(no subject)
Title: Therefore
Fandom: Katekyo Hitman Reborn!
Pairing: Xanxus/Bianchi
Rating: R [sex, language]
Word Count: 1200
Notes: For desumethis because who else? ♥ What is this I don't even--
I think what we have here is an understanding.
And Xanxus, all hard planes of muscle and sweat pauses above her, all rough-palms and rough-breath. Bianchi is a languid, luxurious thing in his bed. She is greedy and giving, compassionate and cruel, and her fingernails trace red lines over his chest to match the map of raised, rosy scar. "We do?" He asks like this is the start to a game.
Yes. I think you're going to let me stay in this bed. I think you're going to fuck me again. I think you'll let me come back.
"I don't care what you think," Xanxus says. Bel is probably listening outside the door, because he is a boy, a boy who has barely jacked himself off, who barely knows what sex is, and Xanxus has never been against putting on a show. Two rough fingers and Bianchi moans out like a siren on the shore.
I think you do. I think if you did not care you would have snapped my neck by now.
She twists against him, the stretch of muscle and slip of hair over his bare skin, scent of magnolias. She is cloying summer heat, clinging like sweat and idleness, boredom, a sharp and shaggy-haired boy who swears impossible offerings upon the altar of rage and the cavernous place in Xanxus' chest which could by stretch and generosity be called a heart, swells and twists with pride and disgust. His fingers forge a ruthless metronome. Her mouth falls open again. No sound comes out for a time.
She came to him, this time, by way of the sea, bearing messages, and she drank his wine, sat sideways in his generous chairs, provoked him with slyness and that slick, sanguine mouth, provoked and didn't stop him when he pressed her back into the couch or against the wall or into his many pillows. He had never needed to ask for a thing in his life and this would not be the night of such initiation. He would take and pillage and devour until sated and sick, until the sting of his muscles sang and swam.
I think you want too much and you'll never get half of it.
He would admit to gluttony but gluttony works toward an end and he likes to think himself insatiable. He likes to think himself without the boundaries of man, without the limitations, and he brings his fingers to his lips and licks the scent and taste of her from his skin. His face is an impolite intruder between her smooth thighs, his tongue and teeth a mockery of worship. And above him, she is wiser than the whores who grace his bed nightly. She knows his game, his wall of masks and to give in to the illusion would be the deadliest mistake of all. Instead, she grips his hair tight and does not relinquish another gasp or groan.
I think you want me to think you an irresistible lover. I think you want me to drown in this.
Xanxus' mouth quirks into something sharp and aggressive. He could tell her that she is a conceited bitch, but that would be too telling; she must know how admirable a trait he finds that to be. He could tell her how arrogant, how pretentious, but then she'd slip out of his bed. So to avoid such awkward abandoment, he does it first. He goes to his balcony, the doors already thrown open to the night air. Beneath him in the garden, Squalo can be heard leading a parcel of recruits, his raw voice rasping over the wind. Behind him: Bianchi curled like a nautilus in his blankets, an endless spiral of agelessness.
I think you like to let your bed get cold. I think you like to shiver.
She pours out of his bed to come to his side. As she passes, she drags her fingers over the piano in the room, just another plotted point of intersection in the navigational charts of their lives. Neither prodigies; both prisoners. The sound lifts from the strings within and becomes another prop for her to manipulate. When she reaches his side, she is still naked, holding their wine glasses cupped in her narrow, white palms and the moonlight shining through turns her skin to blush. She leans against his balustrade.
Bianchi wears her own skin like spoiled mafia princesses wear their silk and their diamonds and gold. It drapes wraps her, luminescent, a cage of moonlight and goosebumps and pulse and she brings the lip of the wine glass to her mouth. The flesh cannot be stained a deeper red. The towel wrapped around Xanxus' hips cools in the air. Pale like the soft skin forming the line of her neck, her shoulders, her fragile spine. He presses his fingers to the curve of it, presses and threatens.
I think you're lonely, too.
Xanxus manages a deep, rumbling laugh at this. He fits a strong arm around her waist and hoists her onto the railing of his balcony. The curves of her body make a continuous line with those of the balusters and it is entirely too much like she belongs there. The full sway of breasts, the unwavering challenge of green eyes, and those fingers which drag like wind over the waves of scar on his ruined face. "I don't miss anyone," he says and he bites down enitrely too hard on her clavicle. She does not dignify this with a reaction, and the lack of reaction only makes him more lustful. The lack of reaction only inflates his hubris.
I think you're a scared little boy who's mad at his daddy and this is some sort of Oedipal bullshit. But I'm not your mother, little one.
"No?" His question is carved with a cruel tongue from the clay. His feathers tickle along her clavicle and if he were any other creature, this would be an aesthetic, something romantic, a little less dangerous. A little less like teeth against the pulse. She is nylon stockings gathered around ankles; she is one spike-heeled shoe dangling from curled toes. She is a mystic, a muttered and musical chant which sends away even his most earnest attempts to scar.
I am the oracle at Delphi.
The weight of his body angles her backward over the railing as he presses into her again, presses in and watches her face contort, feels her hands scrabble suddenly for the lifeline of his hair, his shoulders, the odd gathering of feathers at his neck. And when he brings his lips to hers, she laughs against the skin. "Or maybe," she says, and her brow rests against his, sweaty but cooled in the night, "maybe we are both the Sphinx this time through."
After a long pause, he answers, "Maybe," and Bianchi's lyrical laughter drifts through the garden.
