[ooc log post] Squalo + Badou.
Who: Squalo and Badou.
When: SQUALO'S BIRTHDAY. omfg backdated it's all my fault i'm slow at tagging.
Where: Varia Mansion, Squalo's bedroom.
What: Badou attempting to sneak back in to punch Squalo over his birthday. Shit happens involving a lot of things like Squalo's hand and stuff. Angst and Lulz and Plot and everything ever.
Why: SQUALO'S BIRTHDAYYYYYYY. STFU. Plus we wanted to do something about Squalo's metal hand.
Note: Nobody saw this.
There was a reason Badou was, on average, chased screaming through the Underground City at least three times a week, if not more. This had to do mostly with Badou's abilities of stealth; that is to say, how he didn't have any.
Nevertheless, he had managed to keep himself quiet by falling back on the best of bad habits- lighting up and enjoying a crumpled cigarette. Taking the smoke deep in his lungs, the redhead grinned around the tar, congratulating himself on a job well done. It hadn't been any trouble at all convincing Squalo he couldn't stay over that night because of an early morning shift, and it had been even less trouble to ask one of the maids to tromp lazily down the stairs in an imitation of himself. In less than five minutes, it was going to officially be Squalo's birthday, and Badou would be the first one to punch him over it.
After he finished his cigarette, of course.
Squalo had been less pleased by the prospects (Badou had, after all, even refused his offer to drive him down to the station) and had gone to bed early, and at the very moment Badou was lurking somewhere very much unknown and relatively unnoticed, the swordsman was attempting to concentrate on the book on the Balkan Wars that he'd brought back from the library downstairs.
Except he wasn't doing too well in the actual reading part, of course.
Finally, after some half an hour or so and realising that he'd made absolutely no progress into the book apart from reading the blurb over and over, Squalo made an angry noise to self and slammed the book shut. Guess it was time to go to bed, then.
Without looking, the Italian reached out and turned the face of the alarm clock away from his side of the bed, the scowl on his face deepening. It was nothing. What the hell was he getting so annoyed about? (And no, there wasn't meant to be an answer to that, in any way)
At least it was a nice enough weather, thought Squalo to himself as he carefully twisted off the metal hand, laying it down on the said side table where the clock used to occupy. He can leave the windows open. The room still smelled like smoke.
Exactly 13 minutes after midnight, Badou swore loudly enough for the "fuckshit!" to carry down the winding marble staircase and startle a sleepy butler. This less-than-stealthy noise had come about as the gunman realised he had missed the first 13 minutes of Squalo's birthday [but goddamn, the smokes the Italian scored for him were high end shit, who could really blame him?].
Approximately 14 minutes after midnight, Badou kicked off his jeans, vaulted along the hallway as if pursued by rabid bears, flung open the Italian's bedroom door, and catapulted his entire body into Squalo's. The bed gave an almighty protest, the headboard of the four-poster cracking back against the wall. "HAPPY BIRTHDAY YOU RETARDED PIECE OF PASTA-FUCKING SHIT!" crowed Badou as they skid-rolled haphazardly across the bed [and he didn't mind a bit as he became tangled up in white sheets and white hair].
And by approximately 13 minutes after midnight, the Italian was more or less on the very verge of being asleep. As it was considered one of the most vulnerable times in one's daily cycle, he was in no way prepared for the thunderous slam as the door burst open, and the subsequent roly-poly tumble of sheets and hair and lurch of the mattress.
Squalo yelped, partly at the sensation of what felt like a bag of bones (a bag of very sharp bones, and the bag itself being very, very thin) slamming into his chest, partly at anger (god damn it, can't they spend just one fucking night without causing goddamned ruckus around here?).
"God damnit- Ow- What the fuck-?!" The swordsman managed to struggle at least partly out of the oh-so-fucking-considerate assailant's grip, still half-winded from the impact. Fuck this, fuck Badou, fuck everything he was just the type to throw an ungodly racket in the middle of the night in a blatant, inconsiderate glee like this.
(However, even amid the chaos and the remnants of sleep still clinging to the edge of his consciousness, he had enough presence of mind to stop the odd quick of lips from showing).
With laughter erring on the side of deranged, Badou threw his leg [the one not twisted up in the comforter] high up on Squalo's hip to keep him from escaping, party-balloon and birthday cake boxers blinding. His arms snaked around the other's torso and tightened for a complete immobilization. "HAAAAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOOOU," sang the smoker, raspy voice not managing to hit a single key, "HAPPY BIIIITHDAY TO YOOOOU! YOU SMELL LIKE MEEEATBALLS, AND YOU FUUUCK THEM TOO!"
Hands on the move again, Badou's mismatched palms slid across broad shoulders, along toned biceps, and down pale forearms. He leant in, nose to nose with the Italian. In a husky voice, he mumbled, "I'm gonna punch you 23 hundred times, baby." The redhead's hands slid down further, to put Squalo's hands on his hips or maybe, hell, on a slice of birthday cake boxers-
-and his right hand closed around air.
Squalo froze.
Wide, deer-in-the-headlights grey-blue eyes met the single green one for a few seconds, a stark difference from the look in them a few seconds ago when the swordsman was trying to hold back the incredulous laughter-cringe at the off-key singing. It was the sort that the people didn't get to see very often, indeed didn't get to see if ever on the white-haired swordsman. They'd all seen too much and done too much for that look to ever suit them anymore.
It was to last only for a short while, though, before the Italian snapped out of it, turning his gaze away (the expression in them stuttering like window shutters on a windy day). He pulled the hand[arm] out of Badou's grip and hurriedly scrambled back against the other side of the bed, reaching over to snatch up the metal hand from its place atop the table, his every gesture seeming jerky and agitated, an odd look that didn't resemble in the slightest the assured, confident movement that was characteristic of Superbi Squalo.
Badou bit his lip, mentally berating himself to no end at his hesitation, his scarred hand extending after the other. "-Wait," he rasped, much quieter than before [he'd never seen that confidenceless kind of reaction out of the Italian before, and was already sure he'd take a goddamned bullet if it meant not seeing it again]. "Stop, wait, Squalo? Squalo."
Disregarding the boundaries still left, the redhead dogged after the other man, sitting firmly on his thighs and reaching out, hands closing around the other's jerky arms. He held the forearms tight in his grip, keeping the Italian from snapping the metal hand back on. Exhaling a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding, Badou leaned forward, knocking his forehead against the side of the other's head [willing Squalo to look up again]. His own eye went back and forth between Squalo's averted face and the handless forearm. Slowly, fully aware of the fight-or-flight energy humming in Squalo's body [fully aware Squalo could toss him across the bedroom], he let his scarred hand drift over the top of the bandages twined around the arm. "-You don't need it," he murmured.
Squalo gritted his teeth tightly even as the redhead silently urged him to look up (the line of his shoulders still taut, his right hand curling into a tight fist; he could throw him, could punch the other across the room if he ever wanted to). The Italian's expression tightened, flickered with something that none of them could tell in the darkness (something that he didn't want to be able to identify) as Badou's hand touched the bandages so carefully wrapped around the arm.
He made no reply to Badou but made a movement to pull the said arm away again, his other hand coming up to press flat against the redhead's chest to push him back. It was no-one's business but his. His decision, albeit made at the age when black was black and white was pure, blinding white (now it was shades of differing grey and Squalo wasn't so sure if he liked the thought of even wanting this bright red pyromaniac burning away the faded ideals, the sunbleached photographs), and he would stick by it.
"Squalo," the smoker said again, not retreating even an inch as the other's palm pushed back [yes, he was a coward, but that just meant he would know better than anyone what risks were worth taking]. His left hand was placed over Squalo's right, shifting down to lightly grip at the wrist, taunt with resistance as Squalo put pressure on his chest. Still leaning his head against the other's, his other hand continued it's tentative path down, tracing the tidy bandages with cautious fingers [but any way you looked at it, it was still toying with barbed wire].
Making up his mind, he nosed soft white strands of hair aside, chapped lips seeking out the corner of Squalo's mouth [all twisted and tight]. "...Please," Badou exhaled, tilting his head to bump their lips together, a not-quite kiss. Thin, pale fingers crept the final inch down. "You should be proud of this." That single murky green eye flickered up to meet Squalo's. "I am."
Squalo let out a short bark of a noise, more like a sharp exhale, more like a noise someone would make who was resigned to the fact (resigned to the decisions and is really quite prepared to follow through whatever consequences, but sometimes the wind just blew too hard). "I am." His voice was quiet, the sudden hush in the room almost as surprising as the sudden whirlwind of chaos that had occupied the air previously, even as his shoulders tensed again at the feel of fingers against the carefully wrapped bandages.
"I am." The swordsman repeated, the other's chapped dry lips a scratch against his with every syllable, his right hand caught fast in Badou's grip flexing and tightening into a fist.
"Then there is no problem," responded Badou, in that same stark, quiet tone. The night breeze blowing through the trees in the wide garden could be heard in the lulls of silence between their words. His fingers weren't broken yet, that was a good sign [but how far could he push it before they were, that was the question]. A wry all-or-nothing smile lit across the redhead's face, unseen in the dim, though the Italian could probably feel it against his cheek.
With slow movements, Badou guided the handless arm around his own body, shifting closer still. His grips on Squalo's wrist and forearm slackened as he settled against the other more fully, the trust he put forward implicit [the last thing he wanted the Italian to feel was trapped]. His lips pressed another, more full kiss to Squalo's mouth [as if he were trying to force the tension out of Squalo's shoulders with the firmer pressure]. Parting after only a few brief moments, he let go of Squalo's good hand entirely, fingers coming up and brushing the other's long bangs aside.
"I-" The swordsman started, but something in the other's tone (something in the papercrease smile against his face) made him stop and stutter, feeling a strange sort of ache coming on from where his hand used to be. It wasn't like he needed it; he lived with this (nearly a decade; it should really have healed by now, the tingling sensation disconcerting) and it was his (or lack thereof). It was just.
Squalo's hand came up, his gaze flickering (between the same old hard determination and don't you see don't you see) as he half-cupped, half-gripped the side of the redhead's face, leaning in to press his lips against the other's. A finger brushed (just for a second) against the black leather stripes of Badou's eyepatch, the old leather smoothscratchy against his bare fingertip, before snaking in further into the redorange hair.
After a while, carefully (oh so carefully), the arm around Badou tightened.
