spends the night awake, staring at the ceiling, remembering the way mother's powder lingered in the air after firing, made her nose burn. How the grass tickled her playfully the first time she had been brave enough to lay peacefully beside father while he meditated. The way his eyes flashed, his smile spoke silently, fingers dancing across the earth as he spoke so friendly with Armani suit. She touches herself, pretends her hands are rough and graceful and knowing, just like his. She's spiteful, telling herself that he cannot offer the gift she can, because she is father's flower, only father's. Her fingers are hard and angry when she presses herself, bruises her thighs, cuts across the porcelain of her ribcage. Soft breasts. Thin shoulders. Curved hips. She shakes when she comes, ashamed, and laps away the mess from her fingers, turning on her side to find a spot on the sheets that isn't moistened and heated from her sweaty body.
She sleeps. Thinking of a father. Of the scent of his might-be-sweat and the glimmering of his tranquil smile and giving herself to him before Aegisthus can steal him away with whispers of Italy and curses.
The world is saved.
The world is saved, and it's free now from the clutches of a madman, free now to crumble away into tiny bits of something not even nanophysics can comprehend.
The world is saved, the Vongola are going home, and for some reason, Shouichi's heart feels like a pool of chalky dust, burning away like stubborn ashes curling up into blackened wisps of nothingness.
The smile on his face is one that is holding back billows of smoke, threatening to eat up his insides and his stomach. It's only after they're gone, those bloodthirsty children, that he lets himself gasp out painfully, tear up.
Spanner's the one to find him, of course. Huddled over by the ruins of Melone Base, remembering too little and regretting too much. Heaving over the wires and cords and debris and things that were once his life, and were now only testaments of what that life had become. Shadows of smiles. Flickering ghosts of better days.
He could swear, his lungs were blackening with the soot of Byakuran's cremation, lingering in the air.
Spanner is his oldest friend, really. And the word friend is honest here, nothing like the confusing, convoluted, tangled and knotted ball of yarn he and the white haired man had had. Spanner was simple, a kindred spirit. A man of logic he could understand.
He's surprised then, When Spanner does something so very illogical- unpredictable- something that his tests couldn't place the probability for, the course of action alternative that had no evidence of occuring.
His lips are chapped, but his mouth is slippery with high fructose syrups and artificial flavorings- the half diluted lolipop in his hand. Shouichi knows this, because Spanner's tongue in in his mouth. When the engineer pulls away, it's silent. The lolipop twirls, a tiny cog of manufactured sweetness in this crumbling universe of bitter wheels. Spanner's fingers guide it, nervouse, halting. He speaks.
"I thought it was appropriate. Since this future is going to be rendered null anyway, and there is a significant probability that our meeting might not ever take place in the one that replaces it."
Ah. It's really so simple. But Shouichi never expected a confession from the stoic man. Thought he could only house passion for his mosca.
Judas wasn't supposed to be loved.
But loved is what he is, he supposes. Spanner is certainly less clinical than one would expect- maybe it's adrenaline from the victory hovering over them still. The smell of burning grease and blood in the air. Sugary lips on his throat. The firm curve of a foreign neck, the warm decoration of a tattoo.
Shouichi finds himself cursing at his own patheticness. He closes his eyes, chastising, and tells himself over and over again that the hair he is running fingers through now, it's blonde. Plays with Spanner's curl to make it all the more obvious. Revels in the way the lolipop stick bumps into his stomach as he works his shirt off. That soft tone, so upfront and calm, nothing at all like that overtheatrical, saccharine one. He opens his mouth as his pants are slid away, breathes out. Breathes in.
"Spanner...."
Just so he'll know the name is right. And thin bodies press close, latched together, toes curling and backs arching, and Shouichi tries not to groan too much when he's entered so abruptly by fingers, slickened by spit and impatience. He didn't know Spanner could be impatient. But this future is drawing to a close, so maybe they are on a time limit.
It hurts, but nothing like being peirced by Kikyo's vines. Nothing like bashing his head on the control panel of the base. Nothing like being force fed marshmallows in a warm foreigner's lap. Spanner moves, swift and sleek, his eyes closed and his eyelashes look like straw, poppies blooming up from a broken haystack, flushing cheeks. The moans are soft, the future Vongola might hear. The cold, jutting metal of the ruins digs into his back. Something's hit, his insides are mush, and he is melting, melting away with his arms around him and worrying only about that pool of pleasure getting tighter and tighter in his belly. Breathing, breathing, breathing, and gone. Short and sweet. He wonders if they were both virgins. Not anymore.
