(Fic) Green Eaves & Suspended Time
So, I got struck with an image, and wrote one fic bit. It was a bit eh, so I did a second one.
Green Eaves
The tiles are glazed, a sort of liquid shine that looks wet and instead is merely slick under his fingertips, and yet they still slip under his palms. Granted, he's upside down, one hand pressed against copperstuds, chakra spreading out, a thin glue between his skin and the red painted wooden door, his heels slicking in soft click, click against the edges of the eaves.
His breath is stolen away, another mouth sealed to his, so he's prey, perhaps, but which animal feeds upside-down? He can't think, not like this, blood rushing to his head and his eyes so wide he can't see clearly, can't focus beyond the rush in his ears - is that the wind stirring the trees or just his own heartbeat? - and there're knees against his own, bracketting him in, a net holding him tight even as he feels his legs and grip slip.
He hears a laugh as his hand gives, and he slides down, swinging over and nearly smacking himself face first into the huge door. He narrowly misses hitting the great brass knockers with his knee, hangs there for a moment, blinking, and then he's pressed against the door and the mouth attacks his ear instead.
It's all dark, rushed, and breathless, and it's just green tiles casting slippery shadows over red, brass and copper dulled to something almost gold, and almost heat, just between them, because the door's cold from winter chill, and yet he's hot, burning as hot as red, and he twists his head back to kiss, bite, lick.
The other catches his own breath, and the kiss is slick like leaves, and the rustle of cloth against cloth is harsher than willow weeping over the green eaves shading them.
"Strange place you've picked to make out," Ryuichi's voice floats over, cold and almost grouchy. Kotetsu yelps as Hayate doesn't quite yip and falls off him, hand catching in his belt and drags him down to land in a tumbled heap on the cold ground.
"If you're done," Ryuichi grouses, and turns. Hayate hops up, offering an apologetic smile, slanted and leaf-curved, and Kotetsu looks up at the door, seeing the darker smears on the red wood, on the tiled eaves.
"Yeah," Kotetsu mutters, and follows them, only pausing to wipe his bloodied sandal-soles off on the leaf-litter.
And the second ficbit
Suspended Time
There were shadows within shadows, darkness overlaid with greenish-blue shapes, and gave shape to breath with smoky thin whiteness, curling over his face. Hisame shuddered, tension following down the long line of his spine along his arms and braid, tangled in the ropes snarled around his wrists and the end of his hair, disappearing like a thin silvery thread down where he couldn't see.
A shape, human and crouched, shifted, and hands smoothed down his stomach, and amusement shivered down those fingertips along the skin of his abdominals, feeling them tremble. Hisame exhaled, pulling at the rope, curling his knees tighter aronud the wooden beam and arched into the touch, cool against the warmth of his skin, enough to make it feel like little shocks of lightning, pinpoints of sensation.
Impatient, those fingers said, trailing the long strokes across him, pushing his shirt up, further, and material pooled at his throat, and Hisame almost thought that all his blood was trapped there, just by that, pounding rush in his ears obscuring the rustle of willow leaves weeping across the glazed tiles above them.
"Ikazuchi," Hisame said, infusing his voice was as much warning as he could, warning and heat and want, and the word took material form, fogging in the space between them, and it was almost as if it'd crystalise there, frozen in the shadows, paler even than Ikazuchi's features.
Which were curving in the shadows of a smirk, slanting like willows, and he leant down, the tremour of chakra almost unnoticeable as he pressed his lips - cool, so cool - against Hisame's stomach, and Hisame shuddered, curling his fingers into fists and pulled on the rope, a sharp coiled tension suspended in the air. Ikazuchi chuckled again, the sound a warm contrast to his almost-cool, pale touch.
It was ironic that Ikazuchi was so pale. Ikazuchi was thunder, a dark roll of syllables that rolled off one's lips, ominous and rumbling, but Ikazuchi was anything but. His pale hair brushed across his shoulders, faintly dusted with blue-green from the shadows, and was as cool as static silk against his skin, his eyes smirking, long and dark and slanted up high across his cheekbones, just like the way Hisame was slanted, tense and quivering over a vast expense of air, held up only by his knees and tension in the rope.
So impatient, Ikazuchi's dark eyes said, and his mouth curves, smoothing down over his hips, and pulled a cry from Hisame's throat, jagged and rough in the yawning darkness.
Hisame would have cursed him, maybe, in the name of the Goddess, the claws of the Cat, the word of the Lightning God, because Ikazuchi was tormenting him with his mouth, hot wet and horribly slow, but then there was a wet flicker of tongue, and darkness choked the words out of him as surely as if the one with a cock down his throat wasn't Ikazuchi.
