Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/5054647.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Katekyou_Hitman_Reborn!, Psycho-Pass
  Relationship:
      Superbi_Squalo/Xanxus
  Character:
      Superbi_Squalo, Xanxus_(Reborn), Dino_(Reborn)
  Additional Tags:
      Developing_Relationship, Unhealthy_Relationships, Violent_Sex, Sadism,
      Masochism, Hair-pulling, Rough_Sex, Topping_from_the_Bottom, Verbal
      Abuse, Physical_Abuse, Dubious_Consent, Crossovers_&_Fandom_Fusions, Dom/
      sub_Undertones, Blood, Bruises, Biting, Guns
  Series:
      Part 2 of Coefficients
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-11-16 Completed: 2015-12-07 Chapters: 8/8 Words: 11860
****** Blood in the Waves ******
by tastewithouttalent
Summary
     "Squalo wishes that he could hold onto the anger longer. It's
     warming, soars through him like fire and electricity at once, like
     his sleeping blood is coming alive to flash and flare and burn, a
     phoenix turning itself to smoke too soon." Squalo spends his life on
     the fringes of the System without a reason to rebel. When he's
     seventeen, he finds his reason.
***** Follow *****
There’s a hierarchy of sorts among the System’s edge cases. Squalo learns it
well over the years of adolescence, between medication he never takes and the
therapy sessions he never attends; there’s a game to play, a balance between
mental health and bragging rights, the risk of how long you can hover at the
line between double digits and triple, how long you’ll let yourself linger in
the hundreds before downing the next dose of medication. Some people brag about
it, Squalo knows; he hears them, on the peripheries of his awareness, kids who
say they were kept home three days straight and walked to their sessions by the
Bureau’s robotic assistants, gangs who claim to have hid from the sensors for
hours at a go before lowering their Hues just enough to pass the Dominators
when the Bureau finally caught up to them. Squalo only ever hears them
secondhand, whispers that die nameless as he draws into earshot, because no one
competes with him. He has a reputation, won through violent bursts of fights
that leave him with bruised knuckles and a Hue purged clean by the sudden rush
of viciousness, until even the Bureau’s scanners can’t pick him up as anything
other than perfectly, purely stable, until the Dominators turn themselves into
the scarlet mark of acceptance even as the frightened silence spreads in waves
over a crowd too afraid to speak against him.
Squalo wishes that he could hold onto it longer. The anger is warming, soars
through him like fire and electricity at once, like his sleeping blood is
coming alive to flash and flare and burn, a phoenix that turns itself to smoke
too soon. Without it he’s cold, ice and chill and dull, nothing like bright
enough to show up on the System’s sensors. It’s like sleepwalking, like
fumbling through existence without a compass to guide him, reaching for
something -- anything -- to guide his forward motion.
He’s seventeen when he finds it.
He’s two days after his last lurching moment of full existence, one of the
bright spots in his life that feel farther and farther away with each gap
before the next one. The lulls feel endless, exhaustingly infinite, and he’s
halfway to home and going slower with each step when a figure rounds the corner
of a block ahead of him, stepping out of the shadows and into the afternoon
sunlight until the illumination clarifies on dark hair, broad shoulders, a coat
that looks too heavy for the lingering heat in the air. Squalo blinks, his
steady forward motion halted; and the person turns to stare at him, eyes
flashing dark and hot with rage.
“What are you looking at?” the man asks, his voice so low Squalo can feel it
rumble in the pavement under his feet, can feel it lance up into the gaps
between his veins to spark him into life. He can see the crimson behind the
other’s dark eyes even at this distance, the same red as in the Dominators too
stupid to recognize Squalo as what he is turned into something pure and vicious
and alive, heat enough to tear through him and leave him scoured-clean and
hollow.
The stranger doesn’t look away. He keeps staring, eyes dark and expression
clear of interest or alarm or anything at all except for that hate, objective
and hot and pure, Squalo’s never seen anything so condensed before. Squalo’s
heart is thudding in his chest, the world going brighter by the moment like
flames are catching at the dry edges of his existence, and he would swear he
can feel his Coefficient climbing higher like it’s responding to the burn of
those eyes.
“Who are you?” Squalo asks, finally, his voice coming out loud as a shout over
the gap between them.
The other’s expression doesn’t change. There’s no narrowing of his eyes, no
softening of his mouth; he just keeps watching, shoulders hunched forward into
the threat of relaxation that Squalo’s never seen in anyone else, has barely
even felt in himself. “Xanxus,” the man says, grating the hard consonants into
gravel in his throat, and then there’s a high electronic whine, the flaring
blue of a sensor locking into place.
“Please remain stationary,” a woman’s overly-gentle voice echoes along the
street. “Representatives from th--”
Squalo didn’t see the gun in the man’s hand. Xanxus just moves, his arm
extending up and out, and then there’s a burst of sound, the flare of a
contained explosion as he fires, and the speaker crackles itself to silence,
the electronics too thoroughly shattered by fast-moving metal to continue their
familiar lilt. Xanxus grunts, a wordless note of satisfaction, and looks back
at Squalo as he lowers the gun back to be lost in the shadowy disguise of his
coat.
“You should go,” Squalo growls, even though he knows this is pointless
information, probably unnecessary and certainly unwanted. “The Bureau is stupid
but they’re fast enough to be here in a few minutes.”
Xanxus huffs, a sound that might be intended as a laugh and just sounds
skeptical. “Don’t tell me what to do, scum,” he says, but then he’s moving
after all, drawing closer as he strides down the street with a gait heavy with
grace.
“Hey,” Squalo says, turning to track Xanxus as the other man moves past him.
“Where are you going? There are more Scanners down that way.”
A pause, a dark head turning to glare at him. Xanxus’s hair catches in front of
his eyes, shadows the crimson into almost-black. “You think I care?”
Squalo doesn’t think. His blood is hot, flying through his veins faster than it
ever has before, and he knows that his Coefficient is climbing, can feel the
lulling effect of routine swept away like dust by a storm, leaving him
shocking, startlingly alive, and what he says is, “I’m following you,” a
statement rather than a question.
“I don’t care,” Xanxus says again, a growl of sound carrying more information
in its tone than in its meaning, and keeps walking.
Squalo follows him.
***** Indecent *****
The building Squalo follows Xanxus to is old, crumbling itself into disrepair
just outside the border of the Scanners in the city center. Squalo isn’t sure
what it was before; a factory, maybe, an apartment complex perhaps, something
huge and sprawling from the early days, before the city began building itself
up into narrow spires instead of out into the available space around it. What
it looks like now is a ruined castle, collapsed outer walls framing an interior
structure in somewhat better repair, even if the glass in the windows is long-
since shattered into fragments that sparkle in the afternoon sunlight.
“This way,” Xanxus growls as he leads the way down a hallway and moves into the
shadowy center of the space. It’s the first words he’s spoken to Squalo since
he turned his back on the other; his voice purrs itself into resonance,
expanding to fill the space like he’s leaving his prints on the walls. It makes
Squalo’s blood run hot but he doesn’t say anything, just keeps following Xanxus
at such a close stride he would kick the other’s dark boots if Xanxus slowed
his pace at all.
