(no subject)
title: Scramble part2 (Hibari/Gokudera)
rating: PG-15 (incomprehensibly violent sexual tension, there will be blood)
sample: "These days they’re two Molotov cocktails of adrenaline, hormones and old grudges (old excuses more like)"
parts: one
- - - - -
These days they’re two Molotov cocktails of adrenaline, hormones and old grudges (old excuses more like) A single spark of fury is all that it takes, fuck the countdown, it’s instantaneous ignition. Every pore is in flames, murder is a hard shine in their eyes. It’s crazy to think. It’s crazy to know that so much anger could come from such young things such as themselves. Kids with guns. They’re just stupid kids with loaded guns and safety catches off. Finger to the trigger. Finger on the trigger.
Watch where you’re pointing that thing.
And don’t blink you young thing. Don’t even think about it you crazy young thing. Life’s too wild to reason with so just settle with curb stomping its face in. It’ll make you feel better. (It’ll make you feel bitter.)
He’s so in over his head that he’s tumbling head over heels. He’s so screwed up he finds his ground in the goddamngodblessed, blessed sky. His heels are digging into the endless blue. Or into the clouds. Or into Cloud guardians cause that’s where his not-so-metaphorical heel is currently situated. Sometimes (frequently) he even finds his knuckles digging into the ribs of Cloud guardians and his teeth digging into the necks of Cloud guardians. Matching (attempting) blow for blow. Bite for bite.
The scar on the inside of his wrist aches. It’s a twisted knot of burnt flesh, skin’s long healed. But his shaky, twitchy, pride? Not so much. (Not at all.)
Because: Gokudera knows.
Hibari knows.
That it’s a brand.
He tried covering it up with the strap of his watch but every time he took it off at the end of the day… It Was There. He tried ignoring it but everyone just stared simply because It Was There. In his skin and on top of his veins It. Was. There.
All he can do is accept it or reject it.
To do both is impossible, illogical, but it’s happening anyway.
And now? They’re in so deep that intentions are beginning to fuzz and blur in the radiating heat of their mutual hostility. Their little angry world has once again been reduced to a kaleidoscopal vertigo of ceiling, elbows, knees and concrete. Reality is on mute. But through the blinding deafening madness of it all, through the unyielding punches, the mauling bites and the vicious kicks, Gokudera can feel his wrist ache. It’s a shallow echo but it’s a cold snap. It wakes him up.
(It shuts him down.)
Because.
Because he snarls, his voice is an unrecognizable hoarse rumble, and he lunges for a jugular under paleasianalabasterskin. His pearly whites puncture into flesh. He can taste, he can feel, something warm and coppery and thick and liquid trickle down his lips. His chin. His jaw. His adam’s apple. His neck.
The world’s black for some reason and it is then that he notices the touch of a hand awkwardly cupping his face. Fingertips tentatively stroke the lobe of his ear, the corner of his jaw. (Too familiar, too de ja vu, too deliberate to pass off as a mere brush) He snaps open his eyes and instantly Hibari’s stare burns into him (like a cigarette, so much like a cigarette) Something heavy and predatory is shifting between impossibly grey irises. It is then that Gokudera realizes, with his mouth and lips stained in blood, that he’s biting into Hibari’s wrist.
A tongue darts out and slowly wets bruised, split, busted-up lips. Hibari’s head dips down under his chin. Instead of ripping out his throat he is silent and still. For a tender second nothing happens, reality’s volume dials up as the drumming pulse in his ears and their sharp out of synch pants. Then Hibari jerks his bloody wrist free and pins Gokudera’s arms down like a vice. Nails dig into skin, a hard muscled thigh presses against his crotch and a hot, wet tongue sweeps up the trickle of blood up his neck.
Up his adam’s apple.
Along his jaw.
Up his chin.
And to his lips.
//TBC
rating: PG-15 (incomprehensibly violent sexual tension, there will be blood)
sample: "These days they’re two Molotov cocktails of adrenaline, hormones and old grudges (old excuses more like)"
parts: one
- - - - -
These days they’re two Molotov cocktails of adrenaline, hormones and old grudges (old excuses more like) A single spark of fury is all that it takes, fuck the countdown, it’s instantaneous ignition. Every pore is in flames, murder is a hard shine in their eyes. It’s crazy to think. It’s crazy to know that so much anger could come from such young things such as themselves. Kids with guns. They’re just stupid kids with loaded guns and safety catches off. Finger to the trigger. Finger on the trigger.
Watch where you’re pointing that thing.
And don’t blink you young thing. Don’t even think about it you crazy young thing. Life’s too wild to reason with so just settle with curb stomping its face in. It’ll make you feel better. (It’ll make you feel bitter.)
He’s so in over his head that he’s tumbling head over heels. He’s so screwed up he finds his ground in the goddamngodblessed, blessed sky. His heels are digging into the endless blue. Or into the clouds. Or into Cloud guardians cause that’s where his not-so-metaphorical heel is currently situated. Sometimes (frequently) he even finds his knuckles digging into the ribs of Cloud guardians and his teeth digging into the necks of Cloud guardians. Matching (attempting) blow for blow. Bite for bite.
The scar on the inside of his wrist aches. It’s a twisted knot of burnt flesh, skin’s long healed. But his shaky, twitchy, pride? Not so much. (Not at all.)
Because: Gokudera knows.
Hibari knows.
That it’s a brand.
He tried covering it up with the strap of his watch but every time he took it off at the end of the day… It Was There. He tried ignoring it but everyone just stared simply because It Was There. In his skin and on top of his veins It. Was. There.
All he can do is accept it or reject it.
To do both is impossible, illogical, but it’s happening anyway.
And now? They’re in so deep that intentions are beginning to fuzz and blur in the radiating heat of their mutual hostility. Their little angry world has once again been reduced to a kaleidoscopal vertigo of ceiling, elbows, knees and concrete. Reality is on mute. But through the blinding deafening madness of it all, through the unyielding punches, the mauling bites and the vicious kicks, Gokudera can feel his wrist ache. It’s a shallow echo but it’s a cold snap. It wakes him up.
(It shuts him down.)
Because.
Because he snarls, his voice is an unrecognizable hoarse rumble, and he lunges for a jugular under paleasianalabasterskin. His pearly whites puncture into flesh. He can taste, he can feel, something warm and coppery and thick and liquid trickle down his lips. His chin. His jaw. His adam’s apple. His neck.
The world’s black for some reason and it is then that he notices the touch of a hand awkwardly cupping his face. Fingertips tentatively stroke the lobe of his ear, the corner of his jaw. (Too familiar, too de ja vu, too deliberate to pass off as a mere brush) He snaps open his eyes and instantly Hibari’s stare burns into him (like a cigarette, so much like a cigarette) Something heavy and predatory is shifting between impossibly grey irises. It is then that Gokudera realizes, with his mouth and lips stained in blood, that he’s biting into Hibari’s wrist.
A tongue darts out and slowly wets bruised, split, busted-up lips. Hibari’s head dips down under his chin. Instead of ripping out his throat he is silent and still. For a tender second nothing happens, reality’s volume dials up as the drumming pulse in his ears and their sharp out of synch pants. Then Hibari jerks his bloody wrist free and pins Gokudera’s arms down like a vice. Nails dig into skin, a hard muscled thigh presses against his crotch and a hot, wet tongue sweeps up the trickle of blood up his neck.
Up his adam’s apple.
Along his jaw.
Up his chin.
And to his lips.
//TBC