Something claustrophobic and important rising in his chest at that tightened pressure, Badou couldn't help but smile into the kiss [not a sneering grin, not a shit-eating-smirk, just a warm, private smile]. He let out a shaky breath[chuckle] into the other's mouth, and after one last, lingering touch along the bandages, he released his last hold on Squalo draped his arms loosely around the other's shoulders. With a contented hum, he leant into the kiss, going deeper, a slow unwinding [acceptance, comfort, desire, all the shit he could barely think about seriously, much less express in actual words].
Pausing, breaking the kiss, Badou gave a relieved, cheeky exhale, forehead pressing to Squalo's. "Good. It hurts way more when you punch me with the metal one," he mumbled, the corners of his mouth twitching playfully with a suppressed grin.
"Then obviously I'm not hitting hard enough." Squalo burst out, but it was more out of yet another belated wave of awkwardness than anger or even annoyance (the arms around his shoulders, the forehead against his own somehow comforting instead of restricting, a weight not to hold him down but ground him), seeing from out the corner of his eye the metal hand lying on the side table like some sort of morbid modern art exhibit.
His form relaxed a little, then a little more when Badou's fingers finally left the bandages wrapped around his left forearm, and the swordsman let out a breath, slowly letting his hand leave Badou's mess of redorange hair and trail down his back, settling lightly but decidedly around his waist.
"That's not being a very jolly good fellow," rasped Badou back, nipping at the Italian's lower lip sharply. He grinned, shifting purposefully in the other man's grasp, the loosening of tightly wound muscles in Squalo's athletic frame not going unnoticed [and man, it was stupid to be happy about something like that, but Badou had always been prone to doing stupid, stupid things].
With a sudden, solid press forward [without breaking the strong loop of the other's arms around his waist], Badou had pushed the swordsman flat on his back, and was hovering low over him on elbows and knees. The redhead's eye ghosted over the proud tilt of the other's jaw [the stupid-long hair spilling over the sheets], and his grin widened, warmed. "I can sing a song to remind you about how to be a jolly good fellow and not a retarded asshole, if you want." Pausing, he brushed a dangerously fond kiss to the top of the other's jaw. "Dunno how much it'll help, though," he mumbled absently against the skin.
Squalo merely raised an eyebrow, his expression shifting from the mortally embarrassed to one of careful indifference (a lord must have worn an expression much like this one when he was confronted with a hoard of beggars) as he shifted under the redhead, tilting his head a little. His arms shifted, however, his fingers tracing the sharp knocks and bumps of the redhead's spine.
Before the said hand clamped down unexpectedly around Badou's waist, and with a sudden push, it was Squalo pressing the other down into the sheets, a grin finally breaking over his face.
"You can't hit a single note." The Italian said, breath ghosting over the paleshallow skin of the side of the other's neck, absently humming the birthday song low in his throat before he leant in further and nipped lightly at an earlobe. "I don't think that'd work as a reminder."
Lips trailed down the side of Badou's neck slowly, the humming broken only by the occasional press of teeth and tongue against skin. "More like a torture."
The redhead laughed at the humming [a burst of bright noise after all that hushed quiet], laughed at the other's constant competitive streak [Squalo didn't need two hands to get the upper-hand, that was for damn sure]. Around the chuckling came a sigh in aggravation [though it came out a little shaky] at the press of lipsteethtongue along the column of his neck. Even though his eye had lidded, he could still see that idiot grin in his mind's eye [that was annoying, so annoying].
"No torture today," Badou promised, voice smoky and amused, lacing his fingers lazily across the fair skin of other's nape. "On my smokes. The punches don't count, that's-" an intake of breath, more like an inwards laugh, "-cultural. Rite of passage kinda shi- oh. Shouldn't I be doing this to you?"
However, the Italian was just as determined to make Badou forget about the birthday punches; if he had a hand of steel, then the redhead had knife-sharp knuckles to make up for it. "I don't know," Squalo rested his chin on the other's shoulder for a moment, eyes flickering to seek out the other's green, and tilted his head slightly to nudge Badou's chin upwards. His teeth scraped over the Adam's apple, and the Italian grinned. "I quite like this better though."
"You're annoying," murmured the freckled man matter-of-factly as his head tipped back, the content, pleased tone contradicting the words more than a little. "Even if it is your birthday." His scarred hand slipped from the other's nape, palm brushing down the Italian's defined chest. The hard angles were familiar to the touch [but that didn't seem to deter him from running his fingers along the planes, exploratory and indulgent]. "Ah. Control freak. Sadist. Asslover. Let me know when you're finished so I can-"
He paused, cutting himself off. "-Harder," he said instead, left hand slipping into that clean shock of white. After all, just because Squalo was annoying, he'd said no torture. This in mind, his voice became dead-pan. "Ooh, sexy. You know how baby likes it. Ahuh. Ahuh."
"You're annoying all the time, birthday or not." Squalo muttered against the junction of where Badou's neck and shoulder met, the exhale of breath at the feel of fingers in his hair not exactly annoyed and giving another (slightly harder) lingering bite, tongue smoothing over the indentation of teeth that he'd left; there was sure to be a mark there, although in the darkness it was hard to tell.
His expression, however, shifted from amused to first hint of annoyance (with the redhead, Squalo had the worst mood swings - anger and annoyance and rage and exasperation and stupid, retarded stuff in a crazy kaleidoscopic cycle) at Badou's deadpan delivery, and the Italian shifted slightly to jab an elbow sharply into the redhead's abdomen. "Shut up."
"Ooh, yeah, Squalo, you big Italian sausage, uhn, uh- oof," coughed Badou. He laughed again [the freckles on his face seeming to stand out all the more as colour heated his cheeks at the spot already feeling sore on his neck]. "Fucker. Can the no-torture rule work both ways?" he whined, impulsively burying his nose into all that retarded-ass hair. "Please?" he rasped. A skinny leg hooked around the swordsman's waist, reeling him in [and among silver-white strands, Badou's expression was sly]. "I'm trying to be nice and everything. I have great shit planned for today, y'know. I'm kind of the best-" he stumbled, here, but recovered, "-redhead who makes you feel all tingly in your girlparts ever."
Squalo lifted his head, turning slightly to peer at the redhead (missing the sly expression, but it was unmistakeable in Badou's voice, rasp or not). "But it's my birthday," he said, leaning back in to press his lips against the purpling mark on the redhead's neck. "So I get to do whatever I want."
He let the unwitting stumble slide; it wasn't like Badou had the best skills at keeping his mouth shut, and right now, he had other things to occupy his mind with. Slowly, with a smug grin (a sharp exhale of breath hissed out from between his teeth) Squalo let himself be reeled in, shifting to slide his hips forward. "What girl parts?"
Badou bit his lip around another chuckle[gasp], too comfortable to stop himself from arching subtly up [the wiry muscle in his calf and thigh tightening around the other's body probably all too obvious, but damnit Badou didn't give a shit anymore]. "Do you have a Lego in your pocket," he mumbled back, warm lips finding the shell of an ear to busy themselves with.
"You can do what you want, not who you want," he added quickly, feeling the smirk against his skin. Contrary to this, he hooked his other leg up around the swordsman [even Badou himself couldn't seem to unblur what was contradiction for the sake of contradiction and just simple contradiction anymore].
"Only you'd think it was." The swordsman muttered against Badou's neck, giving another half-hearted jab to the ribs (bare fingers slipping in under the hem of the redhead's tshirt, feeling slightly cold against the skin). He trailed his lips up along the side of Badou's neck, only pausing slightly to glance at the purpling mark. A slow intake of breath, and the slowly widening smirkgrin was the only acknowledgement that Squalo made at the other's motion and he nipped at the skin just below Badou's jaw. "You don't count as a person."
"Fuck you," hummed the redhead absently, shifting under those cool fingers. Trying to ignore the other's ever-growing air of smugness was a task, but the clever mouth working up his jaw was a good distraction [Squalo was a goddamn distraction]. "Stop poking me," he whined in a rasp, head tipped back. Nicotine stained fingers traced lines of other's back and shoulders, shameless in their exploration of the hard musculature. They then skimmed down the other's sides, short nails [bitten to the quick] dragging lightly on the skin. Giving another lazy arch up, Badou added in a sigh, "In both places. It's annoying."
Squalo shifted slightly at the feel of nails dragging against his skin, giving a half-nothing noise that wouldn't have even been heard if his mouth currently wasn't occupied with the pulse jumping at the other's throat, under the thin papery skin that looked and tasted as if all the smoke that Badou was inhaling daily had somehow soaked into it (hair and skin and sheets and furniture and ceilings, Badou was a walking mini-pollution all by himself, leaving trails of smoke to hunt him down by). "Your fault." The Italian said shortly, tilted his head slightly, now almost absently (almost) worrying the redhead's earlobe.
"My fault, huh?" Badou couldn't help the twitch of his lips into a grin at the clipped words, the nibbling on his ear making his toes curl. "Maybe I should take care of it, then," he mumbled back wryly, fingers on Squalo's back spidering around his torso, down the curve of a hip, scarred palm flattening against the other's toned stomach. The drawstring on Squalo's pajamas was easily pulled apart [he wanted to undo Squalo just as easily]. "Maaaan," drawled the redhead in a low voice, seemingly unconcerned [but his face was tinged with colour],"man, you'd be piiiissed if I birthday punched you right now."
Breath hitching audibly in his throat (the sound louder in the darkness, almost louder than the slide of cotton and silk as he shifted), Squalo lifted his head up to catch Badou's eye, his gaze sharp (darkened grey searching out the green). "You don't even fucking know." With that, he leant in to press his lips against the other's.
Badou's answering laugh was muffled by the other's kiss, his left hand still roving Squalo's back, grasping at the network of scars [the thin white lines, criss-crossing and erratic, that marked the path of a sword emperor]. He sat up a little for better leverage, kissing back harder, one of his gangly legs falling with a quiet whump back down onto the mattress. Gun-calloused fingers teased the line of the Italian's pants, then went lower to start a stilted but firm massage, tentative touch slow. When the kiss broke, he did not move his mouth from the other's, but glanced downwards quickly once, twice, expression half determined, half nervous [similar to how a poor dancer looks down at his feet, to make sure he's doing it right]. "Uh, is this-"
There were so many things wrong with having only one hand. The benefits to understanding the last sword emperor (still clinging to that confident, determined stubborn little voice from his childhood) didn't quite compare to, say, struggling to keep your eyes open and your elbows from buckling so that you didn't collapse and crush this nothing of a goddamned redhead. Didn't do much for chasing after the said redhead, either (but he wasn't running away, this time, and Squalo didn't know whether he should be warned by the sharpbright shiver going up his spine at the realisation).