He doesn’t. He keeps the steady rhythm of his stride through the mostly-intact
hallways, past open doors with a various array of furniture in them; Squalo
glances but doesn’t linger, more interested in following the breadth of
Xanxus’s shoulders to wherever their end-goal is. It’s a room, as it turns out,
larger by far than the others Squalo has seen; the electric lighting that must
have been here is gone, shattered or torn out long hence, but there are candles
set on most of the available surfaces, wax melted down to stick them to a table
or a counter or a metal holder, the drips cooled against the smooth floor
underfoot. Xanxus strides across the floor to a chair by the wall, the frame of
it heavy and glowing with the promise of expense; Squalo can’t imagine where he
got it or how it ended up in this place somewhere between decadence and
desolation. When Xanxus turns to slouch against the wood, he makes it look a
throne.
“Scum,” he says, words vibrating in his throat to set flame to the very marrow
of Squalo’s bones, the resonance a magnet drawing on the iron in his blood.
“What do you want?”
Squalo scowls, confusion turning itself into irritation, anger coming easy on
the fire in his veins. “Weren’t you listening?” he says, hands curling
themselves into tension at his sides. “I’m going to follow you.”
“I don’t need you,” Xanxus says. He braces an elbow at the arm of the chair,
leans sideways to rest his head against the support. He looks bored, his
expression slack with disinterest except for his eyes: those are dark, catching
into shades of crimson when the light hits them, flaring into flame for a
moment before cooling back to coals. “Make a toy of yourself to someone else.”
Squalo’s cheeks go hot, temper surging through him. “I’m not here to be a toy,”
he spits. “I’m here to be a weapon.”
“You said you want to follow me,” Xanxus says, level and raw and deadly. “If I
say you’re a toy that’s what you are, scum.”
Squalo opens his mouth to respond, to snap some further protest, and Xanxus
goes on, talking over him without a trace of even noticing his intent to speak.
“Or you can get out.” He slides farther down in his chair, his knees spreading
out into the space; he looks enormous, larger than life, like his casual
presence is expanding to crush out Squalo’s existence in the room. “Go back to
the damn city.”
“The city can go to hell,” Squalo spits. “I never belonged there in the first
place.”
“I don’t care about where you belong,” Xanxus says, his voice dipping into
something low and thrumming with an unspoken threat. Squalo can feel his spine
prickle with the awareness, the danger in the air crushing against him and
spiking his heartbeat faster, forcing his breathing into a rush in his chest.
“If you want to follow me you do what I tell you to do.”
Squalo can feel the growl start in his chest and rumble against the inside of
his ribs to come spilling past his lips, the sound of frustration made
completely futile by his own decision. In another situation, for another
person, it would be protest, it would be rejection; but here, in the ruins of
what feels like a castle, in front of a man he barely knows, it tastes like
surrender on his lips.
“I can be more than a toy,” Squalo finally manages, wrapping the words around
the broken-glass irritation of his desperate, illogical need to be here, to
feel the fire of real life in his veins. “I’ll burn the city to the ground for
you.”
Xanxus unfolds from his chair, his limbs collecting themselves back into that
feline grace as he comes across the floor. Squalo doesn’t flinch away when
Xanxus steps into his personal space, and if he hisses at the too-tight grab of
a hand against the back of his neck he doesn’t offer any more protest than
that. His hands, ever before his preferred instruments of violence, stay slack
at his sides, even the initial tension of anticipation fallen loose with the
totality of his submission.
“Turn around,” Xanxus says, and Squalo does, turns his back on the shadows in
those eyes and the lingering frown at that mouth. Xanxus pushes him, hard,
steering him forward by the uncomfortable hold he maintains at Squalo’s neck,
and Squalo stumbles across the room, shoved into movement towards one of the
other few pieces of furniture, a couch as ostentatiously opulent as the chair
in the corner. Xanxus pushes him around to the back, his hand forcing Squalo
down, and Squalo has two choices: either drop to his knees against the floor or
fold at the hips to tip himself forward over the back of the couch like an
offering.
He chooses the latter. It’s easier to catch his balance with his hands against
the back of the couch, feels like less of a submission to keep on his feet, and
it seems to be enough to satisfy whatever it is Xanxus wants of him. The hold
at his neck lifts away, Xanxus shifts the position of his feet, and Squalo has
a quick flush of premonition before Xanxus’s hands are back on him, shoving the
edge of his shirt up to bare an inch of skin above the top edge of his pants.
“I’m not just a toy,” Squalo says to the wine-red of the couch, staring at the
rich color of the fabric while Xanxus’s hands find the front of his jeans, push
the button open and drag the fly down with a casual disregard that is still
stunningly efficient. Squalo takes a breath, swallows back the heat in his
throat; everything feels hazy, impossible, like this might be a hallucination
or an overly vivid dream, like he might wake up back in the dim-light space of
his bland apartment, trapped in the routine of a pointless life, forced into an
existence too small for what he could be, what he needs to be. His body
prickles with the fear of that, the first fright he’s felt since he turned on
the sidewalk to trail Xanxus’s shadow, and he must shudder because Xanxus
growls behind him, grabs at his hip to brace him while his other hand dips
under the edge of Squalo’s clothing and shoves down against bare skin.
“I can be your weapon,” Squalo says, letting the words purr into a promise in
his throat, and Xanxus’s touch pushes over his half-hard cock, calls a surge of
heat to his body in immediate, reflexive response. Squalo hisses, hips canting
forward to buck against Xanxus’s fingertips, and Xanxus hums something
meaningless but for the satisfaction in the sound, pulls his hand sideways and
away so he can shove Squalo’s jeans off his hips and halfway down his thighs
instead. The air in the room is warm but Squalo’s skin is hotter, radiant; he
feels like he’s glowing as Xanxus’s hand fits between his thighs to force his
stance wider, to spread his feet apart and balance his position low against the
back of the couch.
“Who said I needed a weapon?” Xanxus asks from behind him. The hold at Squalo’s
hip vanishes, fingers tangling into his hair instead; when Xanxus yanks
Squalo’s head tilts back in instinctive desire to ease the pain at his scalp,
his throat drawing taut on whatever answer he might have made. His back arches
into a curve, his body straining on the tension, and he’s hard against the back
of the couch, the unstated promise of Xanxus standing behind him enough to set
all his body on fire. “I never asked you to follow me.” There’s a wet sound,
slick and messy; it takes Squalo a moment to place it, to identify the catch of
moisture as fingers slide past lips, as skin going wet as it presses against a
tongue.
“I don’t need permission,” Squalo spits, his tone raw and rough and all out of
keeping with the tension in his chest, with the anxiety for friction starting
to thrum through his thighs and puddle low in his stomach. “It doesn’t matter
if you don’t want me, I’d follow you anyway.”
“Yeah?” Xanxus says. His hold on Squalo’s hair shifts, steadies, and there are
fingers sliding spit-slick against the other’s entrance, threatening the
intrusion Squalo’s heart is racing for. “You’re not very obedient, scum.”
“Fuck you,” Squalo says, working his fingers against the back of the couch into
a better hold, a better angle to brace himself against the push that’s coming.
“You don’t have anyone else following you.”
Xanxus doesn’t answer. There might be a growl, might be a hum of agreement;
Squalo’s not sure and doesn’t have time to decide which before Xanxus pushes
against him to force a pair of slick-warm fingers inside him. Squalo tenses
against the burst of friction, a shout of response spilling from his throat,
but Xanxus’s touch just dips deeper inside him, stretching him open in spite of
the shudder of reaction running through his legs and cramping in his shoulders.
