Birthday fics for khursten: 2009 ♥ [2]
There's supposed to be more MGS in this set, but *GASP!* I can't think of anything suitably cool and porny for Big Boss x Ocelot at the moment. OTL
KATEKYO HITMAN REBORN! and METAL GEAR SOLID and all characters/ideas/concepts/places therein are not mine, although the writing certainly is.
Shameless anime/manga/game/book plugs aside, ENDTIMES and all concepts, ideas, terms, characters & places therein are mine and mine alone.
The titles of each of these pieces are taken from the prompts over at 31_days.
May 26 [2007]: Katekyo Hitman Reborn! Blood and love without the rhetoric.
After ten years, Sawada Tsunayoshi has come to realize that he defines Hibari Kyouya’s presence in his life by the older man’s absence: that ghost of something just at his shoulder, the cooling hollow of what used to be a body beside him in the morning, those sporadic reports penned down in a strict, violent hand. Of course, that is not to say that Hibari is never there - only that Hibari is the one who decides upon the when and the where, even if it is Tsuna who is the leader between them. A Guardian, this time, calling the shots. The only one with the right to do so.
Tsuna, then, learns to value moments much like this one, moments where Hibari’s not the invisible one floating somewhere beyond his peripheral vision but the living specter haunting his room in black Armani and violet silk - a creature with feral eyes and human hands. Every day presents a new lesson, and these ones teach him the art of folding: how to respond to a demanding kiss; how to yield to bruises, bites and the flick of another’s tongue on his skin.
They don’t fuck; they fight. Breaking things is Hibari’s singular way of being intimate, and Tsuna would not have his Cloud Guardian any other way.
December 14 [2007]: Katekyo Hitman Reborn! I love you in different languages.
One fine May 5 afternoon, some ten years into the future, Hibari Kyouya returns to his underground facility in Namimori to find his room full of pineapples and a naked Rokudo Mukuro stretched out on his bed with big, red ribbon tied around his waist, bow hanging with perfect decency over his crotch area.
“Happy birthday, Kyouya-kun!”
Mukuro promptly gets a tonfa to the face.
The following day, right after Chrome Dukuro comes in with a formal apology on her master’s behalf and an explanation for his behavior, Hibari takes the next flight out to Italy, steals a car once he lands and drives right over to the Cavallone Mansion, to kick the crap out of the idiot responsible for giving the Vongola Mist Guardian his brilliant idea of a birthday gift.
October 8 [2008]: Katekyo Hitman Reborn! Power play.
If you don’t know who Spanner is, then this fic is probably spoilerfic. orz
It’s only after Spanner discovers that it isn’t the X-Burner that gives him a hard-on but the thought of what Sawada Tsunayoshi’s ass might look like behind that baggy jumpsuit that he comes to fully appreciate the various functions of handcuffs. Protecting one’s self by restraining the other partner is one thing; using it to stretch the other out and force him to focus his attentions exactly where Spanner wanted him to was quite another.
“Ngh! W-wait-”
The protest ends in a trembling moan as Spanner slides one gloved hand down Tsuna’s chest, admiring the boy’s smooth, unblemished skin. Amazing, how small and perfect Japanese bodies were. He hadn’t though that those plastic models he used to connect in his youth were actually eerily accurate. He almost considers feeling the boy’s body up with his own bare palms, but based on the data he gathered from their last fuck, Tsuna is apparently turned on by the roughness and dirt of his work gloves. What he hasn’t been able to look into, however, is the effect the texture of his gloves might have on an unprotected, prepubescent cock. He tests that a moment afterward, and is rewarded by yet another interesting whimper and a little bit of squirming. Spanner looks up, tilts his head, cocks an eyebrow.
“You’re going to hurt yourself, thrashing around like that.”
“I really don’t like this,” Tsuna mumbles, blinking at Spanner through a fresh round of tears. He’s cute like that. Like the puppy his parents had him take care of back in the farm. The mechanic chuckles, and cups his test subject’s balls in one hand. The chains of the handcuffs pulling Tsuna’s wrists above his head and holding his ankles apart rattle.
Spanner knows that if Tsuna really wanted to, he could break free easily - all it took was a whole lot of resolve and a little bit of Dying Will Flame. That Tsuna isn’t setting himself on fire - that Tsuna’s writhing beneath him instead, panting as Spanner drags a thumb across his lips and into his mouth - lets Spanner know that in some twisted way, the Vongola Tenth is exactly where he wants to be.
December 03 [2008]: Metal Gear Solid. I appeal to your scratches and your tattered fur.
