[030] it's my party
Title: Let's Play Pretend
Author: ME LOL
Rating: MATURE WTFFF
Series/Fandom: Katekyo Hitman Reborn!
Characters/Pairings: Eighteen year old!Iemitsu/fifteen year old!Shamal
Warnings: BUTTSEX ARGHHHH
And he hates Iemitsu's hands on the sides of his waist, fingers reaching under his shirt and pushing upwards; hates the lips against his along with all the teeth and the tongue, the tongue; hates that he's shoved half naked up against the back of a seat recliner on the lap of a made man - but yet there he is, eyes half closed and eyebrows furrowed. It feels sticky, bare skin slick against the material of the leather seat, and it's cold when the older boy pulls away and finally manages to tug his finely ironed shirt over his head, discarding the piece of clothing on the floor of the stranger's office. Rumpled, next to his pants, to his tie, to his shoes.
The action ruffles his hair, thick and black, and it blankets in locks over his face. His hands are firmly placed by his sides, shoulders hunched upwards and leaned inwards in his attempt to not-touch, to not-feel. For whatever reason, Iemitsu laughs, inebriation deepening his tone and scenting his breath with hints of Italian wine, and Shamal discovers his loathing for the vibrations that go up and down his spine in response.
You're just a kid after all, huh, he says, husky, and adjusts Shamal on his lap, raises him upward, so he can smirk against the little niche between neck and shoulder. Just a silly little genius kid, and as he announces this, learns to appreciate the bareness of the boy sharing warmth with him with the palms of his hands and the subtle reactions to every invasion of space. The hitching of breath, the twitching of muscles.
Let's play a game.
Fifteen, Shamal wants to say. I'm fifteen, fuck you, I'll kill you where you stand. You'll be dead in an instant; my sweet Angela will assure this, and your corpse will be an object of mystery amongst men until the ends of time. Fuck you, fuck you, don't touch me. Men don't touch me, they're filthy, they're disgusting, and you're the worst of them all, you drunken fool. It's a miracle you've gotten this far, alive.
Instead, he murmurs this, soft so Iemitsu has to strain to comprehend the words that he bleeds between noises: I don't want to see.
See?
Yes.
There's a pause, and then a hand over his face, covering Shamal's world in an impenetrable black.
Can you now? Can you see?
Obediently, Shamal shakes his head no.
Good, now I'll cast a spell.
...Excuse me.
Yes, Iemitsu confirms, confident in all his slurs and all his stumbles, of course. When you open your eyes, you'll see nothing. That is, until I say so. It's part of the game.
Nothing at all?
Yes.
Okay.
And so the hand leaves his face, and he wrenches his eyes open.
And he sees.
Clearly. Everything.
How bright the room is, and how clean. How vibrant the carpet's red is when Iemitsu drapes him over the couch arm and fucks him, digging fingers into his wrists as he holds them down and . How Iemitsu is drunk, but not really.
PENISSSSS
Author: ME LOL
Rating: MATURE WTFFF
Series/Fandom: Katekyo Hitman Reborn!
Characters/Pairings: Eighteen year old!Iemitsu/fifteen year old!Shamal
Warnings: BUTTSEX ARGHHHH
And he hates Iemitsu's hands on the sides of his waist, fingers reaching under his shirt and pushing upwards; hates the lips against his along with all the teeth and the tongue, the tongue; hates that he's shoved half naked up against the back of a seat recliner on the lap of a made man - but yet there he is, eyes half closed and eyebrows furrowed. It feels sticky, bare skin slick against the material of the leather seat, and it's cold when the older boy pulls away and finally manages to tug his finely ironed shirt over his head, discarding the piece of clothing on the floor of the stranger's office. Rumpled, next to his pants, to his tie, to his shoes.
The action ruffles his hair, thick and black, and it blankets in locks over his face. His hands are firmly placed by his sides, shoulders hunched upwards and leaned inwards in his attempt to not-touch, to not-feel. For whatever reason, Iemitsu laughs, inebriation deepening his tone and scenting his breath with hints of Italian wine, and Shamal discovers his loathing for the vibrations that go up and down his spine in response.
You're just a kid after all, huh, he says, husky, and adjusts Shamal on his lap, raises him upward, so he can smirk against the little niche between neck and shoulder. Just a silly little genius kid, and as he announces this, learns to appreciate the bareness of the boy sharing warmth with him with the palms of his hands and the subtle reactions to every invasion of space. The hitching of breath, the twitching of muscles.
Let's play a game.
Fifteen, Shamal wants to say. I'm fifteen, fuck you, I'll kill you where you stand. You'll be dead in an instant; my sweet Angela will assure this, and your corpse will be an object of mystery amongst men until the ends of time. Fuck you, fuck you, don't touch me. Men don't touch me, they're filthy, they're disgusting, and you're the worst of them all, you drunken fool. It's a miracle you've gotten this far, alive.
Instead, he murmurs this, soft so Iemitsu has to strain to comprehend the words that he bleeds between noises: I don't want to see.
See?
Yes.
There's a pause, and then a hand over his face, covering Shamal's world in an impenetrable black.
Can you now? Can you see?
Obediently, Shamal shakes his head no.
Good, now I'll cast a spell.
...Excuse me.
Yes, Iemitsu confirms, confident in all his slurs and all his stumbles, of course. When you open your eyes, you'll see nothing. That is, until I say so. It's part of the game.
Nothing at all?
Yes.
Okay.
And so the hand leaves his face, and he wrenches his eyes open.
And he sees.
Clearly. Everything.
How bright the room is, and how clean. How vibrant the carpet's red is when Iemitsu drapes him over the couch arm and fucks him, digging fingers into his wrists as he holds them down and . How Iemitsu is drunk, but not really.
PENISSSSS