“Better no one than someone useless,” Xanxus says, his words sounding distant
and contemplative as he twists his fingers and pushes his touch in against the
inside of Squalo’s body. Squalo’s choking for air, can’t find the calm to take
in a full breath, and his heart is hammering in his chest and he’s hot and
desperate and furious, arousal and rage spilling into an incoherent tangle in
his blood.
“I’m not useless,” he insists as Xanxus draws his hand back, draws the stretch
of his touch away before he starts to slide back forward. Squalo braces himself
against the edge of the couch, shoves hard backwards to meet Xanxus’s motion,
and for a moment his words evaporate into a groan of sensation as every nerve
ending in him fires at once.
“I’ll do anything,” he says as Xanxus shoves him forward with the weight of his
hips, starts to fuck him open with his fingers in earnest as Squalo’s body
eases around his touch. “I’ll fight, I’ll kill, whatever you want, I’ll make
the streets run red with blood for you.”
“You think you can,” Xanxus says, a question or a taunt or both, and Squalo
groans a retort and satisfaction at the same time as Xanxus’s fingers thrust
into him hard enough to white out his vision for a moment.
“I can do anything,” he says, and it’s reckless and it’s stupid and he doesn’t
care, it all tastes like absolute sincerity. In this moment he could do
anything, with fire in his body in place of blood. “I could take down the
entire Bureau, dismantle the System, make the city yours like it should be.”
“I never said I wanted the city,” Xanxus growls. His fingers angle wider, draw
another hiss from Squalo’s throat.
“Fine,” Squalo manages towards the dim-lit ceiling that’s all he can see with
the way Xanxus is tilting his head back. “We could destroy the city instead.
Whatever you want, I’ll get it for you.”
“Shut up, scum,” Xanxus says. His hand slides free, leaving Squalo empty and
chill and aching, and then his hold on the other’s hair goes too. Squalo is
left to tilt his head forward and gasp for air over the sound of Xanxus undoing
his pants behind him. “You talk too damn much.”
“Fuck off,” Squalo says, trying to resist the urge to rock backwards, trying
not to think about the sound of a metal zipper clicking over itself, trying to
ignore to the slick sound of Xanxus licking over his palm. There’s a rustle of
fabric, a hum of expectation, and Xanxus’s hand is back at Squalo’s hip,
pinning him against the back of the couch while slick heat drags over Squalo’s
skin, lines up against him to frame the outline of a promise. Squalo chokes on
a breath, his cock flushing aching and hard with anticipation, and Xanxus
pushes forward into him, the width of his cock stretching past the edge of
comfort and into a jolting ache all up Squalo’s spine. Squalo jerks, arches
himself into a choked-off burst of sound, and Xanxus purrs, rumbling
satisfaction as his hips thrust forward and closer.
“Better,” Xanxus says, as if Squalo’s sudden incoherence is intentional and not
wholly reflexive, and draws back to slide in again, deeper this time. Squalo
can feel the edge of Xanxus’s pants catching against his skin, glancing
friction to complement the burn of heat inside him, the fire rippling through
his blood to take over his body. His head is dipped down, dragging under its
own weight; after a moment he manages to free his white-knuckled grip on the
edge of the couch to close his fingers around the ache in his own cock, but his
movements are clumsy and jerky, as if he’s trying to coordinate someone else’s
action instead of his own. It doesn’t really matter anyway; the pressure is
enough, the awkward friction urging sensation over his skin in harmony with
Xanxus’s rough movements inside him, and Squalo doesn’t recognize the broken-
open sounds he’s making and he can’t stop, they’re tearing out of him in time
with every inhale he musters.
Xanxus reaches out to tangle his fingers into Squalo’s hair. For a moment he
has a grasp, a tight enough fist to use as a handle to drag the other back;
then his hand slips, the strands unwinding themselves under the force. Xanxus
makes a sound, a growl of anger this time, and his fingers land at the back of
Squalo’s neck instead, printing bruises over the top of the other’s spine as he
pulls.
“Your hair’s too short,” Xanxus says, the words fire in the air.
“I’ll grow it out,” Squalo says, too-fast and too-desperate but he can’t think
straight, his body is arching taut and he can’t feel the tips of his fingers
for the heat collecting in his chest, like all his attention is zeroing in on
the friction turning him into a flame and ignoring the rest. “I won’t cut it
until you own the city, until you own Japan.”
It takes him a moment to identify the sound humming in the air as a laugh. It
sounds like a growl, at first, then like an earthquake shuddering through the
floor under them. It’s only when Xanxus fucks into him with a sudden thrust
hard enough to skid Squalo forward over the edge of the couch that he realizes
it’s amusement in the other’s throat, the grate of delight spilling itself into
the air.
“Scum,” he says again, but it sounds amused, now, lacking the edge of disdain
it started out with. He’s moving faster, now, setting a pace too quick for
Squalo to keep up with; Squalo can’t breathe, can’t find it in him to care
about petty things like oxygen. “What’s your name?”
Squalo sucks in a lungful of air, fighting for coherency around the white haze
settling over his vision and swamping the corners of his awareness. “Squalo.”
“Squalo,” Xanxus repeats, judgment harsh on the sound. “What the hell kind of a
name is that?”
“Italian,” Squalo says, his voice detaching from his awareness, the drag of his
hand over himself going distant and unthinking. “It means shark.”
Xanxus laughs again. Squalo can feel the vibration purr up the whole length of
his spine, like the sound is being carried on the forward thrust of Xanxus’s
hips. “Shark,” he says. “I like that,” and when he pushes forward again Squalo
jerks, and shouts, and comes in a rush over his desperate-tight hold on
himself. The heat jolts through him, waves of satisfaction pulsing sticky and
hot against his fingers, and Xanxus grunts a noise of incoherent reaction over
him, rocks forward in one more long stroke before he rumbles a sigh and goes
still, the tension of expectation spilling itself into languid shudders Squalo
imagines he can feel all through his bones and blood.
There’s a moment of silence, after, nothing but the sound of heavy breathing
hanging in the air between them. Even when Xanxus takes a breath it’s only to
sigh satisfaction before he pushes Squalo forward and lets his cock slide free
of the other’s body.
“Shitty shark,” he says, his hand trailing heat against the curve of Squalo’s
spine before he draws back. Squalo can hear the sound of fabric shifting as
Xanxus pulls his clothes back into place, footsteps as he moves back across the
floor; when he looks up Xanxus is settling back into his chair, resuming the
same loose-limbed sprawl he had originally and fixing his steady stare on
Squalo still half-dressed over the back of the couch.
It takes Squalo a few minutes to straighten himself to upright, to pull his
clothes back over sticky-flushed skin and drag himself back to some kind of
decency, and Xanxus doesn’t look away for any of it.
***** Petty *****
“Boss!”
Squalo’s shout is loud, at a volume sufficient to echo off adjacent buildings
if he were outside and hitting an ear-piercing level in the semi-enclosed space
of the hideout. It’s more than enough to merit some kind of a response, a growl
or an answering yell, but the silence he gets in return is no surprise, no more
than he has learned to expect over the past few months.
It’s not like it’s a problem. Squalo knows where Xanxus is, where
Xanxus always is; the shout is more to fire his blood into flame, to urge his
energy high and sparking until when he throws open the door to Xanxus’s room
he’s itching all through his blood for the fight he’d never pick with Xanxus
directly.
“Hey,” Squalo growls across the room as Xanxus lifts his chin minimally to
stare at him with eyes the color of blood and fire. “I’ve been calling for
you.” He lets the door slam itself shut behind him, strides into the room with
long steps that feel as much like the prelude to a fight as the aggression in
his voice. “I have news to report.”