Ikazuchi purred - a smug vibration that made Hisame choke, tense and fall back, and the rope tightened, yanking at his hair, his hands. Hisame shuddered, forcing himself up again, his stomach quivering with the effort, and then Ikazuchi stopped.
Before Hisame had the time to protest, Ikazuchi was sliding down his body, knees smoothing down his sides in graceful torturous friction, and Ikazuchi's feet tangled and hooked in Hisame's wrists, and then pale scarred fingers were pulling down a zipper and guiding his hard length to Hisame's lips.
Ikazuchi was barely keeping his weight off Hisame, because he could feel the amused snort against exposed skin as he hissed, muscles tensing and pulling and trying to take on the extra strain. He could have done it, and done it indefinitely, if Ikazuchi hadn't surrounded him with hot, wet, suction, and pressed down and hard against him, all but melting and fusing into one.
Hisame couldn't hear, but then, Ikazuchi never said anything, and all there was was them, suspended in time and twilight darkness, copper studs in the door against his arm nothing more than a textural interest as Ikazuchi pushed, and Hisame took.
Only his heartbeat rushing in his ear, Ikazuchi's pulsing in his mouth, told him that time at all had passed, and he was almost dizzy when Ikazuchi pulled white in bursts from him, choking him with heat and warmth. Another beat, two, before his teammate finally moved, slow and even like mercury, and slid down the rope, eliciting weak cries of sleepy protest, before the tension falls free, and he falls to hang solely by his legs, blood rushing down. "Ikazuchi," he mutters, and it was a half-hearted curse, as he forces his fingers to undo the knots on his wrists, letting the rope dangle from his braid before he swings up, getting dust on his fingers as he grips the support beam. The tiled eaves the beam supported glinted green and liquid with glaze, and he leant his head against it, turning slightly to look down at the expanse of the dark red door, where Ikazuki stood, watching him, eyebrow raised in an ironical question.
Coming down anytime soon?
Hisame snorted, and let his weight shift, before letting himself fall backwards, loosing his arms in suspended flight, and coiled tightly to twist and land on his feet beside his team mate.
"Impatient," he murmured, and let Ikazuchi wind his braid around his fist, tugging him up for a brief kiss before the next shift came.
Ikazuchi: Thunder
Hisame: Hail
God, stop me from attempting artistic pretensions.
Green Eaves
The tiles are glazed, a sort of liquid shine that looks wet and instead is merely slick under his fingertips, and yet they still slip under his palms. Granted, he's upside down, one hand pressed against copperstuds, chakra spreading out, a thin glue between his skin and the red painted wooden door, his heels slicking in soft click, click against the edges of the eaves.
His breath is stolen away, another mouth sealed to his, so he's prey, perhaps, but which animal feeds upside-down? He can't think, not like this, blood rushing to his head and his eyes so wide he can't see clearly, can't focus beyond the rush in his ears - is that the wind stirring the trees or just his own heartbeat? - and there're knees against his own, bracketting him in, a net holding him tight even as he feels his legs and grip slip.
He hears a laugh as his hand gives, and he slides down, swinging over and nearly smacking himself face first into the huge door. He narrowly misses hitting the great brass knockers with his knee, hangs there for a moment, blinking, and then he's pressed against the door and the mouth attacks his ear instead.
It's all dark, rushed, and breathless, and it's just green tiles casting slippery shadows over red, brass and copper dulled to something almost gold, and almost heat, just between them, because the door's cold from winter chill, and yet he's hot, burning as hot as red, and he twists his head back to kiss, bite, lick.
The other catches his own breath, and the kiss is slick like leaves, and the rustle of cloth against cloth is harsher than willow weeping over the green eaves shading them.
"Strange place you've picked to make out," Ryuichi's voice floats over, cold and almost grouchy. Kotetsu yelps as Hayate doesn't quite yip and falls off him, hand catching in his belt and drags him down to land in a tumbled heap on the cold ground.
"If you're done," Ryuichi grouses, and turns. Hayate hops up, offering an apologetic smile, slanted and leaf-curved, and Kotetsu looks up at the door, seeing the darker smears on the red wood, on the tiled eaves.
"Yeah," Kotetsu mutters, and follows them, only pausing to wipe his bloodied sandal-soles off on the leaf-litter.
And the second ficbit
Suspended Time
There were shadows within shadows, darkness overlaid with greenish-blue shapes, and gave shape to breath with smoky thin whiteness, curling over his face. Hisame shuddered, tension following down the long line of his spine along his arms and braid, tangled in the ropes snarled around his wrists and the end of his hair, disappearing like a thin silvery thread down where he couldn't see.
