[036] You say yes.
Speed fic meme results. :/ Because I need to post something and FEEL PRODUCTIVE. THESE ARE REALLY GROSS, but crit if you want? Ulkdsjfs
Fandom: Eyeshield 21
Character(s): Ikkyu/Monta
Prompt: "Technology" - shigishigi
& Ikkyu's looking kind of really cool in his plaid scarf and over sized jacket, as he did nothing but sit on this snow covered bench and stare intently at the passing crowd before him, flashing colors of winter and business. While it's not the conventional kind of cool, that 'Agon' type of suave with greased back hair and a sleazy grin, it’s still the kind that entailed girls pausing in the middle of their journeys from point A to point B to stop and fawn over him. Which mostly entailed a whole lot of pointing and giggling and “Aw look, how cute.”
What could he say? ...Well, nothing really, besides blush and huff and stare at his hands a lot. Girls. Staring at him. Cute girls. He. He was going to explode, why were the so cute, they didn't have this back with the Nagas.
So, when his cellphone somewhere hidden in the depths of his clothes alerts him of a text message with a loud and vibrant PING, Ikkyu immediately rushes for the device with an enthusiasm that borders violence and flips it open. Anything to distract him from those distractions walking past him in the guise of long legs in short skirts and high heel boots, that GIGGLED at him. Anything.
And this distraction, in the form of pixelated text sent through invisible wires in the air, did little to aid him:
LOL UR ALL RED
Sender: Monta
At that, Ikkyu's eyebrow twitched, fingers furiously pounding at the number pad until:
STFU STFU WTF WHERE ARE YOU COME HERE ALREADY
Sender: Ikkyu
Which only got him, ten seconds later:
CHILL OUT MAX
Sender: Monta.
… What.
“… What,” mutters Ikkyu aloud, the idiocy of the message blinking at him apparently awe inspiringly stupid enough to warrant an oral birth. "What an idioWOAHFUCK."
Then suddenly, there’s this BALL OF ICE finding its way past the collar of his jacket and down his back, wet and cold and FUCKING SHIT, the laughter of the boy he’s been waiting for right by his ear -- and FUCKING SHIT. FUCKING SHIT!
Twisting and standing at the same time nearly topples the chair over, but Ikkyu gets a fist full of Monta's jacket anyway, face contorted to that of utter annoyance as he brings it close to the laughing visage of the other. The span of skin where flesh met ice throbs as it numbs. "You monkey -- !"
"HEY, hey, calm down to the MAX, you jerk," huffs Monta between panting laughter, before he leans over slightly and shyly, briefly presses their lips chastely together.
Kisses him.
In the middle of the park.
For two seconds of his kinda cool life.
(which ends up on some stranger's camera phone, anyway)
Fandom: Katekyo Hitman Reborn!
Character(s): Tsuna, Ryohei -- and they're older here, hey.
Prompt: "Home economics" - theburningempty
he quality of his waking every morning for the past week has heavily depended on the quantity of brightly colored tablets crushed and melted in his system at the time, that addictive candy coated drug made for men dressed in suits who smell and act like the stale air confined in international airplanes, that drug going by the abstruse name of “pain killer.” One or two pills does ultimately nothing to quell the unbalanced chemicals mixing and reacting in mini explosions in his brain, while three or four at least dulls that continuous unwanted beat resounding loud in his head. Either way, Tsuna sits on the edge of his bed after every dosage, and frowns.
Maybe, he thinks, he’s getting old.
Maybe, he thinks, twenty one is old.
Maybe.
Probably not.
Four in the morning, he’s rubbing the sleep from his eyes and turning his medicine into a fine white powder with his thumb and fore finger. He glances at the calendar, and it tells him:
Maybe it's just Monday.
--
They’re renting a house under a false name courtesy of Reborn, a one story shack in the middle of suburbia which acts as a Home Sweet Home for four men and the occasional score of guests. The girls visit sometimes to help manage the two clawed monster named House Hold Chores, but for the most part, the boys are on their own to deal with all the cooking, all the cleaning. Tsuna and Gokudera are naturally useless, however, both being raised by either mother or money as children and both being the cause of a horrendous amount of broken dishes and other hapless mishaps as adults, so Ryohei and Yamamoto divide most of the folding, the washing, the cooking, the so called "woman's work."
And that's how Tsuna finds his Sun Guardian, sitting half naked in a clothes ridden couch with Tsuna's boxers in his hands. Tsuna reddens and flinches at that, quietly retreating to the kitchen after sharing an enthusiastic, "Uh, good morning." No one else seems to be awake (Gokudera and Yamamoto had just returned from a hit an hour ago, apparently), so the mafia boss in the making prepares coffee for two as he boils with embarrassment.
"Erm, big brother," he murmurs, stirring Ryohei's caffine a nice, creamy color, "I can -- ...If you want, I can hire a maid?"
Ryohei doesn't bother looking up, only continues to set Tsuna's clothes in a neat, ordered pile next to Gokudera's. "You said a couple of days ago that doing that would be an extreme security hazard, boss. We can't afford that right now. You said that last meeting, remember?"