Xanxus doesn’t answer. Xanxus never answers, never does anything more than
stare at him with his eyes cast into shadows and his mouth an unreadable line.
Squalo keeps talking anyway.
“There’s another pair of recruits that look promising,” he says, coming in too
close alongside the arm of Xanxus’s chair, where he’s near enough to reach out
and touch Xanxus’s sleeve or shoulder if he wanted to. “They’re both a pain in
the ass to work with but they seem effective. Say they’ve taken out a few of
the Bureau members on their own before they heard we were looking for people
like them and came to check us out.” Squalo moves around to the front of
Xanxus’s chair, pacing with the nervous energy that has become second nature to
him, like the electricity in his blood has settled into the level of instinct,
and still speaking aloud as much to himself as for Xanxus’s benefit. “Most of
the refugees are just looking for a roof over their heads,” he scoffs, waving a
hand to sweep aside the useless masses they have to deal with in ever-
increasing numbers. “But these two might have some potential. We need to be
able to take down any group from the Bureau we run into on trips into the
city.”
Xanxus’s movement comes with no warning at all. Squalo can only see him in his
periphery; with the angle of his vision and the candle-light dim illumination
in the room, the sudden shift of Xanxus’s arm swinging up and towards him comes
too quickly for him to respond. The impact slams against his back, knocks him
stumbling forward to his knees, and then Xanxus is moving, leaning forward in
his chair to loom his shadow over Squalo’s features when he looks up with a
hiss of reflexive protest.
“Shitty shark,” Xanxus growls, that low note of resonance that sparks fire
through Squalo’s blood, and his arm swings back around, the back of his hand
connecting with the side of Squalo’s face with a crack. The impact is
startling, the burst of pain so unexpected Squalo’s vision whites out for a
moment of reaction, and by the time he can see again Xanxus’s hand is in his
hair, his fingers knotting into a fist in the shoulder-length strands. “You
promised me the city.”
“I will--” Squalo starts, but Xanxus ignores him, pulls back on his hair until
his neck is strained backwards, until he can feel the ache of hurt spreading
all across his scalp like Xanxus’s touch has turned his skin to fire.
“Don’t waste my time with petty details.” Xanxus is leaning forward, now, the
threat of his approach enough to tilt Squalo’s shoulders down, to arch his back
in a reflexive attempt to back away from the darkness in Xanxus’s eyes, from
the ever-present rage written into the set of his jaw. “All I want to know
is when.”
“Soon,” Squalo says. Xanxus is leaning in closer; all Squalo can see of his
face is the dark of his hair and the glitter of his eyes in the darkness. His
throat is going hot under the spill of Xanxus’s breathing over his skin.
“Stupid boss, I can’t take over the city in a few weeks.”
“Don’t waste my time,” Xanxus says. His fingers tighten, his mouth lowers; lips
skim Squalo’s throat to drag heat against his skin. Squalo can feel a groan
pool liquid on his tongue, slide hot past his lips as Xanxus growls something
against his throat that starts out as irritation and turns itself inside-out
into a purr by the end.
“Damn you,” Squalo says to the ceiling, the words twisting themselves around
the sound of another groan as Xanxus’s teeth catch at his collarbone and bite
bruises and the edge of blood into his skin. “You shitty boss.”
They both hear the obedience under the words.
***** Promises *****
“Tell me,” Xanxus orders from the end of the bed. His voice is dark, rough and
as shadowed as the corners of the night-dim room, offering the suggestion of
illumination without any sincerity. “You said you had a plan.”
“Stupid boss,” Squalo growls, fingers tightening into fists on the sheets under
him. He’s on his hands and knees, head tipped down so he can’t see Xanxus’s
expression; his bare skin prickles chill in the air, the awareness of his own
exposure as much part of the sensation as the actual temperature of the room
around him. “I told you already.”
“Shut up,” Xanxus says. “I want to hear it now. Tell me.” Fingers wrap into
Squalo’s hair, tangle into knots that Squalo will have to work out on his own
later; when Xanxus pushes Squalo’s head dips forward, his neck curving under a
force strong enough to make him hiss in instinctive pain. “You promised me the
city.”
“I can give you the Bureau,” Squalo says, staring at the sheets under him, at
the dark of the fabric contrasting with the pale of his legs. “They’ve been
tracking us for weeks, they’ll throw the entire force at us if we come at them
all at once.”
“Scum,” Xanxus says, the word dipping so low and so dark it sounds almost like
a purr, almost like affection. His fingers shift, his grip settling around the
back of Squalo’s head to pin him in place. When he pushes Squalo tips forward,
has to give up on the brace of his locked-out elbows to slide down to lean
against his forearms instead. “How are we supposed to fight them?”
“Our team is talented,” Squalo says, the irritated heat of his words catching
on the sheets under him instead of igniting the air. Xanxus’s other hand is
closing against his knee and pushing his stance open; his weight slips against
the expensive-slick sheets, his legs spreading wider than is comfortable. He
can feel the strain up against the inside of his thighs, the ache unwinding
itself into his hips. “The core group is of far better quality than the shitty
Bureau recruits fresh out of high school.”
“The core group.” Xanxus’s hand drags up Squalo’s leg, trails a path of heat
before it pulls away. There’s silence for a moment, the sound of Xanxus sucking
his fingers into wet the only noise; then his touch is back, scorching Squalo
into a shudder of anticipation as rough fingertips drag against his skin. “A
handful of runaways against the entire System.”
“The System is rotten, they’re useless,” Squalo insists, and Xanxus’s fingers
push into him, forcing him open and jarring air from his lungs into a groan.
“Fuck.”
Xanxus’s hand at Squalo’s head shoves down, forces his face against the sheets.
“Shut up.” He holds Squalo still while he thrusts deeper, until Squalo can feel
the whole length of Xanxus’s fingers inside him; it’s only then that he lets
the pressure go, gives Squalo enough leeway to lift his head and gasp a
shuddering breath of air to fill overheated lungs.
“We can take them,” Squalo manages, fighting for composure as Xanxus’s touch
draws back and slides forward again to spark his vision white and hazy. “The
main group can make it to the offices, we can use the rest to hold off any
counterattack while we take out the leaders.” Xanxus’s hand shifts, presses in
against him; Squalo’s throat closes up against a choking moan, his cock jumping
into heat in the periphery of his vision. His blood feels like steam. “We...we
can do it, we’ll take the Bureau and we’ll take the city too.”
“The city,” Xanxus repeats, the sincerity of Squalo’s words turning to mockery
on his tongue. His fingers draw back, his hand at the other’s head lifts away.
Squalo takes a breath, feels the burn in his spread-wide legs, the tremor of
anticipation running up his thighs and down his spine. He must be visibly
trembling, there’s no way Xanxus can’t see the shake running across his
shoulders, but the other offers no comment; his hands are bracing against
Squalo’s ass instead, thumbs digging into the soft skin to spread him open for
the other’s view. “I don’t want this shitty city.” His cock catches at Squalo’s
entrance, the head slipping on the slick of pre-come for a moment; then he’s
thrusting forward, the motion stretching Squalo open, and Squalo’s groaning
against the sheets, his head dropping down to press against the mattress of his
own accord, this time.