Stupid words follow, on the tile floor, a sloppy mess. Something about high school, about moscas, about Tsuna's hairstyle ten years ago. Breathy laughs, empty on his part, near hysterical.
The world is saved, he tells himself. The world is ending, the world is ending, because it has been saved, and why can't Shouichi cry.
The worst thing about Giotto, is he thinks he's something special, something better.
His back arches, his elbows chaff against the damp sheets, and the sweat that pools in the dip of his backbone tickles. It tickles, until Giotto slams into him hand, hand grabbing his mocha skin smugly, and then it drips down his hip and he's ready to elbow him in the face.
His lips have been chapping lately. It's from biting down on them, trying so hard not to give the blonde over him the satisfaction of winning. Winning means getting him to scream, getting him to buck back. Secondo will pluck his eyebrows before that happens. He will surgically remove his manhood and physically become a woman before he allows himself to be degraded like one.
But still. His back in arching. And Giotto's laughter is soft in his ear, like rain weighing heavy in a white cloud of breath. He's not the only one panting. Someone else is panting with Secondo's voice, and he wants to murder them. He wants to wring the throats of the walls. Wants to throttle the floral decorative paper. Who the fuck picked that out? That frilly fuck with the potatoe sack pants? Fuck all.
Sweat clings to his side burns, and he pushes against the sheets, a burst of strength, and Giotto slips out of him with a slick pop, emptied, and under him. Hands burn against that throat. Eyes devour that calm orange gaze.
"I'm on top tonight," he growls. No questions asked, that's the way he's learned. Questions are a waste of time made by people who think they are special enough for an explaination. People who don't realize how neatly a skull can be compacted into a paper weight. He has several.
Perhaps it's time to further the collection, he finds himself thinking, when Giotto just laughs. He just laughs, and doesn't even flinch when Secondo's flames burn bright against his skin. He wants to mar that bastard. Give him some scars to reminisce on. His lips, they fucking hurt. Twice, he's been unable to walk. Several times, giving up wife beaters for a while and taking to wearing dress shirts around the mansion- to hide the bite marks on his neck.
The worst thing about Giotto, is he thinks he's something special, something better.
Secondo, he hesitates to crush his windpipe, and Giotto's bucking up into him before he can even think a four letter word. He's bucking upward, and his hands are soft and benevolent and oh so Di famiglia tradizionale, so unlike Secondo who is just comune mafioso. He wants to kill the men who first thought of the link of mafiusu with il Cosa Nostra. Wants to press his heels into all their teeth, make them choke on the shards when he tells them there is noone more mafiusu than their pompous asses, than the biggest pompous ass of them all, beneath him right now.
Mafiusu m. adj.- arrogant, proud, boastful, fearless. All of this is in the man's face. And it is Secondo who finds himself marfud- rejected- by the Vongola heads. But they don't know what he and Giotto know. They don't know Giotto fucks him every week. They don't know, Giotto doesn't know, Giotto's wife doesn't know, that Secondo is going to fuck him this time.
That's what he thinks, at least. And like always, Giotto will prove him wrong. He turns the anger and strength that his body burns with into dust, makes him grunt and groan and shift, and yes, Secondo is on top- but it's Giotto inside of him, like always, rolling his hips noisily and making the other shudder with the lewd, taboo feeling of being stretched open. And Giotto won't let him off easily- he can tell by that shit eating grin- because he pushes Secondo to the edge, right to his cock weeping and balls bursting and whole frame trembling on the edge of the abyss, held by a peice of yarn.
"Ah~? Come on now, you wanted to top. You're on top, right? Show me what you wanted to do here, little boy~"
And he's biting his lips. Holding still. Killing himself every second that his balls are forced to get a little bluer. Until,
"D-Damnit, y-you scum. Fuck me....!"
And he is a mess, pressed against the blonde and erupting on both their stomachs, Giotto that arrogant fuck, coming right inside him like he owns the place.
The sheets are ruined. He scowls, chucks them off, pours them both glasses of whiskey. Decides halfway not to share. Drinks both, ass hot and wet against the cold dry mattress. Tells Giotto he's going to burn the sheets. Tells him he's a shithead. Tells him he'll be dead one day, and Secondo will piss on his grave on his way to the Vongola throne.
Giotto knows it's a lie. And that's the worst thing about Giotto. He thinks he's something special, something better. And he is. Secondo knows this. Secondo also knows that when Giotto tells him he disagrees with the head's comment about him being mafiusu, that he's really mafiusa- an attractive, beautiful woman; he's going to fucking kill him.
Not happy with the GiottoSecondo porn for some reason. Too focused on lol Italiano.