"Oh. Oh, yeah, now I remember." The spoon in the cup clanks loudly, and Tsuna rubs the back of his neck, staring pathetically at the counter. "Uh. But -- " He stops his sentence when Ryohei turns to him, smiling bright and sunny.
"Don't worry about it, Sawada! I used to do Kyoko's laundry TO THE EXTREME every weekend!"
"Haha, mom always did mine." The younger man returns the smile weakly, leaving his own coffee black. His head hurts, and his eyes feel heavy. "...sorry, Ryohei. Leaving you with all this and all those hits I have to give you --"
"I CAN TEACH YOU!"
Blink blink. "What?"
Pulling a shirt over his head (it's Yamamoto's, the one with the American baseball team logo), Ryohei stands and moves to lean over the counter, arms folded under him. "How to do the laundry, I mean! Extreme training!"
"...Ah. Well -- "
"Because Octopus Head is pretty shit at this stuff, you know. Remember that one load he did, and all our shirts turned EXTREMELY PINK --"
Tsuna interrupts, not to fond on recalling. "Yes, big brother. You can try teaching me today."
Ryohei's shoulders start shaking with laughter, and by the end of Monday, the laundry room is black with soot and the washer is out in the yard with the trash, along with bottle of painkillers.
Fandom: Katekyo Hitman Reborn!
Character(s): Yamamoto/Bianchi
Prompt: "Mass Media" - demanawaits
But it isn't until she sees that sword of his dig past flesh and bone, blade cutting through layers of living tissue and throbbing vein and twitching muscle, that she regards him as a man, a being worthy of the suit and tie uniform he's stuffed in. It isn't until she first sees him standing in the Sicilian rain, cadaver at his feet and eyes at the sky, that she notices.
(Those broad shoulders, those blue eyes, that smile, that laugh. Qualities that women, young and old, Italian and otherwise, fawn over, speak of behind flushing cheeks and fluttering eye lashes.)
He has a scar now, a thin strip of discolored skin running up his chin and up to his lower lip -- up and up, a man had tried to decapitate him once, slicing upwards, and he had dodged, only barely. He likes telling the story. It's smooth to the touch, and he lets her, pale long fingers palpating from his chest and up to his face, slicing upwards.
"Is everything they say about you true, Yamamoto Takeshi?" Bianchi murmurs, lips hot against the crook of his neck, and he shrugs. "You don't seem so special to me."
"Haha, maybe. Anything is possible." -- like his hands resting on her waist and back, huge and warm, "Maybe, maybe."
Fandom: Eyeshield 21
Character(s): Ikkyu/Monta
Prompt: "Technology" - shigishigi
& Ikkyu's looking kind of really cool in his plaid scarf and over sized jacket, as he did nothing but sit on this snow covered bench and stare intently at the passing crowd before him, flashing colors of winter and business. While it's not the conventional kind of cool, that 'Agon' type of suave with greased back hair and a sleazy grin, it’s still the kind that entailed girls pausing in the middle of their journeys from point A to point B to stop and fawn over him. Which mostly entailed a whole lot of pointing and giggling and “Aw look, how cute.”
What could he say? ...Well, nothing really, besides blush and huff and stare at his hands a lot. Girls. Staring at him. Cute girls. He. He was going to explode, why were the so cute, they didn't have this back with the Nagas.
So, when his cellphone somewhere hidden in the depths of his clothes alerts him of a text message with a loud and vibrant PING, Ikkyu immediately rushes for the device with an enthusiasm that borders violence and flips it open. Anything to distract him from those distractions walking past him in the guise of long legs in short skirts and high heel boots, that GIGGLED at him. Anything.
And this distraction, in the form of pixelated text sent through invisible wires in the air, did little to aid him:
LOL UR ALL RED
Sender: Monta
At that, Ikkyu's eyebrow twitched, fingers furiously pounding at the number pad until:
STFU STFU WTF WHERE ARE YOU COME HERE ALREADY
Sender: Ikkyu
Which only got him, ten seconds later:
CHILL OUT MAX
Sender: Monta.
… What.
“… What,” mutters Ikkyu aloud, the idiocy of the message blinking at him apparently awe inspiringly stupid enough to warrant an oral birth. "What an idioWOAHFUCK."
Then suddenly, there’s this BALL OF ICE finding its way past the collar of his jacket and down his back, wet and cold and FUCKING SHIT, the laughter of the boy he’s been waiting for right by his ear -- and FUCKING SHIT. FUCKING SHIT!
Twisting and standing at the same time nearly topples the chair over, but Ikkyu gets a fist full of Monta's jacket anyway, face contorted to that of utter annoyance as he brings it close to the laughing visage of the other. The span of skin where flesh met ice throbs as it numbs. "You monkey -- !"
"HEY, hey, calm down to the MAX, you jerk," huffs Monta between panting laughter, before he leans over slightly and shyly, briefly presses their lips chastely together.
Kisses him.