Fandom: Katekyo Hitman Reborn!
Pairing: Xanxus/Bianchi
Rating: R [sex, language]
Word Count: 1200
Notes: For desumethis because who else? ♥ What is this I don't even--
I think what we have here is an understanding.
And Xanxus, all hard planes of muscle and sweat pauses above her, all rough-palms and rough-breath. Bianchi is a languid, luxurious thing in his bed. She is greedy and giving, compassionate and cruel, and her fingernails trace red lines over his chest to match the map of raised, rosy scar. "We do?" He asks like this is the start to a game.
Yes. I think you're going to let me stay in this bed. I think you're going to fuck me again. I think you'll let me come back.
"I don't care what you think," Xanxus says. Bel is probably listening outside the door, because he is a boy, a boy who has barely jacked himself off, who barely knows what sex is, and Xanxus has never been against putting on a show. Two rough fingers and Bianchi moans out like a siren on the shore.
I think you do. I think if you did not care you would have snapped my neck by now.
She twists against him, the stretch of muscle and slip of hair over his bare skin, scent of magnolias. She is cloying summer heat, clinging like sweat and idleness, boredom, a sharp and shaggy-haired boy who swears impossible offerings upon the altar of rage and the cavernous place in Xanxus' chest which could by stretch and generosity be called a heart, swells and twists with pride and disgust. His fingers forge a ruthless metronome. Her mouth falls open again. No sound comes out for a time.
She came to him, this time, by way of the sea, bearing messages, and she drank his wine, sat sideways in his generous chairs, provoked him with slyness and that slick, sanguine mouth, provoked and didn't stop him when he pressed her back into the couch or against the wall or into his many pillows. He had never needed to ask for a thing in his life and this would not be the night of such initiation. He would take and pillage and devour until sated and sick, until the sting of his muscles sang and swam.
I think you want too much and you'll never get half of it.
He would admit to gluttony but gluttony works toward an end and he likes to think himself insatiable. He likes to think himself without the boundaries of man, without the limitations, and he brings his fingers to his lips and licks the scent and taste of her from his skin. His face is an impolite intruder between her smooth thighs, his tongue and teeth a mockery of worship. And above him, she is wiser than the whores who grace his bed nightly. She knows his game, his wall of masks and to give in to the illusion would be the deadliest mistake of all. Instead, she grips his hair tight and does not relinquish another gasp or groan.
I think you want me to think you an irresistible lover. I think you want me to drown in this.
Xanxus' mouth quirks into something sharp and aggressive. He could tell her that she is a conceited bitch, but that would be too telling; she must know how admirable a trait he finds that to be. He could tell her how arrogant, how pretentious, but then she'd slip out of his bed. So to avoid such awkward abandoment, he does it first. He goes to his balcony, the doors already thrown open to the night air. Beneath him in the garden, Squalo can be heard leading a parcel of recruits, his raw voice rasping over the wind. Behind him: Bianchi curled like a nautilus in his blankets, an endless spiral of agelessness.
I think you like to let your bed get cold. I think you like to shiver.
She pours out of his bed to come to his side. As she passes, she drags her fingers over the piano in the room, just another plotted point of intersection in the navigational charts of their lives. Neither prodigies; both prisoners. The sound lifts from the strings within and becomes another prop for her to manipulate. When she reaches his side, she is still naked, holding their wine glasses cupped in her narrow, white palms and the moonlight shining through turns her skin to blush. She leans against his balustrade.
Bianchi wears her own skin like spoiled mafia princesses wear their silk and their diamonds and gold. It drapes wraps her, luminescent, a cage of moonlight and goosebumps and pulse and she brings the lip of the wine glass to her mouth. The flesh cannot be stained a deeper red. The towel wrapped around Xanxus' hips cools in the air. Pale like the soft skin forming the line of her neck, her shoulders, her fragile spine. He presses his fingers to the curve of it, presses and threatens.
I think you're lonely, too.
Xanxus manages a deep, rumbling laugh at this. He fits a strong arm around her waist and hoists her onto the railing of his balcony. The curves of her body make a continuous line with those of the balusters and it is entirely too much like she belongs there. The full sway of breasts, the unwavering challenge of green eyes, and those fingers which drag like wind over the waves of scar on his ruined face. "I don't miss anyone," he says and he bites down enitrely too hard on her clavicle. She does not dignify this with a reaction, and the lack of reaction only makes him more lustful. The lack of reaction only inflates his hubris.
I think you're a scared little boy who's mad at his daddy and this is some sort of Oedipal bullshit. But I'm not your mother, little one.
"No?" His question is carved with a cruel tongue from the clay. His feathers tickle along her clavicle and if he were any other creature, this would be an aesthetic, something romantic, a little less dangerous. A little less like teeth against the pulse. She is nylon stockings gathered around ankles; she is one spike-heeled shoe dangling from curled toes. She is a mystic, a muttered and musical chant which sends away even his most earnest attempts to scar.
I am the oracle at Delphi.
The weight of his body angles her backward over the railing as he presses into her again, presses in and watches her face contort, feels her hands scrabble suddenly for the lifeline of his hair, his shoulders, the odd gathering of feathers at his neck. And when he brings his lips to hers, she laughs against the skin. "Or maybe," she says, and her brow rests against his, sweaty but cooled in the night, "maybe we are both the Sphinx this time through."
After a long pause, he answers, "Maybe," and Bianchi's lyrical laughter drifts through the garden.