“That’s fine,” he says against the dark of the blankets as the friction
overwhelms him, the burn enough to be pain if he could remember how to tell the
difference between pleasure and hurt. “You can destroy it if you want, once
it’s yours you can do what you want with it.” Xanxus draws back, presses
forward again, deeper this time, and it’s heat made words that topples from
Squalo’s mouth, a promise he didn’t intend pushed out of him by Xanxus’s
friction working him warm from the inside out. “I’ll give you the country.”
“Scum,” Xanxus says, but he’s purring now, or Squalo thinks he is; it’s hard to
tell as the other man finds a rhythm to the thrust of his hips, a slow, heavy
motion that feels inexorable, that pushes heat so deep inside Squalo he can
feel it surging into his lungs with every gasping inhale. “What makes you think
you can?”
“It’s for you,” Squalo says, bracing his hand against the bed to steady himself
against Xanxus’s languid movement into him. “Whatever it takes, I’ll do it for
you.”
“Shitty shark” and Xanxus is pleased, now, Squalo can hear the satisfaction on
his tongue even before one of the hands on him eases and draws away to drag
around his hip instead. Xanxus’s fingers closing on his cock are almost too
rough, the pressure too much to parse as pleasure for the first jolt of
sensation, but it doesn’t matter; it’s the heat Squalo’s after more than
physical satisfaction anyway, and he has enough of that to incinerate him.
“Dedicating yourself to other people is stupid.”
“I don’t care,” Squalo says around the burn sweeping his blood, the friction
taking over the motion of his tongue. If he tilts his chin down he can see
Xanxus’s fingers on him, can watch the casual grip of the other’s hand stroking
up over the flushed weight of his cock. “Stupid boss, I don’t care.”
“Scum,” Xanxus growls, affection weird and electric in the air, and his fingers
twist up around Squalo’s cock, drag sensation up along the length of it and
press overwhelming heat against the head. Squalo’s spine arches, his lungs
swelling on a gasp of air he didn’t intend, and when Xanxus jerks over him
again he comes in a sudden convulsive rush, his body arching itself into the
taut strain of relief as his vision goes white, as his breathing burns itself
into a stuttered groan of satisfaction on his lips. It’s too much, the heat and
the friction and the waves of sensation, and Xanxus isn’t stopping, the slide
of his cock is driving electricity into Squalo’s blood even when he’s fallen
limp and trembling with exhausted relief against the bed.
“Fuck,” Squalo gasps, his heart pounding into overdrive in his chest, his lungs
working themselves into hyperventilation as the friction turns itself over,
twists from pleasure to the pain of too-much and back again, his nerve endings
uncertain how to react to the heat when they’re still raw and aching from the
first rush of sensation. “Fuck.”
“Shut up,” Xanxus says again, but he sounds distracted, more like the demand is
habitual than sincere, and he’s moving faster, his strokes taking on the harder
rhythm that he favors for himself rather than the slower pace that brings
Squalo shuddering over the edge quickest. Squalo’s hand is knotted on the
sheets, his fingers cramping with the force of his hold, and every inhale is
fire in his throat, every heartbeat surges heat into his veins; he thinks he’s
going hard again, his blood making an effort to push him back to arousal, but
Xanxus is letting him go, is reaching up for his head again instead of his
cock. Fingers touch his hair, the stick of Squalo’s come on Xanxus’s skin
catching the tangled strands, and then Xanxus is pushing him down again, the
force of his fingers tight against Squalo’s skull enough to shove the other
down against the suffocating texture of the sheets.
Squalo can’t see, can’t breathe, can’t think straight; there’s just heat, fire
so intense it melts even time out-of-focus and dripping molasses-slow, until it
feels like forever he’s been here, like this, sucking desperate inhales against
too-warm sheets as Xanxus fucks him into the soft of the mattress supporting
him. Then there’s a growl over him, a groan as much satisfaction as anger, and
Squalo has one shudder of anticipatory tension before Xanxus thrusts forward
and comes in a surge of heat as violent as his motions ever are. Squalo makes a
sound against the sheets, half moan and half gasp, and Xanxus’s hold on him
eases, goes slack and almost gentle in the first distraction of his orgasm.
Squalo thinks he can feel the bruises, the print of Xanxus’s fingers against
the pale of his skin; the thought makes him shudder as much as the last jolt of
friction as Xanxus pulls out of him to drop boneless and sprawling over the
bed.
“The country,” Xanxus says in the vague direction of the ceiling, his eyes shut
and expression slack and almost-relaxed with the heat in his blood. “Is that
what you’re going to give me?”
Squalo slides down to lie across the bed, to let the mattress support his
weight instead of his knees. The sheets are sticky under him and cling to his
skin when he turns sideways, but it’s not worth the effort to move, not when
Xanxus has all the purring pleasure of physical contentment audible under his
voice.
“Yeah,” he says, watching the candlelight turn Xanxus’s eyelashes to charcoal,
watching the flicker of illumination outline creases of long-held anger, lines
of fury etched too deep for present relaxation to undo. “I told you, stupid
boss, weren’t you listening?”
Xanxus reaches out without opening his eyes. His arm falls across Squalo’s
shoulder, the boneless weight of it enough to bear Squalo down to the bed even
before fingers twist into his hair to shove his head down too.
“Shut up, scum.” Xanxus orders him. He smells like smoke, gunpowder and
bonfires and smouldering coals kept too-long repressed. “I’m sleeping.”
Squalo takes a breath, inhales smoke onto his tongue and fire into his lungs,
and he doesn’t speak again.
***** Still *****
It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
Squalo doesn’t know what went wrong. They had a plan, a strategy so
straightforward even the idiots that comprise most of the group should have
been able to keep the steps clear in their head. It should have been a clean
process of deliberately triggering pre-set traps, of walking past distractions
they set themselves and were ready for; they should have been in the Bureau by
now, climbing the stairs to the main offices with Squalo at Xanxus’s shoulder
to take out whatever final defenses the department had in place. Instead
they’re out on the streets, bolting from the Inspectors and Enforcers
that should be distracted by the rest of their attack force, by the foot
soldiers who are instead doing god-knows-what and ruining Squalo’s plans and
their chances at once.
“We need to fall back,” Squalo says in the moment of breathless calm they’ve
won for themselves by the expedience of ducking into an alley while Xanxus
empties the clips for his guns and shoves new magazines into the weapon without
looking up. “Someone screwed up, we need to fall back and take stock of what we
have.”
“No,” Xanxus says, cocking the gun in his hand with a heavy click Squalo can
feel jolt down his spine with the weight of inevitability.
“Stop,” Squalo insists as Xanxus pushes past him towards the end of the alley.
His hand comes out of its own accord, closes against the tension turning
Xanxus’s wrist into a wall and leaving no space for gentleness anywhere along
his arm. “Xanxus, stop.”
Xanxus jerks his hand free as easily as if Squalo wasn’t holding him at all,
without even looking up. Squalo just has time to see the blow coming, to turn
his head half-away from the weight of the impact before Xanxus’s hand smacks
across his face, the force granted extra weight by the handle of the gun still
in his grip. Squalo’s vision falls into starburst-white for a moment, his feet
stumbling as his balance wavers, and by the time he has brought his vision back
into focus his mouth is full of blood.
“Don’t tell me what to do,” Xanxus says over him, voice rumbling threat without
a suggestion of apology. Squalo spits red against the pavement, the crimson of
the blood from his torn lip spattering the dark asphalt with a smear of color
to be washed away by the next rain. “Scum.”