I figure that this one takes place between MGS2 and MGS4.
Otacon has come to define their relationship in bandages, antiseptic, the cloying scent of Marlboro Reds and taste of cheap alcohol. There are other things, of course, things that involve blood and rain, but that sort of stuff is too poetic for his tastes.
“Don’t… say a word.”
“Too late. I’m already talking.”
He didn’t used to be strong enough to pick Snake up off the floor outside of his apartment and drag him inside, but with the things they fought and the things they did in their free time, he figures that he shouldn’t be surprised that it’s getting easier and easier to play a broken soldier’s crutch.
“Here. Drink this. I’ll patch that up.”
“No need.”
“Stop acting tough.”
There are times when Snake’s more like a sullen schoolboy than a super soldier, and Otacon takes advantage of this by moving deftly, quickly and never taking no for an answer. That, and Otacon has always felt the need to study the man’s aging and ever injured body with his own eyes, to remember why he has to put up with expecting the unexpected 24/7. That, and a cold bottle of whiskey really helps take the edge off the pain.
“If FOXDIE doesn’t kill you first,” Otacon says, some two hours and a hell lot of stitches later, “you will.”
“Dying out on the field’s the only way I ought to go,” Snake replies, as he takes another swig from the bottle.
They don’t talk until sunrise, and it’s only because somebody has to pass the butter over the breakfast table.
February 21 [2009]: Endtimes: Shadowsong. Icarus also flew.
The title of this work is a line from “Falling and Flying”, a poem by Jack Gilbert.
By two in the morning Hikaru Shinta is already up and out behind the Hunter’s Ward of Zangyaku, waist-deep in the depths of Amida’s Passage, surrounded by the spirits of the dead and the shadows of things that were never really alive in the first place. He has just this hour to clear his head of the static, to stare the shadow of the Singer in the face and acknowledge the fact that it is watching him, it is waiting.
3 AM and the members of his inner circle are waiting for him in his room. Marrigan Crowe, fresh from the Hunt. Yue Rukia and his trusty little clipboard, surrounded by a thousand little virtual screens and their millions of concerns. Kaien, armed with his cane and a pipe full of hashish. Feranen, the weapon who wanted to be his shield. Kasumi Aoi, the mother he never really had. Satsuki, his wife.
Alistair Mordechai is conspicuously absent from the meeting. This is not a surprise.
They talk of the Hunt while Satsuki is dressing him - it’s a ritual he finds unnecessary, but he allows her to do so because she says that gazing upon his scars is a reminder of her place in his life. They talk of family business while he is at his favorite spot - the windowsill overlooking the sakura trees that Setsuna Shinta used to sing to. They talk of his mother while he is smoking because the taste of cloves and crushed mushi kills the bitterness before he can even be aware of the fact that it’s there. (It is easier, sometimes, to feign ignorance.)
He joins the elite oni-tsukai in their morning exercises between four and six, and eats with the juniors at breakfast. Kalika crawled into his bed the other night to tell him how much she missed him, and it is only proper to do one’s duty to one’s adopted little sister at least once a week.
The rest of his morning is devoted to Imperial Court duties, because the Emperor has taken to inviting him into the Inner Palace and because Hikaru likes to watch the advisers of the most powerful man in Japan squirm in his presence, knowing that their positions, as compared to his, are about as important as cockroaches in the greater scheme of things. There is an urgent call midway through brunch - a powerful renegade loose in the city. Hikaru decides to take care of it personally. The Singer is thirsty.
He returns to the Ward with a man’s blood soaking his clothes at two in the afternoon; he retires to his chambers and doesn’t bother showering or changing out. It is not because he is tired; it is only because the fight has left him satisfied, and the sooner he sleeps with a clearer head, the more time he will have to enjoy it. The door opens, and he knows that it is Alistair slipping into the room without having to look; the breadth of the arms that wrap themselves about his waist only confirms this. He falls asleep to the smell of nicotine and the sound of the older man’s breathing.
At five in the afternoon he opens his eyes, and the space beside him on the bed is empty. He showers quickly, chooses something comfortable to wear before stepping out of his quarters and into the sitting room, where his wife and children wait. They share a meal and a quiet hour before the return of the senior oni-tsukai from patrol signal that it is time for him to leave.
The hours of the evening are eaten away by the Hunt, by blood and the brilliance of blades, by the Song that hammers its way through his skull. He remembers little beyond sensation, and by the time he comes back to himself it is 11 PM and he is standing in the doorway of the room his children share, watching them sleep. He kisses each of them goodnight, cleans himself up a second time in order to join his wife. When he sleeps, he does not dream.
