(no subject)
Title - Iridescent
Chapter- One shot
Author - Mugimugul
Genre- Romance
Rating - Pg-13
Warnings - … uhh none??
Pairings - Uruha/Aoi
Disclaimers - Sad to say, but I own nothing. (except the story).
The first time he meets him, he hates him- the snarky attitude, the devious smirk curling his lips… the mischievous (even evil) twinkle lurking beneath the chocolate of those orbs. The eyes that scan over him are attentive, yet casual, and the words that falls from his lips with an ease of grace are crude, insensitive- “Well, not too bad, just not as hot as I am,”-albeit true. And so Aoi decides he hates him- that arrogant bastard.
A few years has passed since that first meeting, and Aoi’s opinion of the taller male has never changed, never wavered; just like the said man had never stopped his blunt, harsh words. Aoi’s beginning to believe that he’ll forever hate this guy; doesn’t think he’ll ever find enough reason to like the honey blonde. But when he finds himself roughly shoved to the ground, several kicks and punches flung against his defenceless frame, a steady stream of crimson trickling from the bruised corner of his torn lips, and he closes his eyes as he prepares himself for the awaiting brutality, he hears that familiar, once so detested voice in the darkness of the alleyway, sharp and angry. He hears the light footsteps and the ruckus of the fight that breaks out soon after; hears the pattering as they- whoever they were- scurries away; hears the reprimand in that voice as the male saunters over to him, sweeping a gentle finger across the blood. “Dressed like that, you’re practically asking for it. Come on, I’ll take you home.” And he decides, that maybe, maybe he might not be so bad after all, and he just might start to like him.
Aoi is now friends, good friends, with Uruha. It’s a weird friendship, when he thinks about it, because more often than not, he finds that he still can’t stand the younger male’s speech- his choice of words and the way he presents them. But Aoi has realized, a few years back, that the honey blonde has no ill intent; he was simply being honest and straightforward, and Aoi can’t bring himself to fault him for that either. So he doesn’t think about it- the oddity of their friendship; instead he contends himself with verbal jousts between him and the other.
Uruha can be, and usually is unexpected; he does things based on random impulsions and Aoi has grown to like, and expect him to be unexpected. But Aoi certainly doesn’t expect this-doesn’t expect Uruha storming into his room just as he steps out of the shower, clad in nothing but a towel draped around his waist; doesn’t expect Uruha throwing him on to the bed, ignoring his agitated protests as he hovers over him. Doesn’t expect Uruha to pin him down to the bed with an intense glare, accompanied by a determined “I want you” and silencing Aoi with a passionate kiss. Aoi can’t decide whether he likes this pleasant surprise, but when he finds himself moaning into the kiss, he knows that he does.
With Uruha, it’s not about using impressive vocabulary, scientific terms; it’s not about the superficiality of the words itself. It was about finding the right words- the perfect words- needed for that elegance, for that feeling of contentment; it was about the meaning of the words, the wants to make someone feel better, to make the pain stop; it was not the serenading of a person with pretty lies and meaningless letters- it was the desire to touch someone’s fragile, damaged, still broken, still hurting heart with simple, honest promises.
And he thinks, as this epiphany dawns on him, that it’s just so beautiful. Because it makes him feel loved. He doesn’t understand why he’s never seen through it before- those hidden words and promises that lay beneath.
“Well, not too bad, just not as hot as I am.”- I like you.
“Dressed like that, you’re practically asking for it. Come on, I’ll take you home.”- I’ll protect you.
“I want you.”- I love you.
And Aoi decides, for the final time, that he loves him- the creator of these artful masterpieces of stringed words and sensations.
Chapter- One shot
Author - Mugimugul
Genre- Romance
Rating - Pg-13
Warnings - … uhh none??
Pairings - Uruha/Aoi
Disclaimers - Sad to say, but I own nothing. (except the story).
The first time he meets him, he hates him- the snarky attitude, the devious smirk curling his lips… the mischievous (even evil) twinkle lurking beneath the chocolate of those orbs. The eyes that scan over him are attentive, yet casual, and the words that falls from his lips with an ease of grace are crude, insensitive- “Well, not too bad, just not as hot as I am,”-albeit true. And so Aoi decides he hates him- that arrogant bastard.
A few years has passed since that first meeting, and Aoi’s opinion of the taller male has never changed, never wavered; just like the said man had never stopped his blunt, harsh words. Aoi’s beginning to believe that he’ll forever hate this guy; doesn’t think he’ll ever find enough reason to like the honey blonde. But when he finds himself roughly shoved to the ground, several kicks and punches flung against his defenceless frame, a steady stream of crimson trickling from the bruised corner of his torn lips, and he closes his eyes as he prepares himself for the awaiting brutality, he hears that familiar, once so detested voice in the darkness of the alleyway, sharp and angry. He hears the light footsteps and the ruckus of the fight that breaks out soon after; hears the pattering as they- whoever they were- scurries away; hears the reprimand in that voice as the male saunters over to him, sweeping a gentle finger across the blood. “Dressed like that, you’re practically asking for it. Come on, I’ll take you home.” And he decides, that maybe, maybe he might not be so bad after all, and he just might start to like him.
Aoi is now friends, good friends, with Uruha. It’s a weird friendship, when he thinks about it, because more often than not, he finds that he still can’t stand the younger male’s speech- his choice of words and the way he presents them. But Aoi has realized, a few years back, that the honey blonde has no ill intent; he was simply being honest and straightforward, and Aoi can’t bring himself to fault him for that either. So he doesn’t think about it- the oddity of their friendship; instead he contends himself with verbal jousts between him and the other.
Uruha can be, and usually is unexpected; he does things based on random impulsions and Aoi has grown to like, and expect him to be unexpected. But Aoi certainly doesn’t expect this-doesn’t expect Uruha storming into his room just as he steps out of the shower, clad in nothing but a towel draped around his waist; doesn’t expect Uruha throwing him on to the bed, ignoring his agitated protests as he hovers over him. Doesn’t expect Uruha to pin him down to the bed with an intense glare, accompanied by a determined “I want you” and silencing Aoi with a passionate kiss. Aoi can’t decide whether he likes this pleasant surprise, but when he finds himself moaning into the kiss, he knows that he does.
With Uruha, it’s not about using impressive vocabulary, scientific terms; it’s not about the superficiality of the words itself. It was about finding the right words- the perfect words- needed for that elegance, for that feeling of contentment; it was about the meaning of the words, the wants to make someone feel better, to make the pain stop; it was not the serenading of a person with pretty lies and meaningless letters- it was the desire to touch someone’s fragile, damaged, still broken, still hurting heart with simple, honest promises.
And he thinks, as this epiphany dawns on him, that it’s just so beautiful. Because it makes him feel loved. He doesn’t understand why he’s never seen through it before- those hidden words and promises that lay beneath.
“Well, not too bad, just not as hot as I am.”- I like you.
“Dressed like that, you’re practically asking for it. Come on, I’ll take you home.”- I’ll protect you.
“I want you.”- I love you.
And Aoi decides, for the final time, that he loves him- the creator of these artful masterpieces of stringed words and sensations.