“Stupid boss,” Squalo hisses. His lip is aching, offering a dull throb of
distraction as it swells with the injury, but that’s not what’s weighting his
chest, not what’s pressing against his ribs until he can’t get a breath. When
he looks up it’s only to see the back of Xanxus’s head, to watch the dark of
his hair tangling itself against the collar of his jacket. “This is suicide.”
“Shut up,” Xanxus says without turning around, and steps forward and out of the
cover of the alley.
Squalo moves as fast as he can. He’s stumbling forward before he has his
balance again, before he has his gun raised and ready for combat, but there’s
no time to hesitate, not when Xanxus is turning towards the bursts of blue
light, lifting his gun and facing down the shots from the Dominators as if they
are the light they appear and nothing more. His eyes flash bright in
comparison, the sickly shine of the Dominators enough to set Xanxus’s red
aflame in counterpoint, and Squalo is yelling, sound pouring up from his throat
like water from a drowning man’s lungs, wordless and pointless except for the
way it turns his blood to fire, the way it brings his gun up and pulls his
shoulders around to face the Enforcers firing at them instead of to watch
Xanxus burn bright as Squalo’s ever seen him.
Squalo doesn’t think about dodging the rays of blue coming towards him. He’s
not thinking at all, really, unless it’s about the manic grin he can see
forming in his periphery, or about the jolt of recoil that hits his wrists with
every squeeze of the trigger under his fingers. Dodging comes naturally, the
fluidity of instinct taking over his legs and shoulders, dipping him under the
shots and around the attempts of the useless Bureau members to take him down.
For a moment escape seems possible again, the idea forming that they might even
make it out of this moment and on into at least the next fight, the next five
minutes as far as Squalo’s imagination can go.
Then Xanxus makes a strange sound, a grunt that cuts off sharply like his
throat has locked up, and Squalo knows everything is over before he’s even
turned.
The light has faded, evaporated as soon as it hit, but Xanxus has gone still,
is falling with all the heavy elegance of his usual motion locked down by the
bolt from the Dominator. For a moment Squalo has the horrible thought that his
Coefficient might have been too high, that he might have been hit by an
Eliminator instead of a Paralyzer; but there’s no spray of blood, no explosion
of crimson, and Squalo’s lungs catch air again, fill with a gasp of relief for
this one small mercy before his vision goes blue, his own limbs locking into
stillness for the moment before the Paralyzer shot drags him down into
unconsciousness.
***** Negotiate *****
Squalo is waiting when his visitor arrives.
It’s not that he’s expecting anyone. It’s not that he’s expecting anything.
It’s more that there’s nothing left to do but wait -- for something to change,
for Xanxus to come back, for death if that’s all that’s left to him. The
holding cells are too small to allow for more than a few strides of pacing,
even if he wanted to move, and there’s nothing in them; everything they are
allowed comes through requests, and Squalo lacks the motivation to even think
of anything to ask for, other than the weapons he already knows he won’t be
allowed or the man as much a prisoner as himself. He’s not even sure how long
it’s been -- hours, at least, probably days, maybe a week or more -- when
there’s movement outside the field that makes up one side of his cell, the
fluidity of human motion instead of the automatons that offer pre-approved
items that Squalo hasn’t requested and doesn’t want.
“Hey there.” The voice is irritating, too sweet and too friendly, like the
speaker is trying too hard to be nice or maybe is just an idiot.
“You’re...Squalo, right?”
Squalo lifts his head by an inch, just enough to turn the flattest stare he can
manage on his visitor. It’s a young man with a tangle of blond curls and the
dark of a too-familiar jacket; Squalo can recognize the pattern and cut of
Inspector’s uniforms even when they’re not near enough for him to make out the
Bureau logo printed over the shoulders. Squalo looks at the jacket instead of
the attempt at a smile the other is giving him; it seems more appropriate.
Whatever it is his visitor wants, it can’t be anything good.
“Hm.” There’s a rustle of papers, the blond checking something in his hands;
then he sighs and steps in closer towards the wall. “You must be who I’m
looking for. I don’t think there’s too many latent criminals in here with hair
like that.” He’s smiling again; Squalo can hear the expression even if he’s not
looking to see it. “I have a proposition for you.”
“Don’t care,” Squalo grates without looking up. There’s no aggression to the
words; he can’t find any heat for them, not with the icy chill of a vacuum in
his chest, not with all his borrowed fire stolen away.
“Aww, come on!” The Inspector leans in against the clear wall, tilting himself
into a stance Squalo is quite sure is intended as friendly and approachable. It
prickles discomfort along Squalo’s spine, reminds him that he can’t get out,
that he’s trapped in this prison with no chance of escaping this idiot’s forced
attempts at affability, that Xanxus is trapped here too, somewhere, that what
is bad for Squalo must be worse for Xanxus, Xanxus who was never meant for
walls or cities or humanity. “Don’t you at least want to hear what I have to
offer?”
“I don’t care,” Squalo repeats. He lets his gaze drop off the Inspector’s coat
and land at his hands instead. They look empty without a weapon in them, slack
and useless and weak, like he’s truly become the scum Xanxus always called him.
“Fuck your shitty Bureau.”
There’s a sigh, heavy and drawn-out enough that Squalo can hear the insincerity
under it even before the Inspector speaks.
“That’s too bad,” he says, and he’s straightening, tugging at the sleeves of
his coat with a gesture that looks oddly childish for someone supposed to be
representing the Public Safety Bureau in what is obviously a negotiation of
some kind. “I was hoping you’d want something better than staying in prison the
rest of your life.”
Squalo’s laugh is harsh, tearing raw in his throat on the bitter burn of loss
in his chest. It’s nice to know that he can still feel something, at least.
“You hoped,” he spits to the floor. “You’re a damn idiot if you think I ever
cared what happened to me.”
“Xanxus.”
The sound of that name goes through Squalo like electricity. His lungs tense,
flex hard on the air he hasn’t really been breathing until now, and when he
looks up it’s in a rush of impulse, staring wide-eyed at the Inspector before
he can think to cling to his facade of disinterest. Xanxus isn’t there,
of course Xanxus isn’t there, but the Inspector’s expression has shifted
dramatically, his childish smile entirely replaced by a flat line of
calculation at his lips.
“What?” Squalo snaps, because all his body is tensing with anticipation
of something and he can’t let it turn into hope, not yet. “What the fuck does
he have to do with any of this?”
“That’s what you care about,” the Inspector says, and it’s not a question. “You
can’t help him by sulking in here for the rest of your life.”
Squalo doesn’t bother with denying this misrepresentation of his behavior.
“How?” he demands. He can feel secondhand fire surging into his veins,
something too scorching to be hope and far more valuable for his purposes.
“What do you want?”
The Inspector turns to face Squalo straight-on. He looks older when he’s not
smiling, stronger with his shoulders squared; his eyes aren’t amused at all
anymore, just dark and steady and absolutely self-assured. Something in his
expression reminds Squalo very vaguely of the way Xanxus looked when he stepped
out of the alley that last time, exudes some of the bone-deep self-confidence
Squalo’s never been able to find alone.
“Join the Bureau,” the Inspector says, clear and careful and precise. “I’ve
already put in a request for you to join as an Enforcer; your Coefficient is
low enough they should let you out on probation within the month. We can make
good use of you in my department.”
“What about the boss?” Squalo growls, because he can’t trust his voice on
Xanxus’s name, can’t be sure he has the right to frame those syllables on his
lips.