KATEKYO HITMAN REBORN! and METAL GEAR SOLID and all characters/ideas/concepts/places therein are not mine, although the writing certainly is.
Shameless anime/manga/game/book plugs aside, ENDTIMES and all concepts, ideas, terms, characters & places therein are mine and mine alone.
The titles of each of these pieces are taken from the prompts over at 31_days.
May 26 [2007]: Katekyo Hitman Reborn! Blood and love without the rhetoric.
After ten years, Sawada Tsunayoshi has come to realize that he defines Hibari Kyouya’s presence in his life by the older man’s absence: that ghost of something just at his shoulder, the cooling hollow of what used to be a body beside him in the morning, those sporadic reports penned down in a strict, violent hand. Of course, that is not to say that Hibari is never there - only that Hibari is the one who decides upon the when and the where, even if it is Tsuna who is the leader between them. A Guardian, this time, calling the shots. The only one with the right to do so.
Tsuna, then, learns to value moments much like this one, moments where Hibari’s not the invisible one floating somewhere beyond his peripheral vision but the living specter haunting his room in black Armani and violet silk - a creature with feral eyes and human hands. Every day presents a new lesson, and these ones teach him the art of folding: how to respond to a demanding kiss; how to yield to bruises, bites and the flick of another’s tongue on his skin.
They don’t fuck; they fight. Breaking things is Hibari’s singular way of being intimate, and Tsuna would not have his Cloud Guardian any other way.
December 14 [2007]: Katekyo Hitman Reborn! I love you in different languages.
One fine May 5 afternoon, some ten years into the future, Hibari Kyouya returns to his underground facility in Namimori to find his room full of pineapples and a naked Rokudo Mukuro stretched out on his bed with big, red ribbon tied around his waist, bow hanging with perfect decency over his crotch area.
“Happy birthday, Kyouya-kun!”
Mukuro promptly gets a tonfa to the face.
The following day, right after Chrome Dukuro comes in with a formal apology on her master’s behalf and an explanation for his behavior, Hibari takes the next flight out to Italy, steals a car once he lands and drives right over to the Cavallone Mansion, to kick the crap out of the idiot responsible for giving the Vongola Mist Guardian his brilliant idea of a birthday gift.
October 8 [2008]: Katekyo Hitman Reborn! Power play.
If you don’t know who Spanner is, then this fic is probably spoilerfic. orz
It’s only after Spanner discovers that it isn’t the X-Burner that gives him a hard-on but the thought of what Sawada Tsunayoshi’s ass might look like behind that baggy jumpsuit that he comes to fully appreciate the various functions of handcuffs. Protecting one’s self by restraining the other partner is one thing; using it to stretch the other out and force him to focus his attentions exactly where Spanner wanted him to was quite another.
“Ngh! W-wait-”
The protest ends in a trembling moan as Spanner slides one gloved hand down Tsuna’s chest, admiring the boy’s smooth, unblemished skin. Amazing, how small and perfect Japanese bodies were. He hadn’t though that those plastic models he used to connect in his youth were actually eerily accurate. He almost considers feeling the boy’s body up with his own bare palms, but based on the data he gathered from their last fuck, Tsuna is apparently turned on by the roughness and dirt of his work gloves. What he hasn’t been able to look into, however, is the effect the texture of his gloves might have on an unprotected, prepubescent cock. He tests that a moment afterward, and is rewarded by yet another interesting whimper and a little bit of squirming. Spanner looks up, tilts his head, cocks an eyebrow.
“You’re going to hurt yourself, thrashing around like that.”
“I really don’t like this,” Tsuna mumbles, blinking at Spanner through a fresh round of tears. He’s cute like that. Like the puppy his parents had him take care of back in the farm. The mechanic chuckles, and cups his test subject’s balls in one hand. The chains of the handcuffs pulling Tsuna’s wrists above his head and holding his ankles apart rattle.
Spanner knows that if Tsuna really wanted to, he could break free easily - all it took was a whole lot of resolve and a little bit of Dying Will Flame. That Tsuna isn’t setting himself on fire - that Tsuna’s writhing beneath him instead, panting as Spanner drags a thumb across his lips and into his mouth - lets Spanner know that in some twisted way, the Vongola Tenth is exactly where he wants to be.
December 03 [2008]: Metal Gear Solid. I appeal to your scratches and your tattered fur.
I figure that this one takes place between MGS2 and MGS4.