In the middle of the park.
For two seconds of his kinda cool life.
(which ends up on some stranger's camera phone, anyway)
Fandom: Katekyo Hitman Reborn!
Character(s): Tsuna, Ryohei -- and they're older here, hey.
Prompt: "Home economics" - theburningempty
he quality of his waking every morning for the past week has heavily depended on the quantity of brightly colored tablets crushed and melted in his system at the time, that addictive candy coated drug made for men dressed in suits who smell and act like the stale air confined in international airplanes, that drug going by the abstruse name of “pain killer.” One or two pills does ultimately nothing to quell the unbalanced chemicals mixing and reacting in mini explosions in his brain, while three or four at least dulls that continuous unwanted beat resounding loud in his head. Either way, Tsuna sits on the edge of his bed after every dosage, and frowns.
Maybe, he thinks, he’s getting old.
Maybe, he thinks, twenty one is old.
Maybe.
Probably not.
Four in the morning, he’s rubbing the sleep from his eyes and turning his medicine into a fine white powder with his thumb and fore finger. He glances at the calendar, and it tells him:
Maybe it's just Monday.
--
They’re renting a house under a false name courtesy of Reborn, a one story shack in the middle of suburbia which acts as a Home Sweet Home for four men and the occasional score of guests. The girls visit sometimes to help manage the two clawed monster named House Hold Chores, but for the most part, the boys are on their own to deal with all the cooking, all the cleaning. Tsuna and Gokudera are naturally useless, however, both being raised by either mother or money as children and both being the cause of a horrendous amount of broken dishes and other hapless mishaps as adults, so Ryohei and Yamamoto divide most of the folding, the washing, the cooking, the so called "woman's work."
And that's how Tsuna finds his Sun Guardian, sitting half naked in a clothes ridden couch with Tsuna's boxers in his hands. Tsuna reddens and flinches at that, quietly retreating to the kitchen after sharing an enthusiastic, "Uh, good morning." No one else seems to be awake (Gokudera and Yamamoto had just returned from a hit an hour ago, apparently), so the mafia boss in the making prepares coffee for two as he boils with embarrassment.
"Erm, big brother," he murmurs, stirring Ryohei's caffine a nice, creamy color, "I can -- ...If you want, I can hire a maid?"
Ryohei doesn't bother looking up, only continues to set Tsuna's clothes in a neat, ordered pile next to Gokudera's. "You said a couple of days ago that doing that would be an extreme security hazard, boss. We can't afford that right now. You said that last meeting, remember?"
"Oh. Oh, yeah, now I remember." The spoon in the cup clanks loudly, and Tsuna rubs the back of his neck, staring pathetically at the counter. "Uh. But -- " He stops his sentence when Ryohei turns to him, smiling bright and sunny.
"Don't worry about it, Sawada! I used to do Kyoko's laundry TO THE EXTREME every weekend!"
"Haha, mom always did mine." The younger man returns the smile weakly, leaving his own coffee black. His head hurts, and his eyes feel heavy. "...sorry, Ryohei. Leaving you with all this and all those hits I have to give you --"
"I CAN TEACH YOU!"
Blink blink. "What?"
Pulling a shirt over his head (it's Yamamoto's, the one with the American baseball team logo), Ryohei stands and moves to lean over the counter, arms folded under him. "How to do the laundry, I mean! Extreme training!"
"...Ah. Well -- "
"Because Octopus Head is pretty shit at this stuff, you know. Remember that one load he did, and all our shirts turned EXTREMELY PINK --"
Tsuna interrupts, not to fond on recalling. "Yes, big brother. You can try teaching me today."
Ryohei's shoulders start shaking with laughter, and by the end of Monday, the laundry room is black with soot and the washer is out in the yard with the trash, along with bottle of painkillers.
Fandom: Katekyo Hitman Reborn!
Character(s): Yamamoto/Bianchi
Prompt: "Mass Media" - demanawaits
But it isn't until she sees that sword of his dig past flesh and bone, blade cutting through layers of living tissue and throbbing vein and twitching muscle, that she regards him as a man, a being worthy of the suit and tie uniform he's stuffed in. It isn't until she first sees him standing in the Sicilian rain, cadaver at his feet and eyes at the sky, that she notices.
(Those broad shoulders, those blue eyes, that smile, that laugh. Qualities that women, young and old, Italian and otherwise, fawn over, speak of behind flushing cheeks and fluttering eye lashes.)
He has a scar now, a thin strip of discolored skin running up his chin and up to his lower lip -- up and up, a man had tried to decapitate him once, slicing upwards, and he had dodged, only barely. He likes telling the story. It's smooth to the touch, and he lets her, pale long fingers palpating from his chest and up to his face, slicing upwards.
"Is everything they say about you true, Yamamoto Takeshi?" Bianchi murmurs, lips hot against the crook of his neck, and he shrugs. "You don't seem so special to me."
"Haha, maybe. Anything is possible." -- like his hands resting on her waist and back, huge and warm, "Maybe, maybe."