Squalo sat up slightly (leaning back a little even as Badou sat up, half-closed eyes dark) and brought his hand to the back of the redhead's neck, tangling and winding his fingers tightly around the orangey locks of scraggly hair. His words were nothing more than a half-growled out pant, giving a sharp jerk of his grip on Badou's hair. "If you stop now I'll fucking cut off your fucking hand."
"But then where would you be, as far as these kind of things go?" murmured the smoker back, smoky voice more amused than anything else. And for once, he didn't stop, didn't give a cruel smirk and a cold shoulder [and he hoped Squalo wasn't going to die of shock, or cardiac arrest from the fact, after all the stupid trouble]. Badou watched the tense expression play across Squalo's features, much different than the one before [and much, much more welcome]. There were already way too many damn things that Badou actually admitted that he liked about Squalo, but this panting-hot-breath against his cheek being added to the list deserved the recognition. His face warmed, and he pressed a few messy kisses along the fine slope of the Italian's jaw [still embarrassing, it was as if he couldn't really help himself].
With the same sort of amused, embarrassed, incredulous air, Badou slid his hand upwards, then down again, beneath the cotton of the other's pants. "Fuck," he accidentally mumbled out loud, sounding as if he were surprised by what his fingers wrapped firmly around. "Shut up," he added, although the other hadn't said anything [though, he was willing to bet he was now in a position to make Squalo say any damn thing he wanted].
Squalo silently echoed the sentiment (he might have said it under his breath, he might not have said it through seemingly frozen tongue, but it was all so very much obvious in the way that his eyes slid shut completely, teeth clenching together hard, the fingers vice-like clamp around the redorange locks, almost even more so than his steel one could ever have.
He bowed his head just a little, silverwhite hair sliding over and around his shoulders at the motion, breath warm against Badou's hair (smelling just a little stale, just a little muddy and ashy enough to make Squalo want to just breathe in forever). "Well what the fuck did you expe-"
"Shut up," Badou interrupted, breaking the slow rhythm he had begun to establish to squeeze [whether in punishment or in reward was uncertain, and that was rather more characteristic of the two of them]. His other hand traced almost clumsily along hard stomach muscles and toned chest, slinking up into Squalo's hair. While lining the shell of the Italian's ear with light, nipping kisses, he let out a quiet, satisfied exhale [unabashedly loving the feel of that proud body shivering and twitching from just a light stroke of his fingers].
There was an odd, choking noise (half-surprise half-annoyance half-ohmygod) from deep within the Italian's throat at the squeeze, and he gave another hard, jerky tug at Badou's hair that would have been nearly enough to pull strands out by the roots. "Bitch," he gasped out, with a tone that started out with an intent of being somewhat angry but ended up halfway through into a sharp exhale against Badou's shoulder. The bandage was rough against the other's skin as Squalo brought his other arm up, hooking it around Badou's neck.
Badou huffed an irritable laugh at the hard yank on his hair, his head tilting with the force of the the pull [but to be totally honest, he didn't mind it a little rough]. His motions stilled again, and both hands relocated to the other's toned hips, grabbing hold of Squalo's pajama bottoms and tugging them down to just below his knees. Face pressed against the side of Squalo's head, he abandoned the reddened ear and glanced down again, watching his fingers scratch up the Italian's thighs with no little fascination. Slammed with a mad impulse [an image in his mind that made the heat between his own legs burn], he shuffled awkwardly backwards, lying down on his stomach and propping himself up on his elbows [the bandages dragging against the nape of his neck a reminder that Squalo trusted him, the painful grip in his hair a reminder that trying to run away wouldn't be easy anymore]. His scarred hand slid back up the inside of a shaking thigh to wrap around Squalo, stroking fully as the other hand clutched at the other's hip, holding him in place. This bracing sort of maneuver was probably good foresight, as he then ducked his head and pressed a hard, sucking bite to the thigh [the scruffy ends of his hair trailing along the reddened paths his nails had left].
"Oh," a breathless (gasping like a dying fish just out of the water, hook line and fucking sinker too) laugh, half-incredulous, half-just a little bit hysterical (just who the fuck could have known this would fucking happen, and just-) escaped the Italian as his head fell back slightly. "Oh shit-" The words died in his throat as Squalo's eyes snapped open wide, the frazzled slide of redorange hair against his skin and the momentary sting of the hard bite raising goosebumps on his skin, the rough folds of the bandage momentarily pressing down hard against the back of Badou's neck as he shuddered.
Even as he bit down again on the taunt muscles of Squalo's inner thigh, Badou's eye flickered up [starved for how the other looked like this, wanting to take a picture of it all and spend way too much time in the darkroom developing it]. Lapping his tongue over the twin bites, his breath was as heavy as the movements of his hand. The weight on his nape made it all too easy to drop his head into where thigh met body, and draw a messy line of licks and kisses ot the sensitive skin there. "Squalo," he rasped lowly, almost a murmur, not wanting to drown out the sound of the other's harsh breath and strange laughter [but not being able to hold his tongue either, he never had been].
Squalo jerked slightly at the bite, another shaky, faint exhale leaving his open lips (a sharp gasp following immediately after, the heat coiling in his gut and burning through the muscles - but this was a much different kind of fight). "Ow, motherfucking-" His hand flexed in the tangled grip on the redhead's hair but it was mostly out of sheer effort to keep still than anything else, the taut muscles in his arms useless in agitation (feeling the breath in his lungs shallowing, the darkened grey eyes shuttering as he curled against the sure, firm touches). "-Fuck."
"Mm," hummed Badou against the other's thigh, giving it another cursory lick as his fingers increased in pace around the other. His other hand slowly stroked the small of Squalo's back, almost a soothing touch [though needing comfort was probably the last thing Squalo felt right now, if ever]. He could practically taste the other's arousal as he pressed more biting kisses higher and higher up the Italian's thigh [and it was fucking heady, a smug voice in the back of his head going he's like this because of you unable to be silenced]. With a sort of mad, happy chuckle, the redhead's hand left the dip of the other's back, pushing at Squalo's ribcage. "Lie down," he muttered, warm puffs of breath rather close to extremely sensitive areas. He gave a harder push and another laugh. "Lie down."
The bed didn't even make a sound apart from a muffled whump as Squalo teetered onto his back, the sound of his breath hitching loud in the dark, almost embarrassingly so (the slow steady tinge of red rising up onto the surface, across the high cheekbones and slightly creased, frowning forehead). The sound of that chuckle (manicmadcrazyhilariouswhat the hell's so funny asshole, slight narrowing of the light-coloured eyes as they focused sharply on the redhead) sent a flash of annoyance through the Italian, and while a tiny part of his rational mind was glad at the fact that, well, at least something wasn't changed at all, the rest of Squalo's senses were focused on the other's hands (the fucking stingingwethot bites to his skin) with an intensity that almost physically hurt.
With a grin, Badou sat up up enough to strip off his t-shirt [pulling the neck wide so as not to dislodge his eyepatch, then tossing it carelessly right at Squalo's face], then shimmied up in between the Italian's legs. His hands returned to the other quickly, caressing and stroking their way down the other's torso before going lower again. Bending over the Italian's stomach, Badou pressed hard, open-mouthed kisses to the jumping abs [his hair a bright trail that slithered down after him]. As if feeling the annoyed stare on the top of his head, Badou glanced briefly up, his expression a little wicked. The shafts of moonlight coming in from the big veranda window was just enough to see the colour streaking Squalo's face [making his smirk even wider]. His hand sped up, grip tightening, and he laid his cheek [patch down] on the other's stomach, just next to where his hand was working at the other. "Do you want me to stop?" he rasped teasingly enough, though he made no motion to do so at all.
Squalo's hand finally left the confines of Badou's hair as he reached up to angrily tear the t-shirt off his face, throwing it to one side. He'd, admittedly, felt a brief moment of what the fuck as the red on his face deepened just a little more, but the embarrassment and anger dissipated quickly (he couldn't help it, not if Badou's doing that-ohmygod) and his eyes almost closed back again then and there, head tilting back just so.
"If you fucking- ah- stop now," the Italian pressed his left forearm tightly against his eyes, the scrape of bandage rough against his skin (the gun-calloused fingers rough against him), curling his fingers tightly into the bedsheets instead of back to the orangeyred hair. It was hard forcing words through the mouth that was already gasping. "-Going to fucking throw you out the- window."
The redhead knew the script, knew that here is where he tossed out a witty remark about how Squalo would be too busy clinging to him and whimpering like a girl to toss little old him out the window. However, he was instead caught totally off guard by the way Squalo gripped at the sheets, the way the Italian's breath couldn't seem to come fast enough [and the comedic timing flew by, unnoticed]. "Shit," he swore under his breath, heat curling low in his stomach. How the fuck did he even manage to end up this retarded, loud-ass motherfucker [and when the fuck did he suddenly start thinking he should buy some bananas or some shit, in the pursuit of knowledge that would make Squalo's fucking eyes roll back?].
Badou no longer felt like teasing, and the messy line he licked and bit down the Italian's hip, the firmness of his movements, more than reflected that. His scarred hand burned a little with the friction and the heat [but it just made him sink his teeth in harder, made his fingers tighten and stroke even faster].
And that was just as good for Squalo, because he really wasn't in any sort of position to really think clearly (or even speak, for that matter) anymore, gritting his teeth tightly until it hurt even as a low, shuddering hiss shook out from inside his throat (an elbow pressing down, digging down hard into the soft sheets and the mattress, seeking for some leverage, any leverage, for the fingershand around him and the teeth sharp against his skin).
"Badou," there was something odd about the way the Italian said his name, a little strange, the intonation a little slurred, half-desperate (and he had said it a thousand times before, exasperated and annoyed and angry and furious and incredulous and tired and quiet and-) and with a sluggish movement, Squalo pushed himself up a little, sitting up on his elbows (the tips of his fingers hurt even with the silk sheets, gripping hard enough that, if it were his other hand, it could have torn right through) and staring down at the redhead with wide eyes.