The Inspector takes a breath. “We can’t bring him into the Department yet,” he
says, and Squalo has to bite back the hiss of rage that surges into his chest
because that last yet sounds like a maybe. “His Coefficient’s too high, there’s
no way I can get approval for him to join even as an Enforcer. He’ll need to
bring his Coefficient down before they’ll let him out.”
“What,” Squalo says, and he’s on his feet now, he’s lunging forward towards the
clear wall with all Xanxus’s borrowed rage flaring in his veins to break like a
wave against the barrier. “You want to ruin him.”
The Inspector doesn’t even flinch. It’s impressive, Squalo notes distantly, or
would be if he had space in his head to be impressed. “Do you think he’s that
weak?” he asks, and Squalo’s heart stutters, his fire guttering out on lack of
fuel. “I wouldn’t follow someone who would break that easily.”
“The boss won’t break,” Squalo says, and he knows he’s being manipulated but
there’s freedom on the other side of the wall, traction for a deal his
desperation is clamoring to make. “Let him out and you’ll see for your own damn
self.”
“Make something useful of yourself,” the Inspector counters. “If you join the
Bureau you can be waiting for him when he’s released.” He takes a step back
across the narrow width of the hallway made uncrossable by the wall in front of
Squalo. “You’ll never see him again if you stay here.”
Squalo would like to claim that his decision is made objectively, that he
weighs the pros and cons without the influence of selfish emotion. But in truth
all it takes is a moment to imagine the Inspector’s scenario, a heartbeat’s
time of contemplating the cold bleakness of a future alone, and then the frozen
panic in his veins makes the decision for him.
“I’ll do it,” Squalo says.
***** Magnetism *****
Hair takes a long time to grow.
Squalo considers this, every so often, as his hair lengthens from even with his
chin to past his shoulderblades, along the curve of his waist and down to his
hips. The first few inches he could count to the week, every hour that passed
stretching long and heavy with tangible weight against his scalp, but the
longer his hair grew the easier the time went, until a half-year’s worth of
growth is something he barely even notices in the mirror. With such gradual
change he learns to work around it too; what would be a distraction for someone
else becomes unthinking habit, the toss of his head to sweep his hair aside as
much part of the motion of combat as raising his Dominator into alignment on
the target. It’s soothing, in its way, the routine of his existence as least as
comforting as it is stifling, until the weight of consciousness is one he bears
without thinking, the coals he keeps banked smouldering so low he doesn’t feel
their heat for days at a time.
And then he is twenty-four.
His hair is a weight across his back, the locks so long they stay out of his
face without being held back with the hairties he adopted for a few years. It’s
a relief to be spared the bother, even if he has to sweep the length of it
aside before he sits to avoid tangling himself in the white; that is an
inconvenience he can live with, that he will live with, because the alternative
of breaking his vow is too impossible to even consider.
“Aren’t you nearly done with that?” is what he snarls this morning, aiming the
irritation across the table at Levi, an Inspector too weak-willed and malleable
to stand up to Enforcers as he ought. “I don’t have all day to be waiting on
you.”
“Don’t be so mean to him, Squalo,” Lussuria lilts over Levi’s low rumble of
not-quite protest. The sing-song tone is far more irritating than anything Levi
might offer, offers the friction Squalo wants to strike a spark this morning,
to remind himself why he’s here, why this is a better alternative than the
narrow cells the latent criminals are kept to.
“You--” he starts, and then the door opens, and it’s Dino’s voice falling too
bright and too cheerful over them.
“Morning everyone!” is how he starts, as always. Squalo doesn’t look up;
Lussuria is pouting at him, and he doesn’t need visual confirmation to know
that Dino is sloppily dressed again, probably with his jacket undone or
forgotten entirely, as happens on more-than-monthly basis. “I hope you’re ready
for a new department member!”
“Great,” Squalo says with all the irritated sarcasm he can muster, kicking
against the edge of his desk to turn towards the door. “Finally got your
transfer request approved?” He has to reach up to shove his hair back from his
face, bring his chin up to offer the greetings of a glare to the newest
addition; after years of effort, it’s not much of a surprise that Dino has
finally won his favorite Enforcer for his department. Squalo is opening his
mouth for a growl, or a shout maybe, something suitably aggressive to offer as
not-a-greeting to Hibari Kyoya from Department Ten as he comes through the
doorway; and then he sees broad shoulders, a curtain of hair not heavy enough
to hide the spark of crimson in the eyes behind it, and all thoughts of Hibari,
and Lussuria, and Dino, evaporate out of Squalo’s head at the same moment his
lungs empty in a rush of startled sound.
Xanxus looks the same as Squalo remembers. It’s strange, to see how untouched
by the years he appears when Squalo can feel the weight of all his pressing
against his shoulders and falling along his spine. But Xanxus is the same, or
maybe it’s that Squalo’s never really seen anything but the fire still
smouldering hot and unfettered behind the dark of his eyes. Dino is speaking,
some kind of introductions completely pointless because Squalo doesn’t need
them, and Xanxus is looking around the room, his eyes sweeping out everything
as his on sight regardless of his ostensible role. He looks at Lussuria, at
Levi, at the desk in the corner Dino usually takes and the pair of unused
spaces against the wall, giving the other department members as much non-
consideration as he does the furniture.
And then his gaze lands on Squalo.
Squalo’s heart seizes. He’s not sure what he’s feeling, if it’s tears burning
against his eyes or joy tightening in his chest, if it’s pleasure or fear or
anticipation or awkwardness that is seizing all his body motionless. All he can
do is meet Xanxus’s stare, listen to the rhythm of his pulse echoing loud in
his ears as he opens his mouth and croaks “Boss,” sounding half-strangled on
the nameless emotion choking his usual echoing volume.
Xanxus’s head comes up, his chin tilting barely enough to let his hair fall
back from his face. It makes him look larger, expands the breadth of his
shoulders to fill the space, and Squalo thinks for a moment that there’s no air
left in the room, that all the oxygen has burned itself to fire in the space
between his eyes and Xanxus’s. And then Xanxus’s mouth twitches, the corner of
his lips turning up into the faintest suggestion of a smile.
“Shitty shark,” Xanxus says, and when Squalo breathes in the air is achingly
warm in his lungs.
Squalo is twenty-four, and he’s found his direction again.
***** White *****
The first thing Xanxus reaches for is Squalo’s hair.
He sprawls over Squalo’s bed as soon as they’re back in the other’s quarters,
spreading his knees wide to dominate the furniture, and when he focuses his
stare on the other Squalo doesn’t need to be told what to do. He strips off his
jacket, shirt, slacks, takes himself down to bare skin while Xanxus watches
without a flicker of either appreciation or judgment on his face. There’s just
that steady attention, heat no less blistering for the years apart, until
Squalo’s more than half-hard by the time he’s kicking his clothes aside and
coming back in towards the bed. His hair feels strange against his bare skin,
suddenly heavy with Xanxus’s gaze on him, until the sleek fall of it slipping
over his hip as he climbs onto the bed to straddle Xanxus’s legs is almost
startling. Xanxus doesn’t shove him off as Squalo half-expected, doesn’t reach
for his hip to tip him over and flat onto his back; he just watches Squalo
approach, his eyes tracking the other’s movements with barely the flicker of a
blink to indicate that he’s even conscious. His arms are crossed over his
chest, the impatience of dominance weighting his shoulders, and Squalo doesn’t
wait for permission before he stretches sideways to retrieve the slick bottle
he needs. The liquid spills over his fingers, cool against the stoked fire
under his skin, and when he reaches around behind himself Xanxus leans back by
an inch, letting himself slouch into consideration that sets Squalo alight with
anticipation.
