ES21 Fic: Boys Who Can't Cook
Having four exams in the next 10 days makes me want to avoid work.
This is (again) entirely the fault of kasugai_gummie, who claims that this doesn't count as part of our ongoing fic/pic exchange, but she is lying through her teeth, yes she is.
Title: Boys Who Can't Cook
Author: Reston
Summary: Musashi and Hiruma, kitchen.
Warnings: completely aimless PWP, of the just-short-of-smutty variety. Pre-slash.
Musashi drinks cold water as Hiruma flips through the yellow pages one-handed, spinning a revolver on the kitchen counter round and round. The polished metal susurrates rhythmically across the battered countertop, and something about the noise makes Musashi shift restlessly against the countertop, makes disquiet itch just beneath his skin.
Hiruma’s had his hair cut recently, and there’s a band of pale, untanned skin at the edges of his shorn blond hair that’s incongruous against the rest of his neck, as sharply defined as the knob of bone just above Hiruma’s collar. Beneath the fall of Hiruma’s shirt, Musashi can see the shadowed suggestion of flesh and muscle, spine and back. Musashi’s been hungry all day.
“Chinese,” decides Hiruma, slamming the yellow pages shut. In a moment of uncharacteristic generosity, he pauses before he reaches for the phone. “Anything you want?”
Musashi considers the glimmer of teeth beneath the soft sneer of Hiruma’s lip, thumb rubbing circles into the cold glass in his hands. He doesn’t answer.
Hiruma’s gaze flicks from Musashi’s face to his hands, then back to his face. He jerks his chin up half an inch. “Would that be a no, fucking old man?”
Musashi puts down his glass. “What do you think?” he says placidly, baiting the trap, and braces himself against the counter as the gleam in Hiruma’s eyes flares predatorily bright.
228 words.
This is (again) entirely the fault of kasugai_gummie, who claims that this doesn't count as part of our ongoing fic/pic exchange, but she is lying through her teeth, yes she is.
Title: Boys Who Can't Cook
Author: Reston
Summary: Musashi and Hiruma, kitchen.
Warnings: completely aimless PWP, of the just-short-of-smutty variety. Pre-slash.
Musashi drinks cold water as Hiruma flips through the yellow pages one-handed, spinning a revolver on the kitchen counter round and round. The polished metal susurrates rhythmically across the battered countertop, and something about the noise makes Musashi shift restlessly against the countertop, makes disquiet itch just beneath his skin.
Hiruma’s had his hair cut recently, and there’s a band of pale, untanned skin at the edges of his shorn blond hair that’s incongruous against the rest of his neck, as sharply defined as the knob of bone just above Hiruma’s collar. Beneath the fall of Hiruma’s shirt, Musashi can see the shadowed suggestion of flesh and muscle, spine and back. Musashi’s been hungry all day.
“Chinese,” decides Hiruma, slamming the yellow pages shut. In a moment of uncharacteristic generosity, he pauses before he reaches for the phone. “Anything you want?”
Musashi considers the glimmer of teeth beneath the soft sneer of Hiruma’s lip, thumb rubbing circles into the cold glass in his hands. He doesn’t answer.
Hiruma’s gaze flicks from Musashi’s face to his hands, then back to his face. He jerks his chin up half an inch. “Would that be a no, fucking old man?”
Musashi puts down his glass. “What do you think?” he says placidly, baiting the trap, and braces himself against the counter as the gleam in Hiruma’s eyes flares predatorily bright.
228 words.