As Squalo shifted, Badou's own murky green eye glanced up, meeting his stare [and it was fucking ridiculous that he'd blush now, with his hand where it was and his mouth slipping precariously close to his hand]. He lifted his head, his breathing quick, thin lips parted to grab the extra air that didn't seem to be anywhere in the room. Without any grace, he clambered up Squalo's body, the knock of their foreheads together a footnote compared to how much he wanted to kiss the other man. His hand still moved between them, that hot heaviness against his scarred palm a strangely satisfying weight, like holding a loaded gun [yeah yeah, don't 'shoot' your eye out, fucking hilarious]. Lips covering the other's in a messy kiss, Badou rasped, "Come on, come on," into the Italian's mouth, free hand sliding down shoulder and forearm, unclenching the other's hand from the bedding [putting it on his curled-over lower back, just above his ass]. "Come on," he repeated with a breathless sort of laugh, pressing the line of his nose along Squalo's, smoky voice scraping with lust. "I want you to."
With a little strangled noise Squalo leant up, headtilted lipsopen hot, heavy breath against the redhead's face as he positively bit down on the other's lips, bit down hard enough to bruise and then delved in deeper, the brief ache from the inadvertent headknock going unheeded in the sheer almost desperation that he felt. Fingers grasped, nails scratchingscraping across the pale skin of Badou's lower back (fuck, fuckfuck it always seemed like Squalo couldn't fucking get Badou closer enough and guess it still applied, birthday or not) and the Italian muttered breathlessly himself too (though the meaning was lost in the pants and half-gasps, the sound growing deeper and heavier like the movement of the redhead's hand), lips pressing against the corner of the redhead's mouth. Squalo's eyes were wide, but the darkened grey gleam in them was still focused (almost as if the bandaged arm digging uselessly into the sheets beside him still held a sword), and he shifted his head to press another hard biting kiss against Badou's lips even as his fingers hooked around the elastic of the redhead's boxers.
With a quiet ah Badou arched against the nails clawing into his lower back [hoping they left marks, hoping he'd feel them for days]. He let the Italian bruise his mouth with his fierce kisses, opening his lips wide to the intrusion, wanting more. The movements of his grasping fingers became calculated, exploiting what [judging by the swearing, the gasping, the skin peeled off his back] Squalo wanted more of, too. He didn't close his eye, wanting to commit the way Squalo panted and bucked into his hand to memory [shit, he'd want two working eyes just for the sake of being able to watch Squalo fall apart even better]. He returned the biting kisses hard, managing for a few seconds to sync the press of his tongue and the movement of his hand [but it fell apart quickly, he couldn't fucking concentrate when Squalo was making those noises, looking like he wanted to climb into Badou's frame].
"You- F-fuck, Badou-" Squalo's head fall back onto the bed, the ivorywhite hair laying in a tangled mess on the sheet (caught damp with sweat across his face) as he gasped again, his kisses becoming more sloppy (more careless more desperate, fingers raking up the redhead's spine loving all the quiet, barely-there noises from the other and always wanting more). The wet warm coiling heat in his guts tightened, momentarily making his fingers, so sure and firm usually, stutter and pause to clutch at the lean wiry muscles of Badou's shoulder. "I-"
"I want you to," Badou murmured again, almost lost amidst the frantic clashing of mouths, something scorching and possessive rising in the pit of his stomach as the other choked out his name. More of that would be good, almost as good as the grasping, shaking nails scoring up his back. He broke off the kissing, breathing hard and laboured, then leant in with a slow tongue to taste the other's jawline [saltysweet with perspiration]. His voice was just that bit hoarse [he couldn't deny how much this was what he wanted, needed], rough at the edges, as he rasped against the other's cheek, "I wanna see you, come on, Squalo..."
He couldn't seem to be able to stop swearing, really nothing more than soft pants and sharp hitch of breath (inhaling the air that Badou had exhaled) and Squalo's eyes clenched shut tight, throat working as he swallowed dryly (his entire body faintly burning with the friction of skin against skin). "Ba- shit, Badou," his own voice sounded odd to him, half-muffled against the side of the redhead's face and by the combined mess of tangled hair and skin. His fingers grasped at the sharp bones of Badou's upper arm, the shoulders, seeing the blackness behind his eyes beginning to blur with steadily rising heat in his gut. The Italian gave a hoarse, choked gasp, the only warning he could give at that very moment, before the muscles in his stomach tightened, the bandaged left arm coming to wrap back around Badou's neck and pull him up to crush their mouths together again.
The lips moving against Squalo's forceful kiss twitched, slowly spread into a crooked grin. Between them, the shadow of the redhead's hand slowed to a leisurely stroke, but didn't stop, drawing every last harsh breath from the other man that it could. Aware that his other arm was beginning to shake from propping himself up, he collapsed down, half on Squalo's side and half on Squalo [all tangled up in hair and tongues and stickywet warmth, and damn pleased to be there]. Finally, he broke the kiss, his chest rising and falling quickly against the Italian's. Fingers slipping up from between the other's legs, he gave a small, playful slap to Squalo's abdomen, pressing his face into the top of the other man's jaw, still grinning [struck dumb by how he didn't want to say anything].
Squalo wordlessly tightened his arms around the redhead, gathering the other in close against him (hot puffs of breath and the racingloud heartbeats, the twitch and shiver of muscles still all too evident through the kiss, despite the leisurely feel to it). A last slow, vaguely shaky breath of air passed from his lips as they broke the kiss, and Squalo squinted down at the mass of tangled red hair. After a few moments, his left arm tightened around Badou a fraction more (the red hair clinging to the pale bandages). "-I can't believe you just did that." A steadily rising note of surprise (and just a little bit of annoyance; feeling as if the upper hand had been reversed) was plain in Squalo's voice.
Badou laughed at the incredulous, pseudo-suspicious tone of the other, colour smudging across the bridge of his nose. He wiped his hand perfunctorily on the sheets, then draped the arm lazily across Squalo's chest, curving himself into the other's arms [bony and boneless all at once]. "I didn't, uh, plan on it," he rasped back honestly, twining his leg absently with the other's. Although he was still extremely turned on, he wasn't in a rush to do much about it, happy enough for now to soak in Squalo's satisfation [and that gobsmacked look on his face, man he'd never get tired of that, either]. "Uhm. Mostly, I was just gonna jump on your bed. And probably elbow-drop you, I dunno, I didn't think much farther ahead than that." Fighting the stupid fucking flush again, he spread his fingers on the other's chest, thick scar tissue rough against the smooth skin.
"You never plan anything out." The Italian pointed out, his tone still rather skeptical, though there was a definite tinge of half-laughter in it (the way his fingers pulled closer at Badou, almost as if he didn't really believe that the redhead was there at all in the first place). "Retard." After a sort of silence (a comfortable kind of silence where only half-thoughts floated around, not the awkward silence where the very air got crowded out by questions sometimes), Squalo glanced down at the redhead again. "This really isn't happening, is it? It's like a fucking retarded dream and any minute now I'm going to wake up and you'll be doing something stupid like- I don't know - cooking waffles or something-"
"You like waffles," Badou hummed lethargically against the other man's shoulder. He shifted, getting comfortable, not seeming to mind being tucked in closer against the Italian. "A lot, actually."
"That isn't the point." Squalo's voice had a certain annoyed edge to it this time, although his form relaxed just a little against the shift of the other's body. "I wasn't talking about the waffles and whether I like them or not, it's-" An annoyed sound left his throat and the Italian shrugged irritably, lifting a hand to tuck behind his head (his left arm curling tentatively around the other, however, the slightest brush of bandage across thin shoulders). "Nevermind."
Badou made a noise to show that he was listening [he wasn't, which was what the noise really showed]. "Im gonna make waffles tomorrow," he mumbled in response, a content drawl.
"You're fucking impossible." The Italian sighed, and he tiredly blinked a few times, a yawn escaping him.
Hearing the yawn [feeling it breeze against the top of his head], redhead's eyebrows drew together and then quirked. His eye blinked open wider as he sat up [the bandaged arm sliding down his back] and looked down at the Italian, ending up half-straddling him. Cocking his head, he zeroed in on the tired eyes, and his eyebrows shot into his hairline. "Oh, hell no," Badou rasped, tone as incredulous as Squalo's was before. "Is this how it's gonna go? You rollin' over and going to sleep?" He made as if to vacate the bed, but couldn't seem to unwind himself from Squalo and the bedding. "Fuck this noise, I'm gonna go see if anyone worth my time wants a piece."
Squalo made an irritated noise in his throat, an eye opening wider to stare up at the redhead, lips curling into an annoyed frown as he shifted to pull the other back into his grasp, (almost)inadvertently locking one of Badou's arms to his side in the process. "Shut the hell up, you're the one who wasn't goddamned listening-" He muttered against the redhead's shoulder, blinking once, twice, his eyes losing some of the bleariness.
Badou struggled in the other's hold, and even though his voice and words were cutting, the corners of his mouth twitched with unspoken amusement. "What the fu- ow, let me go- all the shit you've been talking, I thought you fucking Italian assholes were into gettin' off ten times a night and then five times more the next morning, should'a known that was a load'a crap-" Trying to free his arm, he shifted the knees on either side of Squalo for leverage, but only ended up twisting the sheets across his calf and around his opposite ankle, effectively trapping himself as he squirmed more. "Motherfuck-"
The Italian's hand rose and clamped around Badou's wrist and pulled it away, his left arm still tightly wrapped around the redhead's other arm and torso. "Were you looking forward to that?" Squalo leant up, tilting his head a little to one side to brush his lips against the side of Badou's neck, lips spreading into a grin against the skin.
The smoker froze, face colouring in what was mostly irritation [the warm brush of smug lips against his skin harder to ignore than it should've been- stupid asshole, goddamned piece of shit pastafucker]. "Guess so, yeah. Can I maybe get some of your shitty ex-tramps' numbers, then? Sooner rather than later, I mean, I been unsatisfied more than long enough-"
"But you burnt them all." Squalo countered, the face half-hidden in the darkness wearing an expression that was more smug than ever. Slowly, the swordsman reached out to the bedside table again (quiet snap of steel latching shut, a subtle change in Squalo (no less smug, but just a fraction of a glimmer of sharpness in his grin, the rising of pale eyebrows) probably not going unnoticed as he glanced down at the hand, then back up at the redhead. "Guess you're stuck with me."
"Guess so. Excuse me while I fuckin' swoon," responded the redhead in a monotone, unable not to grin. Said grin slipped a little uncertainly as his eye slid down to the metal hand as Squalo adjusted it [and why did that snap sound so ominous?]. "What are you-" he started suspiciously, but he didn't get to finish.
The next morning, Badou was far, far too tired to make any waffles.
[He was not too tired, however, to attempt to give Squalo 23 hundred birthday punches.]