Otacon has come to define their relationship in bandages, antiseptic, the cloying scent of Marlboro Reds and taste of cheap alcohol. There are other things, of course, things that involve blood and rain, but that sort of stuff is too poetic for his tastes.
“Don’t… say a word.”
“Too late. I’m already talking.”
He didn’t used to be strong enough to pick Snake up off the floor outside of his apartment and drag him inside, but with the things they fought and the things they did in their free time, he figures that he shouldn’t be surprised that it’s getting easier and easier to play a broken soldier’s crutch.
“Here. Drink this. I’ll patch that up.”
“No need.”
“Stop acting tough.”
There are times when Snake’s more like a sullen schoolboy than a super soldier, and Otacon takes advantage of this by moving deftly, quickly and never taking no for an answer. That, and Otacon has always felt the need to study the man’s aging and ever injured body with his own eyes, to remember why he has to put up with expecting the unexpected 24/7. That, and a cold bottle of whiskey really helps take the edge off the pain.
“If FOXDIE doesn’t kill you first,” Otacon says, some two hours and a hell lot of stitches later, “you will.”
“Dying out on the field’s the only way I ought to go,” Snake replies, as he takes another swig from the bottle.
They don’t talk until sunrise, and it’s only because somebody has to pass the butter over the breakfast table.
February 21 [2009]: Endtimes: Shadowsong. Icarus also flew.
The title of this work is a line from “Falling and Flying”, a poem by Jack Gilbert.
By two in the morning Hikaru Shinta is already up and out behind the Hunter’s Ward of Zangyaku, waist-deep in the depths of Amida’s Passage, surrounded by the spirits of the dead and the shadows of things that were never really alive in the first place. He has just this hour to clear his head of the static, to stare the shadow of the Singer in the face and acknowledge the fact that it is watching him, it is waiting.
3 AM and the members of his inner circle are waiting for him in his room. Marrigan Crowe, fresh from the Hunt. Yue Rukia and his trusty little clipboard, surrounded by a thousand little virtual screens and their millions of concerns. Kaien, armed with his cane and a pipe full of hashish. Feranen, the weapon who wanted to be his shield. Kasumi Aoi, the mother he never really had. Satsuki, his wife.
Alistair Mordechai is conspicuously absent from the meeting. This is not a surprise.
They talk of the Hunt while Satsuki is dressing him - it’s a ritual he finds unnecessary, but he allows her to do so because she says that gazing upon his scars is a reminder of her place in his life. They talk of family business while he is at his favorite spot - the windowsill overlooking the sakura trees that Setsuna Shinta used to sing to. They talk of his mother while he is smoking because the taste of cloves and crushed mushi kills the bitterness before he can even be aware of the fact that it’s there. (It is easier, sometimes, to feign ignorance.)
He joins the elite oni-tsukai in their morning exercises between four and six, and eats with the juniors at breakfast. Kalika crawled into his bed the other night to tell him how much she missed him, and it is only proper to do one’s duty to one’s adopted little sister at least once a week.
The rest of his morning is devoted to Imperial Court duties, because the Emperor has taken to inviting him into the Inner Palace and because Hikaru likes to watch the advisers of the most powerful man in Japan squirm in his presence, knowing that their positions, as compared to his, are about as important as cockroaches in the greater scheme of things. There is an urgent call midway through brunch - a powerful renegade loose in the city. Hikaru decides to take care of it personally. The Singer is thirsty.
He returns to the Ward with a man’s blood soaking his clothes at two in the afternoon; he retires to his chambers and doesn’t bother showering or changing out. It is not because he is tired; it is only because the fight has left him satisfied, and the sooner he sleeps with a clearer head, the more time he will have to enjoy it. The door opens, and he knows that it is Alistair slipping into the room without having to look; the breadth of the arms that wrap themselves about his waist only confirms this. He falls asleep to the smell of nicotine and the sound of the older man’s breathing.
At five in the afternoon he opens his eyes, and the space beside him on the bed is empty. He showers quickly, chooses something comfortable to wear before stepping out of his quarters and into the sitting room, where his wife and children wait. They share a meal and a quiet hour before the return of the senior oni-tsukai from patrol signal that it is time for him to leave.
The hours of the evening are eaten away by the Hunt, by blood and the brilliance of blades, by the Song that hammers its way through his skull. He remembers little beyond sensation, and by the time he comes back to himself it is 11 PM and he is standing in the doorway of the room his children share, watching them sleep. He kisses each of them goodnight, cleans himself up a second time in order to join his wife. When he sleeps, he does not dream.