A shape, human and crouched, shifted, and hands smoothed down his stomach, and amusement shivered down those fingertips along the skin of his abdominals, feeling them tremble. Hisame exhaled, pulling at the rope, curling his knees tighter aronud the wooden beam and arched into the touch, cool against the warmth of his skin, enough to make it feel like little shocks of lightning, pinpoints of sensation.
Impatient, those fingers said, trailing the long strokes across him, pushing his shirt up, further, and material pooled at his throat, and Hisame almost thought that all his blood was trapped there, just by that, pounding rush in his ears obscuring the rustle of willow leaves weeping across the glazed tiles above them.
"Ikazuchi," Hisame said, infusing his voice was as much warning as he could, warning and heat and want, and the word took material form, fogging in the space between them, and it was almost as if it'd crystalise there, frozen in the shadows, paler even than Ikazuchi's features.
Which were curving in the shadows of a smirk, slanting like willows, and he leant down, the tremour of chakra almost unnoticeable as he pressed his lips - cool, so cool - against Hisame's stomach, and Hisame shuddered, curling his fingers into fists and pulled on the rope, a sharp coiled tension suspended in the air. Ikazuchi chuckled again, the sound a warm contrast to his almost-cool, pale touch.
It was ironic that Ikazuchi was so pale. Ikazuchi was thunder, a dark roll of syllables that rolled off one's lips, ominous and rumbling, but Ikazuchi was anything but. His pale hair brushed across his shoulders, faintly dusted with blue-green from the shadows, and was as cool as static silk against his skin, his eyes smirking, long and dark and slanted up high across his cheekbones, just like the way Hisame was slanted, tense and quivering over a vast expense of air, held up only by his knees and tension in the rope.
So impatient, Ikazuchi's dark eyes said, and his mouth curves, smoothing down over his hips, and pulled a cry from Hisame's throat, jagged and rough in the yawning darkness.
Hisame would have cursed him, maybe, in the name of the Goddess, the claws of the Cat, the word of the Lightning God, because Ikazuchi was tormenting him with his mouth, hot wet and horribly slow, but then there was a wet flicker of tongue, and darkness choked the words out of him as surely as if the one with a cock down his throat wasn't Ikazuchi.
Ikazuchi purred - a smug vibration that made Hisame choke, tense and fall back, and the rope tightened, yanking at his hair, his hands. Hisame shuddered, forcing himself up again, his stomach quivering with the effort, and then Ikazuchi stopped.
Before Hisame had the time to protest, Ikazuchi was sliding down his body, knees smoothing down his sides in graceful torturous friction, and Ikazuchi's feet tangled and hooked in Hisame's wrists, and then pale scarred fingers were pulling down a zipper and guiding his hard length to Hisame's lips.
Ikazuchi was barely keeping his weight off Hisame, because he could feel the amused snort against exposed skin as he hissed, muscles tensing and pulling and trying to take on the extra strain. He could have done it, and done it indefinitely, if Ikazuchi hadn't surrounded him with hot, wet, suction, and pressed down and hard against him, all but melting and fusing into one.
Hisame couldn't hear, but then, Ikazuchi never said anything, and all there was was them, suspended in time and twilight darkness, copper studs in the door against his arm nothing more than a textural interest as Ikazuchi pushed, and Hisame took.
Only his heartbeat rushing in his ear, Ikazuchi's pulsing in his mouth, told him that time at all had passed, and he was almost dizzy when Ikazuchi pulled white in bursts from him, choking him with heat and warmth. Another beat, two, before his teammate finally moved, slow and even like mercury, and slid down the rope, eliciting weak cries of sleepy protest, before the tension falls free, and he falls to hang solely by his legs, blood rushing down. "Ikazuchi," he mutters, and it was a half-hearted curse, as he forces his fingers to undo the knots on his wrists, letting the rope dangle from his braid before he swings up, getting dust on his fingers as he grips the support beam. The tiled eaves the beam supported glinted green and liquid with glaze, and he leant his head against it, turning slightly to look down at the expanse of the dark red door, where Ikazuki stood, watching him, eyebrow raised in an ironical question.
Coming down anytime soon?
Hisame snorted, and let his weight shift, before letting himself fall backwards, loosing his arms in suspended flight, and coiled tightly to twist and land on his feet beside his team mate.
"Impatient," he murmured, and let Ikazuchi wind his braid around his fist, tugging him up for a brief kiss before the next shift came.
Ikazuchi: Thunder
Hisame: Hail
God, stop me from attempting artistic pretensions.