When: SQUALO'S BIRTHDAY. omfg backdated it's all my fault i'm slow at tagging.
Where: Varia Mansion, Squalo's bedroom.
What: Badou attempting to sneak back in to punch Squalo over his birthday. Shit happens involving a lot of things like Squalo's hand and stuff. Angst and Lulz and Plot and everything ever.
Why: SQUALO'S BIRTHDAYYYYYYY. STFU. Plus we wanted to do something about Squalo's metal hand.
Note: Nobody saw this.
There was a reason Badou was, on average, chased screaming through the Underground City at least three times a week, if not more. This had to do mostly with Badou's abilities of stealth; that is to say, how he didn't have any.
Nevertheless, he had managed to keep himself quiet by falling back on the best of bad habits- lighting up and enjoying a crumpled cigarette. Taking the smoke deep in his lungs, the redhead grinned around the tar, congratulating himself on a job well done. It hadn't been any trouble at all convincing Squalo he couldn't stay over that night because of an early morning shift, and it had been even less trouble to ask one of the maids to tromp lazily down the stairs in an imitation of himself. In less than five minutes, it was going to officially be Squalo's birthday, and Badou would be the first one to punch him over it.
After he finished his cigarette, of course.
Squalo had been less pleased by the prospects (Badou had, after all, even refused his offer to drive him down to the station) and had gone to bed early, and at the very moment Badou was lurking somewhere very much unknown and relatively unnoticed, the swordsman was attempting to concentrate on the book on the Balkan Wars that he'd brought back from the library downstairs.
Except he wasn't doing too well in the actual reading part, of course.
Finally, after some half an hour or so and realising that he'd made absolutely no progress into the book apart from reading the blurb over and over, Squalo made an angry noise to self and slammed the book shut. Guess it was time to go to bed, then.
Without looking, the Italian reached out and turned the face of the alarm clock away from his side of the bed, the scowl on his face deepening. It was nothing. What the hell was he getting so annoyed about? (And no, there wasn't meant to be an answer to that, in any way)
At least it was a nice enough weather, thought Squalo to himself as he carefully twisted off the metal hand, laying it down on the said side table where the clock used to occupy. He can leave the windows open. The room still smelled like smoke.
Exactly 13 minutes after midnight, Badou swore loudly enough for the "fuckshit!" to carry down the winding marble staircase and startle a sleepy butler. This less-than-stealthy noise had come about as the gunman realised he had missed the first 13 minutes of Squalo's birthday [but goddamn, the smokes the Italian scored for him were high end shit, who could really blame him?].
Approximately 14 minutes after midnight, Badou kicked off his jeans, vaulted along the hallway as if pursued by rabid bears, flung open the Italian's bedroom door, and catapulted his entire body into Squalo's. The bed gave an almighty protest, the headboard of the four-poster cracking back against the wall. "HAPPY BIRTHDAY YOU RETARDED PIECE OF PASTA-FUCKING SHIT!" crowed Badou as they skid-rolled haphazardly across the bed [and he didn't mind a bit as he became tangled up in white sheets and white hair].
And by approximately 13 minutes after midnight, the Italian was more or less on the very verge of being asleep. As it was considered one of the most vulnerable times in one's daily cycle, he was in no way prepared for the thunderous slam as the door burst open, and the subsequent roly-poly tumble of sheets and hair and lurch of the mattress.
Squalo yelped, partly at the sensation of what felt like a bag of bones (a bag of very sharp bones, and the bag itself being very, very thin) slamming into his chest, partly at anger (god damn it, can't they spend just one fucking night without causing goddamned ruckus around here?).
"God damnit- Ow- What the fuck-?!" The swordsman managed to struggle at least partly out of the oh-so-fucking-considerate assailant's grip, still half-winded from the impact. Fuck this, fuck Badou, fuck everything he was just the type to throw an ungodly racket in the middle of the night in a blatant, inconsiderate glee like this.
(However, even amid the chaos and the remnants of sleep still clinging to the edge of his consciousness, he had enough presence of mind to stop the odd quick of lips from showing).
With laughter erring on the side of deranged, Badou threw his leg [the one not twisted up in the comforter] high up on Squalo's hip to keep him from escaping, party-balloon and birthday cake boxers blinding. His arms snaked around the other's torso and tightened for a complete immobilization. "HAAAAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOOOU," sang the smoker, raspy voice not managing to hit a single key, "HAPPY BIIIITHDAY TO YOOOOU! YOU SMELL LIKE MEEEATBALLS, AND YOU FUUUCK THEM TOO!"
Hands on the move again, Badou's mismatched palms slid across broad shoulders, along toned biceps, and down pale forearms. He leant in, nose to nose with the Italian. In a husky voice, he mumbled, "I'm gonna punch you 23 hundred times, baby." The redhead's hands slid down further, to put Squalo's hands on his hips or maybe, hell, on a slice of birthday cake boxers-
-and his right hand closed around air.
Squalo froze.
Wide, deer-in-the-headlights grey-blue eyes met the single green one for a few seconds, a stark difference from the look in them a few seconds ago when the swordsman was trying to hold back the incredulous laughter-cringe at the off-key singing. It was the sort that the people didn't get to see very often, indeed didn't get to see if ever on the white-haired swordsman. They'd all seen too much and done too much for that look to ever suit them anymore.
It was to last only for a short while, though, before the Italian snapped out of it, turning his gaze away (the expression in them stuttering like window shutters on a windy day). He pulled the hand[arm] out of Badou's grip and hurriedly scrambled back against the other side of the bed, reaching over to snatch up the metal hand from its place atop the table, his every gesture seeming jerky and agitated, an odd look that didn't resemble in the slightest the assured, confident movement that was characteristic of Superbi Squalo.
Badou bit his lip, mentally berating himself to no end at his hesitation, his scarred hand extending after the other. "-Wait," he rasped, much quieter than before [he'd never seen that confidenceless kind of reaction out of the Italian before, and was already sure he'd take a goddamned bullet if it meant not seeing it again]. "Stop, wait, Squalo? Squalo."
Disregarding the boundaries still left, the redhead dogged after the other man, sitting firmly on his thighs and reaching out, hands closing around the other's jerky arms. He held the forearms tight in his grip, keeping the Italian from snapping the metal hand back on. Exhaling a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding, Badou leaned forward, knocking his forehead against the side of the other's head [willing Squalo to look up again]. His own eye went back and forth between Squalo's averted face and the handless forearm. Slowly, fully aware of the fight-or-flight energy humming in Squalo's body [fully aware Squalo could toss him across the bedroom], he let his scarred hand drift over the top of the bandages twined around the arm. "-You don't need it," he murmured.
Squalo gritted his teeth tightly even as the redhead silently urged him to look up (the line of his shoulders still taut, his right hand curling into a tight fist; he could throw him, could punch the other across the room if he ever wanted to). The Italian's expression tightened, flickered with something that none of them could tell in the darkness (something that he didn't want to be able to identify) as Badou's hand touched the bandages so carefully wrapped around the arm.
He made no reply to Badou but made a movement to pull the said arm away again, his other hand coming up to press flat against the redhead's chest to push him back. It was no-one's business but his. His decision, albeit made at the age when black was black and white was pure, blinding white (now it was shades of differing grey and Squalo wasn't so sure if he liked the thought of even wanting this bright red pyromaniac burning away the faded ideals, the sunbleached photographs), and he would stick by it.
"Squalo," the smoker said again, not retreating even an inch as the other's palm pushed back [yes, he was a coward, but that just meant he would know better than anyone what risks were worth taking]. His left hand was placed over Squalo's right, shifting down to lightly grip at the wrist, taunt with resistance as Squalo put pressure on his chest. Still leaning his head against the other's, his other hand continued it's tentative path down, tracing the tidy bandages with cautious fingers [but any way you looked at it, it was still toying with barbed wire].
Making up his mind, he nosed soft white strands of hair aside, chapped lips seeking out the corner of Squalo's mouth [all twisted and tight]. "...Please," Badou exhaled, tilting his head to bump their lips together, a not-quite kiss. Thin, pale fingers crept the final inch down. "You should be proud of this." That single murky green eye flickered up to meet Squalo's. "I am."
Squalo let out a short bark of a noise, more like a sharp exhale, more like a noise someone would make who was resigned to the fact (resigned to the decisions and is really quite prepared to follow through whatever consequences, but sometimes the wind just blew too hard). "I am." His voice was quiet, the sudden hush in the room almost as surprising as the sudden whirlwind of chaos that had occupied the air previously, even as his shoulders tensed again at the feel of fingers against the carefully wrapped bandages.
"I am." The swordsman repeated, the other's chapped dry lips a scratch against his with every syllable, his right hand caught fast in Badou's grip flexing and tightening into a fist.
"Then there is no problem," responded Badou, in that same stark, quiet tone. The night breeze blowing through the trees in the wide garden could be heard in the lulls of silence between their words. His fingers weren't broken yet, that was a good sign [but how far could he push it before they were, that was the question]. A wry all-or-nothing smile lit across the redhead's face, unseen in the dim, though the Italian could probably feel it against his cheek.
With slow movements, Badou guided the handless arm around his own body, shifting closer still. His grips on Squalo's wrist and forearm slackened as he settled against the other more fully, the trust he put forward implicit [the last thing he wanted the Italian to feel was trapped]. His lips pressed another, more full kiss to Squalo's mouth [as if he were trying to force the tension out of Squalo's shoulders with the firmer pressure]. Parting after only a few brief moments, he let go of Squalo's good hand entirely, fingers coming up and brushing the other's long bangs aside.
"I-" The swordsman started, but something in the other's tone (something in the papercrease smile against his face) made him stop and stutter, feeling a strange sort of ache coming on from where his hand used to be. It wasn't like he needed it; he lived with this (nearly a decade; it should really have healed by now, the tingling sensation disconcerting) and it was his (or lack thereof). It was just.
Squalo's hand came up, his gaze flickering (between the same old hard determination and don't you see don't you see) as he half-cupped, half-gripped the side of the redhead's face, leaning in to press his lips against the other's. A finger brushed (just for a second) against the black leather stripes of Badou's eyepatch, the old leather smoothscratchy against his bare fingertip, before snaking in further into the redorange hair.
After a while, carefully (oh so carefully), the arm around Badou tightened.
Something claustrophobic and important rising in his chest at that tightened pressure, Badou couldn't help but smile into the kiss [not a sneering grin, not a shit-eating-smirk, just a warm, private smile]. He let out a shaky breath[chuckle] into the other's mouth, and after one last, lingering touch along the bandages, he released his last hold on Squalo draped his arms loosely around the other's shoulders. With a contented hum, he leant into the kiss, going deeper, a slow unwinding [acceptance, comfort, desire, all the shit he could barely think about seriously, much less express in actual words].
Pausing, breaking the kiss, Badou gave a relieved, cheeky exhale, forehead pressing to Squalo's. "Good. It hurts way more when you punch me with the metal one," he mumbled, the corners of his mouth twitching playfully with a suppressed grin.
"Then obviously I'm not hitting hard enough." Squalo burst out, but it was more out of yet another belated wave of awkwardness than anger or even annoyance (the arms around his shoulders, the forehead against his own somehow comforting instead of restricting, a weight not to hold him down but ground him), seeing from out the corner of his eye the metal hand lying on the side table like some sort of morbid modern art exhibit.
His form relaxed a little, then a little more when Badou's fingers finally left the bandages wrapped around his left forearm, and the swordsman let out a breath, slowly letting his hand leave Badou's mess of redorange hair and trail down his back, settling lightly but decidedly around his waist.
"That's not being a very jolly good fellow," rasped Badou back, nipping at the Italian's lower lip sharply. He grinned, shifting purposefully in the other man's grasp, the loosening of tightly wound muscles in Squalo's athletic frame not going unnoticed [and man, it was stupid to be happy about something like that, but Badou had always been prone to doing stupid, stupid things].
With a sudden, solid press forward [without breaking the strong loop of the other's arms around his waist], Badou had pushed the swordsman flat on his back, and was hovering low over him on elbows and knees. The redhead's eye ghosted over the proud tilt of the other's jaw [the stupid-long hair spilling over the sheets], and his grin widened, warmed. "I can sing a song to remind you about how to be a jolly good fellow and not a retarded asshole, if you want." Pausing, he brushed a dangerously fond kiss to the top of the other's jaw. "Dunno how much it'll help, though," he mumbled absently against the skin.
Squalo merely raised an eyebrow, his expression shifting from the mortally embarrassed to one of careful indifference (a lord must have worn an expression much like this one when he was confronted with a hoard of beggars) as he shifted under the redhead, tilting his head a little. His arms shifted, however, his fingers tracing the sharp knocks and bumps of the redhead's spine.
Before the said hand clamped down unexpectedly around Badou's waist, and with a sudden push, it was Squalo pressing the other down into the sheets, a grin finally breaking over his face.
"You can't hit a single note." The Italian said, breath ghosting over the paleshallow skin of the side of the other's neck, absently humming the birthday song low in his throat before he leant in further and nipped lightly at an earlobe. "I don't think that'd work as a reminder."
Lips trailed down the side of Badou's neck slowly, the humming broken only by the occasional press of teeth and tongue against skin. "More like a torture."
The redhead laughed at the humming [a burst of bright noise after all that hushed quiet], laughed at the other's constant competitive streak [Squalo didn't need two hands to get the upper-hand, that was for damn sure]. Around the chuckling came a sigh in aggravation [though it came out a little shaky] at the press of lipsteethtongue along the column of his neck. Even though his eye had lidded, he could still see that idiot grin in his mind's eye [that was annoying, so annoying].
"No torture today," Badou promised, voice smoky and amused, lacing his fingers lazily across the fair skin of other's nape. "On my smokes. The punches don't count, that's-" an intake of breath, more like an inwards laugh, "-cultural. Rite of passage kinda shi- oh. Shouldn't I be doing this to you?"
However, the Italian was just as determined to make Badou forget about the birthday punches; if he had a hand of steel, then the redhead had knife-sharp knuckles to make up for it. "I don't know," Squalo rested his chin on the other's shoulder for a moment, eyes flickering to seek out the other's green, and tilted his head slightly to nudge Badou's chin upwards. His teeth scraped over the Adam's apple, and the Italian grinned. "I quite like this better though."
"You're annoying," murmured the freckled man matter-of-factly as his head tipped back, the content, pleased tone contradicting the words more than a little. "Even if it is your birthday." His scarred hand slipped from the other's nape, palm brushing down the Italian's defined chest. The hard angles were familiar to the touch [but that didn't seem to deter him from running his fingers along the planes, exploratory and indulgent]. "Ah. Control freak. Sadist. Asslover. Let me know when you're finished so I can-"
He paused, cutting himself off. "-Harder," he said instead, left hand slipping into that clean shock of white. After all, just because Squalo was annoying, he'd said no torture. This in mind, his voice became dead-pan. "Ooh, sexy. You know how baby likes it. Ahuh. Ahuh."
"You're annoying all the time, birthday or not." Squalo muttered against the junction of where Badou's neck and shoulder met, the exhale of breath at the feel of fingers in his hair not exactly annoyed and giving another (slightly harder) lingering bite, tongue smoothing over the indentation of teeth that he'd left; there was sure to be a mark there, although in the darkness it was hard to tell.
His expression, however, shifted from amused to first hint of annoyance (with the redhead, Squalo had the worst mood swings - anger and annoyance and rage and exasperation and stupid, retarded stuff in a crazy kaleidoscopic cycle) at Badou's deadpan delivery, and the Italian shifted slightly to jab an elbow sharply into the redhead's abdomen. "Shut up."
"Ooh, yeah, Squalo, you big Italian sausage, uhn, uh- oof," coughed Badou. He laughed again [the freckles on his face seeming to stand out all the more as colour heated his cheeks at the spot already feeling sore on his neck]. "Fucker. Can the no-torture rule work both ways?" he whined, impulsively burying his nose into all that retarded-ass hair. "Please?" he rasped. A skinny leg hooked around the swordsman's waist, reeling him in [and among silver-white strands, Badou's expression was sly]. "I'm trying to be nice and everything. I have great shit planned for today, y'know. I'm kind of the best-" he stumbled, here, but recovered, "-redhead who makes you feel all tingly in your girlparts ever."
Squalo lifted his head, turning slightly to peer at the redhead (missing the sly expression, but it was unmistakeable in Badou's voice, rasp or not). "But it's my birthday," he said, leaning back in to press his lips against the purpling mark on the redhead's neck. "So I get to do whatever I want."
He let the unwitting stumble slide; it wasn't like Badou had the best skills at keeping his mouth shut, and right now, he had other things to occupy his mind with. Slowly, with a smug grin (a sharp exhale of breath hissed out from between his teeth) Squalo let himself be reeled in, shifting to slide his hips forward. "What girl parts?"
Badou bit his lip around another chuckle[gasp], too comfortable to stop himself from arching subtly up [the wiry muscle in his calf and thigh tightening around the other's body probably all too obvious, but damnit Badou didn't give a shit anymore]. "Do you have a Lego in your pocket," he mumbled back, warm lips finding the shell of an ear to busy themselves with.
"You can do what you want, not who you want," he added quickly, feeling the smirk against his skin. Contrary to this, he hooked his other leg up around the swordsman [even Badou himself couldn't seem to unblur what was contradiction for the sake of contradiction and just simple contradiction anymore].
"Only you'd think it was." The swordsman muttered against Badou's neck, giving another half-hearted jab to the ribs (bare fingers slipping in under the hem of the redhead's tshirt, feeling slightly cold against the skin). He trailed his lips up along the side of Badou's neck, only pausing slightly to glance at the purpling mark. A slow intake of breath, and the slowly widening smirkgrin was the only acknowledgement that Squalo made at the other's motion and he nipped at the skin just below Badou's jaw. "You don't count as a person."
"Fuck you," hummed the redhead absently, shifting under those cool fingers. Trying to ignore the other's ever-growing air of smugness was a task, but the clever mouth working up his jaw was a good distraction [Squalo was a goddamn distraction]. "Stop poking me," he whined in a rasp, head tipped back. Nicotine stained fingers traced lines of other's back and shoulders, shameless in their exploration of the hard musculature. They then skimmed down the other's sides, short nails [bitten to the quick] dragging lightly on the skin. Giving another lazy arch up, Badou added in a sigh, "In both places. It's annoying."
Squalo shifted slightly at the feel of nails dragging against his skin, giving a half-nothing noise that wouldn't have even been heard if his mouth currently wasn't occupied with the pulse jumping at the other's throat, under the thin papery skin that looked and tasted as if all the smoke that Badou was inhaling daily had somehow soaked into it (hair and skin and sheets and furniture and ceilings, Badou was a walking mini-pollution all by himself, leaving trails of smoke to hunt him down by). "Your fault." The Italian said shortly, tilted his head slightly, now almost absently (almost) worrying the redhead's earlobe.
"My fault, huh?" Badou couldn't help the twitch of his lips into a grin at the clipped words, the nibbling on his ear making his toes curl. "Maybe I should take care of it, then," he mumbled back wryly, fingers on Squalo's back spidering around his torso, down the curve of a hip, scarred palm flattening against the other's toned stomach. The drawstring on Squalo's pajamas was easily pulled apart [he wanted to undo Squalo just as easily]. "Maaaan," drawled the redhead in a low voice, seemingly unconcerned [but his face was tinged with colour],"man, you'd be piiiissed if I birthday punched you right now."
Breath hitching audibly in his throat (the sound louder in the darkness, almost louder than the slide of cotton and silk as he shifted), Squalo lifted his head up to catch Badou's eye, his gaze sharp (darkened grey searching out the green). "You don't even fucking know." With that, he leant in to press his lips against the other's.
Badou's answering laugh was muffled by the other's kiss, his left hand still roving Squalo's back, grasping at the network of scars [the thin white lines, criss-crossing and erratic, that marked the path of a sword emperor]. He sat up a little for better leverage, kissing back harder, one of his gangly legs falling with a quiet whump back down onto the mattress. Gun-calloused fingers teased the line of the Italian's pants, then went lower to start a stilted but firm massage, tentative touch slow. When the kiss broke, he did not move his mouth from the other's, but glanced downwards quickly once, twice, expression half determined, half nervous [similar to how a poor dancer looks down at his feet, to make sure he's doing it right]. "Uh, is this-"
There were so many things wrong with having only one hand. The benefits to understanding the last sword emperor (still clinging to that confident, determined stubborn little voice from his childhood) didn't quite compare to, say, struggling to keep your eyes open and your elbows from buckling so that you didn't collapse and crush this nothing of a goddamned redhead. Didn't do much for chasing after the said redhead, either (but he wasn't running away, this time, and Squalo didn't know whether he should be warned by the sharpbright shiver going up his spine at the realisation).
Squalo sat up slightly (leaning back a little even as Badou sat up, half-closed eyes dark) and brought his hand to the back of the redhead's neck, tangling and winding his fingers tightly around the orangey locks of scraggly hair. His words were nothing more than a half-growled out pant, giving a sharp jerk of his grip on Badou's hair. "If you stop now I'll fucking cut off your fucking hand."
"But then where would you be, as far as these kind of things go?" murmured the smoker back, smoky voice more amused than anything else. And for once, he didn't stop, didn't give a cruel smirk and a cold shoulder [and he hoped Squalo wasn't going to die of shock, or cardiac arrest from the fact, after all the stupid trouble]. Badou watched the tense expression play across Squalo's features, much different than the one before [and much, much more welcome]. There were already way too many damn things that Badou actually admitted that he liked about Squalo, but this panting-hot-breath against his cheek being added to the list deserved the recognition. His face warmed, and he pressed a few messy kisses along the fine slope of the Italian's jaw [still embarrassing, it was as if he couldn't really help himself].
With the same sort of amused, embarrassed, incredulous air, Badou slid his hand upwards, then down again, beneath the cotton of the other's pants. "Fuck," he accidentally mumbled out loud, sounding as if he were surprised by what his fingers wrapped firmly around. "Shut up," he added, although the other hadn't said anything [though, he was willing to bet he was now in a position to make Squalo say any damn thing he wanted].
Squalo silently echoed the sentiment (he might have said it under his breath, he might not have said it through seemingly frozen tongue, but it was all so very much obvious in the way that his eyes slid shut completely, teeth clenching together hard, the fingers vice-like clamp around the redorange locks, almost even more so than his steel one could ever have.
He bowed his head just a little, silverwhite hair sliding over and around his shoulders at the motion, breath warm against Badou's hair (smelling just a little stale, just a little muddy and ashy enough to make Squalo want to just breathe in forever). "Well what the fuck did you expe-"
"Shut up," Badou interrupted, breaking the slow rhythm he had begun to establish to squeeze [whether in punishment or in reward was uncertain, and that was rather more characteristic of the two of them]. His other hand traced almost clumsily along hard stomach muscles and toned chest, slinking up into Squalo's hair. While lining the shell of the Italian's ear with light, nipping kisses, he let out a quiet, satisfied exhale [unabashedly loving the feel of that proud body shivering and twitching from just a light stroke of his fingers].
There was an odd, choking noise (half-surprise half-annoyance half-ohmygod) from deep within the Italian's throat at the squeeze, and he gave another hard, jerky tug at Badou's hair that would have been nearly enough to pull strands out by the roots. "Bitch," he gasped out, with a tone that started out with an intent of being somewhat angry but ended up halfway through into a sharp exhale against Badou's shoulder. The bandage was rough against the other's skin as Squalo brought his other arm up, hooking it around Badou's neck.
Badou huffed an irritable laugh at the hard yank on his hair, his head tilting with the force of the the pull [but to be totally honest, he didn't mind it a little rough]. His motions stilled again, and both hands relocated to the other's toned hips, grabbing hold of Squalo's pajama bottoms and tugging them down to just below his knees. Face pressed against the side of Squalo's head, he abandoned the reddened ear and glanced down again, watching his fingers scratch up the Italian's thighs with no little fascination. Slammed with a mad impulse [an image in his mind that made the heat between his own legs burn], he shuffled awkwardly backwards, lying down on his stomach and propping himself up on his elbows [the bandages dragging against the nape of his neck a reminder that Squalo trusted him, the painful grip in his hair a reminder that trying to run away wouldn't be easy anymore]. His scarred hand slid back up the inside of a shaking thigh to wrap around Squalo, stroking fully as the other hand clutched at the other's hip, holding him in place. This bracing sort of maneuver was probably good foresight, as he then ducked his head and pressed a hard, sucking bite to the thigh [the scruffy ends of his hair trailing along the reddened paths his nails had left].
"Oh," a breathless (gasping like a dying fish just out of the water, hook line and fucking sinker too) laugh, half-incredulous, half-just a little bit hysterical (just who the fuck could have known this would fucking happen, and just-) escaped the Italian as his head fell back slightly. "Oh shit-" The words died in his throat as Squalo's eyes snapped open wide, the frazzled slide of redorange hair against his skin and the momentary sting of the hard bite raising goosebumps on his skin, the rough folds of the bandage momentarily pressing down hard against the back of Badou's neck as he shuddered.
Even as he bit down again on the taunt muscles of Squalo's inner thigh, Badou's eye flickered up [starved for how the other looked like this, wanting to take a picture of it all and spend way too much time in the darkroom developing it]. Lapping his tongue over the twin bites, his breath was as heavy as the movements of his hand. The weight on his nape made it all too easy to drop his head into where thigh met body, and draw a messy line of licks and kisses ot the sensitive skin there. "Squalo," he rasped lowly, almost a murmur, not wanting to drown out the sound of the other's harsh breath and strange laughter [but not being able to hold his tongue either, he never had been].
Squalo jerked slightly at the bite, another shaky, faint exhale leaving his open lips (a sharp gasp following immediately after, the heat coiling in his gut and burning through the muscles - but this was a much different kind of fight). "Ow, motherfucking-" His hand flexed in the tangled grip on the redhead's hair but it was mostly out of sheer effort to keep still than anything else, the taut muscles in his arms useless in agitation (feeling the breath in his lungs shallowing, the darkened grey eyes shuttering as he curled against the sure, firm touches). "-Fuck."
"Mm," hummed Badou against the other's thigh, giving it another cursory lick as his fingers increased in pace around the other. His other hand slowly stroked the small of Squalo's back, almost a soothing touch [though needing comfort was probably the last thing Squalo felt right now, if ever]. He could practically taste the other's arousal as he pressed more biting kisses higher and higher up the Italian's thigh [and it was fucking heady, a smug voice in the back of his head going he's like this because of you unable to be silenced]. With a sort of mad, happy chuckle, the redhead's hand left the dip of the other's back, pushing at Squalo's ribcage. "Lie down," he muttered, warm puffs of breath rather close to extremely sensitive areas. He gave a harder push and another laugh. "Lie down."
The bed didn't even make a sound apart from a muffled whump as Squalo teetered onto his back, the sound of his breath hitching loud in the dark, almost embarrassingly so (the slow steady tinge of red rising up onto the surface, across the high cheekbones and slightly creased, frowning forehead). The sound of that chuckle (manicmadcrazyhilariouswhat the hell's so funny asshole, slight narrowing of the light-coloured eyes as they focused sharply on the redhead) sent a flash of annoyance through the Italian, and while a tiny part of his rational mind was glad at the fact that, well, at least something wasn't changed at all, the rest of Squalo's senses were focused on the other's hands (the fucking stingingwethot bites to his skin) with an intensity that almost physically hurt.
With a grin, Badou sat up up enough to strip off his t-shirt [pulling the neck wide so as not to dislodge his eyepatch, then tossing it carelessly right at Squalo's face], then shimmied up in between the Italian's legs. His hands returned to the other quickly, caressing and stroking their way down the other's torso before going lower again. Bending over the Italian's stomach, Badou pressed hard, open-mouthed kisses to the jumping abs [his hair a bright trail that slithered down after him]. As if feeling the annoyed stare on the top of his head, Badou glanced briefly up, his expression a little wicked. The shafts of moonlight coming in from the big veranda window was just enough to see the colour streaking Squalo's face [making his smirk even wider]. His hand sped up, grip tightening, and he laid his cheek [patch down] on the other's stomach, just next to where his hand was working at the other. "Do you want me to stop?" he rasped teasingly enough, though he made no motion to do so at all.
Squalo's hand finally left the confines of Badou's hair as he reached up to angrily tear the t-shirt off his face, throwing it to one side. He'd, admittedly, felt a brief moment of what the fuck as the red on his face deepened just a little more, but the embarrassment and anger dissipated quickly (he couldn't help it, not if Badou's doing that-ohmygod) and his eyes almost closed back again then and there, head tilting back just so.
"If you fucking- ah- stop now," the Italian pressed his left forearm tightly against his eyes, the scrape of bandage rough against his skin (the gun-calloused fingers rough against him), curling his fingers tightly into the bedsheets instead of back to the orangeyred hair. It was hard forcing words through the mouth that was already gasping. "-Going to fucking throw you out the- window."
The redhead knew the script, knew that here is where he tossed out a witty remark about how Squalo would be too busy clinging to him and whimpering like a girl to toss little old him out the window. However, he was instead caught totally off guard by the way Squalo gripped at the sheets, the way the Italian's breath couldn't seem to come fast enough [and the comedic timing flew by, unnoticed]. "Shit," he swore under his breath, heat curling low in his stomach. How the fuck did he even manage to end up this retarded, loud-ass motherfucker [and when the fuck did he suddenly start thinking he should buy some bananas or some shit, in the pursuit of knowledge that would make Squalo's fucking eyes roll back?].
Badou no longer felt like teasing, and the messy line he licked and bit down the Italian's hip, the firmness of his movements, more than reflected that. His scarred hand burned a little with the friction and the heat [but it just made him sink his teeth in harder, made his fingers tighten and stroke even faster].
And that was just as good for Squalo, because he really wasn't in any sort of position to really think clearly (or even speak, for that matter) anymore, gritting his teeth tightly until it hurt even as a low, shuddering hiss shook out from inside his throat (an elbow pressing down, digging down hard into the soft sheets and the mattress, seeking for some leverage, any leverage, for the fingershand around him and the teeth sharp against his skin).
"Badou," there was something odd about the way the Italian said his name, a little strange, the intonation a little slurred, half-desperate (and he had said it a thousand times before, exasperated and annoyed and angry and furious and incredulous and tired and quiet and-) and with a sluggish movement, Squalo pushed himself up a little, sitting up on his elbows (the tips of his fingers hurt even with the silk sheets, gripping hard enough that, if it were his other hand, it could have torn right through) and staring down at the redhead with wide eyes.
As Squalo shifted, Badou's own murky green eye glanced up, meeting his stare [and it was fucking ridiculous that he'd blush now, with his hand where it was and his mouth slipping precariously close to his hand]. He lifted his head, his breathing quick, thin lips parted to grab the extra air that didn't seem to be anywhere in the room. Without any grace, he clambered up Squalo's body, the knock of their foreheads together a footnote compared to how much he wanted to kiss the other man. His hand still moved between them, that hot heaviness against his scarred palm a strangely satisfying weight, like holding a loaded gun [yeah yeah, don't 'shoot' your eye out, fucking hilarious]. Lips covering the other's in a messy kiss, Badou rasped, "Come on, come on," into the Italian's mouth, free hand sliding down shoulder and forearm, unclenching the other's hand from the bedding [putting it on his curled-over lower back, just above his ass]. "Come on," he repeated with a breathless sort of laugh, pressing the line of his nose along Squalo's, smoky voice scraping with lust. "I want you to."
With a little strangled noise Squalo leant up, headtilted lipsopen hot, heavy breath against the redhead's face as he positively bit down on the other's lips, bit down hard enough to bruise and then delved in deeper, the brief ache from the inadvertent headknock going unheeded in the sheer almost desperation that he felt. Fingers grasped, nails scratchingscraping across the pale skin of Badou's lower back (fuck, fuckfuck it always seemed like Squalo couldn't fucking get Badou closer enough and guess it still applied, birthday or not) and the Italian muttered breathlessly himself too (though the meaning was lost in the pants and half-gasps, the sound growing deeper and heavier like the movement of the redhead's hand), lips pressing against the corner of the redhead's mouth. Squalo's eyes were wide, but the darkened grey gleam in them was still focused (almost as if the bandaged arm digging uselessly into the sheets beside him still held a sword), and he shifted his head to press another hard biting kiss against Badou's lips even as his fingers hooked around the elastic of the redhead's boxers.
With a quiet ah Badou arched against the nails clawing into his lower back [hoping they left marks, hoping he'd feel them for days]. He let the Italian bruise his mouth with his fierce kisses, opening his lips wide to the intrusion, wanting more. The movements of his grasping fingers became calculated, exploiting what [judging by the swearing, the gasping, the skin peeled off his back] Squalo wanted more of, too. He didn't close his eye, wanting to commit the way Squalo panted and bucked into his hand to memory [shit, he'd want two working eyes just for the sake of being able to watch Squalo fall apart even better]. He returned the biting kisses hard, managing for a few seconds to sync the press of his tongue and the movement of his hand [but it fell apart quickly, he couldn't fucking concentrate when Squalo was making those noises, looking like he wanted to climb into Badou's frame].
"You- F-fuck, Badou-" Squalo's head fall back onto the bed, the ivorywhite hair laying in a tangled mess on the sheet (caught damp with sweat across his face) as he gasped again, his kisses becoming more sloppy (more careless more desperate, fingers raking up the redhead's spine loving all the quiet, barely-there noises from the other and always wanting more). The wet warm coiling heat in his guts tightened, momentarily making his fingers, so sure and firm usually, stutter and pause to clutch at the lean wiry muscles of Badou's shoulder. "I-"
"I want you to," Badou murmured again, almost lost amidst the frantic clashing of mouths, something scorching and possessive rising in the pit of his stomach as the other choked out his name. More of that would be good, almost as good as the grasping, shaking nails scoring up his back. He broke off the kissing, breathing hard and laboured, then leant in with a slow tongue to taste the other's jawline [saltysweet with perspiration]. His voice was just that bit hoarse [he couldn't deny how much this was what he wanted, needed], rough at the edges, as he rasped against the other's cheek, "I wanna see you, come on, Squalo..."
He couldn't seem to be able to stop swearing, really nothing more than soft pants and sharp hitch of breath (inhaling the air that Badou had exhaled) and Squalo's eyes clenched shut tight, throat working as he swallowed dryly (his entire body faintly burning with the friction of skin against skin). "Ba- shit, Badou," his own voice sounded odd to him, half-muffled against the side of the redhead's face and by the combined mess of tangled hair and skin. His fingers grasped at the sharp bones of Badou's upper arm, the shoulders, seeing the blackness behind his eyes beginning to blur with steadily rising heat in his gut. The Italian gave a hoarse, choked gasp, the only warning he could give at that very moment, before the muscles in his stomach tightened, the bandaged left arm coming to wrap back around Badou's neck and pull him up to crush their mouths together again.
The lips moving against Squalo's forceful kiss twitched, slowly spread into a crooked grin. Between them, the shadow of the redhead's hand slowed to a leisurely stroke, but didn't stop, drawing every last harsh breath from the other man that it could. Aware that his other arm was beginning to shake from propping himself up, he collapsed down, half on Squalo's side and half on Squalo [all tangled up in hair and tongues and stickywet warmth, and damn pleased to be there]. Finally, he broke the kiss, his chest rising and falling quickly against the Italian's. Fingers slipping up from between the other's legs, he gave a small, playful slap to Squalo's abdomen, pressing his face into the top of the other man's jaw, still grinning [struck dumb by how he didn't want to say anything].
Squalo wordlessly tightened his arms around the redhead, gathering the other in close against him (hot puffs of breath and the racingloud heartbeats, the twitch and shiver of muscles still all too evident through the kiss, despite the leisurely feel to it). A last slow, vaguely shaky breath of air passed from his lips as they broke the kiss, and Squalo squinted down at the mass of tangled red hair. After a few moments, his left arm tightened around Badou a fraction more (the red hair clinging to the pale bandages). "-I can't believe you just did that." A steadily rising note of surprise (and just a little bit of annoyance; feeling as if the upper hand had been reversed) was plain in Squalo's voice.
Badou laughed at the incredulous, pseudo-suspicious tone of the other, colour smudging across the bridge of his nose. He wiped his hand perfunctorily on the sheets, then draped the arm lazily across Squalo's chest, curving himself into the other's arms [bony and boneless all at once]. "I didn't, uh, plan on it," he rasped back honestly, twining his leg absently with the other's. Although he was still extremely turned on, he wasn't in a rush to do much about it, happy enough for now to soak in Squalo's satisfation [and that gobsmacked look on his face, man he'd never get tired of that, either]. "Uhm. Mostly, I was just gonna jump on your bed. And probably elbow-drop you, I dunno, I didn't think much farther ahead than that." Fighting the stupid fucking flush again, he spread his fingers on the other's chest, thick scar tissue rough against the smooth skin.
"You never plan anything out." The Italian pointed out, his tone still rather skeptical, though there was a definite tinge of half-laughter in it (the way his fingers pulled closer at Badou, almost as if he didn't really believe that the redhead was there at all in the first place). "Retard." After a sort of silence (a comfortable kind of silence where only half-thoughts floated around, not the awkward silence where the very air got crowded out by questions sometimes), Squalo glanced down at the redhead again. "This really isn't happening, is it? It's like a fucking retarded dream and any minute now I'm going to wake up and you'll be doing something stupid like- I don't know - cooking waffles or something-"
"You like waffles," Badou hummed lethargically against the other man's shoulder. He shifted, getting comfortable, not seeming to mind being tucked in closer against the Italian. "A lot, actually."
"That isn't the point." Squalo's voice had a certain annoyed edge to it this time, although his form relaxed just a little against the shift of the other's body. "I wasn't talking about the waffles and whether I like them or not, it's-" An annoyed sound left his throat and the Italian shrugged irritably, lifting a hand to tuck behind his head (his left arm curling tentatively around the other, however, the slightest brush of bandage across thin shoulders). "Nevermind."
Badou made a noise to show that he was listening [he wasn't, which was what the noise really showed]. "Im gonna make waffles tomorrow," he mumbled in response, a content drawl.
"You're fucking impossible." The Italian sighed, and he tiredly blinked a few times, a yawn escaping him.
Hearing the yawn [feeling it breeze against the top of his head], redhead's eyebrows drew together and then quirked. His eye blinked open wider as he sat up [the bandaged arm sliding down his back] and looked down at the Italian, ending up half-straddling him. Cocking his head, he zeroed in on the tired eyes, and his eyebrows shot into his hairline. "Oh, hell no," Badou rasped, tone as incredulous as Squalo's was before. "Is this how it's gonna go? You rollin' over and going to sleep?" He made as if to vacate the bed, but couldn't seem to unwind himself from Squalo and the bedding. "Fuck this noise, I'm gonna go see if anyone worth my time wants a piece."
Squalo made an irritated noise in his throat, an eye opening wider to stare up at the redhead, lips curling into an annoyed frown as he shifted to pull the other back into his grasp, (almost)inadvertently locking one of Badou's arms to his side in the process. "Shut the hell up, you're the one who wasn't goddamned listening-" He muttered against the redhead's shoulder, blinking once, twice, his eyes losing some of the bleariness.
Badou struggled in the other's hold, and even though his voice and words were cutting, the corners of his mouth twitched with unspoken amusement. "What the fu- ow, let me go- all the shit you've been talking, I thought you fucking Italian assholes were into gettin' off ten times a night and then five times more the next morning, should'a known that was a load'a crap-" Trying to free his arm, he shifted the knees on either side of Squalo for leverage, but only ended up twisting the sheets across his calf and around his opposite ankle, effectively trapping himself as he squirmed more. "Motherfuck-"
The Italian's hand rose and clamped around Badou's wrist and pulled it away, his left arm still tightly wrapped around the redhead's other arm and torso. "Were you looking forward to that?" Squalo leant up, tilting his head a little to one side to brush his lips against the side of Badou's neck, lips spreading into a grin against the skin.
The smoker froze, face colouring in what was mostly irritation [the warm brush of smug lips against his skin harder to ignore than it should've been- stupid asshole, goddamned piece of shit pastafucker]. "Guess so, yeah. Can I maybe get some of your shitty ex-tramps' numbers, then? Sooner rather than later, I mean, I been unsatisfied more than long enough-"
"But you burnt them all." Squalo countered, the face half-hidden in the darkness wearing an expression that was more smug than ever. Slowly, the swordsman reached out to the bedside table again (quiet snap of steel latching shut, a subtle change in Squalo (no less smug, but just a fraction of a glimmer of sharpness in his grin, the rising of pale eyebrows) probably not going unnoticed as he glanced down at the hand, then back up at the redhead. "Guess you're stuck with me."
"Guess so. Excuse me while I fuckin' swoon," responded the redhead in a monotone, unable not to grin. Said grin slipped a little uncertainly as his eye slid down to the metal hand as Squalo adjusted it [and why did that snap sound so ominous?]. "What are you-" he started suspiciously, but he didn't get to finish.
The next morning, Badou was far, far too tired to make any waffles.
[He was not too tired, however, to attempt to give Squalo 23 hundred birthday punches.]