Squalo’s movement comes easy. It’s a difficult angle even at the best of times,
the harder for his lack of any but very occasional practice over the last few
years, but his skin is warm, is hot, is aching for the friction his fingers can
grant him. And Xanxus is watching him, eyes unreadable but focused on his face,
until Squalo feels like every flicker of reaction that tenses across his
forehead or twists the corner of his mouth is a tangle of words, meaning
telegraphed directly for Xanxus’s unflinching observation.
“Fuck,” he says, ducking his head as he slides a finger into himself, as he
gasps a choking lungful of air that fires against the inside of his chest.
“Stupid boss” as his cock jerks hotter, flushing itself to interest as he dips
farther, pressing in against the heat that has been kindled in his blood.
Xanxus just keeps watching, mouth flat and voice silent, not even flinching
when Squalo has to reach out and brace himself against the wall over his
shoulder. Squalo draws his hand back, tries another stroke, and it’s easier,
this time, even against the anticipation thrumming his body into one long ache
of need. His hair shifts with the movement of his shoulders, the strands
slipping against his arm and down to catch against Xanxus’s shirt, and it’s
then that Xanxus finally unfolds his arms and reaches up to catch the trailing
lock against callused fingers.
“Your hair’s long,” he says, obvious observation made suggestion by the growl
in his throat. He’s looking at Squalo’s hair, now, not at his face, and Squalo
looks down too, watches Xanxus’s fingers wind the pale of his hair into loops
against his touch.
“I told you I wouldn’t cut it,” Squalo says, angling his hand to jolt a burst
of electricity down his spine. “Not until the country is yours.”
“Scum,” Xanxus says, and reaches up to dig his fingers into the hair falling
heavy against the back of Squalo’s neck, to make a fist of the weight and drag
pain all across Squalo’s scalp. “The country’s not mine.”
“And I haven’t cut my hair,” Squalo growls right back. He has to tilt his head
to Xanxus’s pull; the force is too much for him to resist, the burn of the hurt
too much to keep his body resistant. His head goes back, baring his throat for
the fire of Xanxus’s stare; he draws his hand back, thrusts in with the stretch
of a second finger. “I keep my damn promises, shitty boss.”
“Yeah?” Xanxus pulls his hand farther, reaches out to grab at more of Squalo’s
hair; Squalo thinks he might have most of it in his fingers, now, the strands
tangling themselves into knots against the texture of his palms. “You’re stupid
too.”
Squalo’s laugh comes out strained, tense against the angle of his throat and
hot on sincerity. “I don’t care,” he says, and he’s not ready but he can’t wait
anymore, the awkward rhythm of his hand isn’t enough to reach the angle he
needs. He draws his fingers free of himself, reaches out to grab at Xanxus’s
shoulder to steady his balance before he thinks; he’s expecting a yell, a
growl, a smack, some kind of protest at this sudden unprompted contact. But
Xanxus doesn’t speak, barely seems to notice the touch at all; he’s letting
Squalo’s hair go to reach for his pants instead, thumbing the button open one-
handed so he can push the edge down enough to free his cock from the confines
of the fabric. Squalo’s looking down, then, dragging against the tension at his
hair in spite of the resulting ache, and Xanxus purrs something low and
wordless and dark, a threat and a promise and a confession at the same time.
“Scum,” he says again, and it is an endearment, it’s rumbling itself into
affection as his fingers dig into Squalo’s hip to draw him closer, to press him
in so near he can feel Xanxus’s breathing against his skin, can shudder at the
warmth he has been so chilled without all this time. “Shitty shark.” Squalo
braces his hand at Xanxus’s shoulder, slides his knees an inch wider, and
Xanxus draws him down, urges his center of balance to move an inch, two, until
there’s pressure against Squalo’s skin, Xanxus’s heat threatening all the
pressure and all the friction he’s craving, everything he’s been aching for for
years.
“Boss,” Squalo says, and lets his weight drop down. There’s pressure, heat, a
stretch, he can feel himself giving way to Xanxus’s insistence, and then Xanxus
is sliding into him, the width of his cock forcing Squalo open in a way his
faded memories didn’t warn him for. He hesitates a moment, gasps a breath
against the crushing heat bearing down on him; and Xanxus growls, drags at
Squalo’s hip as he rolls his own weight up, and they’re coming together all at
once, the sudden thrust of heat enough to white out Squalo’s vision into the
pleasure-pain of the stretch, the friction enough to swamp all his senses for a
shuddering moment of reaction.
“Move,” Xanxus’s voice says, the order clear even past the hum in Squalo’s
ears, and Squalo gasps and moves. His hand braces hard at Xanxus’s shoulder,
his weight comes up by inches, and then he lets himself down again, gravity
finishing the movement for him when his breath sticks him out-of-intention
again. He moves again immediately, without waiting for another command, and
Xanxus rumbles satisfaction, the hand at Squalo’s hip urging him to a rhythm.
“Stupid boss,” Squalo says past the starbursts of white threatening his vision,
around the ache of unfamiliar movement collecting along his thighs. He can feel
the heat in his veins pooling in his stomach, aching in his cock, but he can’t
let Xanxus’s shoulder go, doesn’t trust his balance without the shaking arm he
has braced against the wall. It’s enough, anyway, the drag of Xanxus’s length
inside him with each movement he takes, the sustained growl of response pouring
up Xanxus’s throat. “Give me a minute to adjust, it’s been seven years.”
“Shut up,” Xanxus says, and rocks up to meet the downward slide of Squalo’s
hips. Squalo can feel the catch of his pants, the metal of Xanxus’s zipper
digging in against his skin hard enough to bruise the pattern of the teeth into
the underside of his thigh. “I know how long it’s been.”
“Fuck,” Squalo spits, tipping his head forward. He can smell gunpowder in the
air, heat flaring to the threat of an explosion on Xanxus’s skin, can taste the
burn of metal on his tongue. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
“Scum,” Xanxus says again, the word a purr, the sound heat. “You should have
found me sooner.”
“Damn you,” Squalo says, and he has to duck his head, has to choke on a gasp of
air as Xanxus’s fingers curl against the back of his neck to steady him, as
Xanxus’s hand eases on his hip to reach for his cock instead. “I did everything
I could.”
Xanxus drags over him, fingers pressing texture against Squalo’s skin, surging
shuddering fire up his spine. “You said you’d give me the country.”
“I did,” Squalo agrees, and his words are coming hot, turning into liquid in
his throat and scorching his tongue like steam. “I still will, I swear it.”
“You swear a lot of things, shitty shark,” Xanxus says, pressing his thumb in
against Squalo’s cock and pushing a surge of sensation out into his blood. His
hips are rolling up to meet each of Squalo’s strokes, his cock sliding deeper
with each thrust; Squalo can’t breathe and doesn’t want to, his arms are
winding around Xanxus’s shoulders now instead of bracing at the wall, trusting
to the other man instead of mere architecture for support.
“Yeah,” Squalo gasps, his fingers curling into dark hair, his inhales burning
his lungs with flame and smoke. “That doesn’t mean I don’t mean them.”
“Shut up,” Xanxus growls, so close Squalo can feel the vibration slide over his
lips and trickle down his throat. When he drags his fingers up Squalo can feel
the jolt up his spine, electricity knocking him senseless with heat; then
Xanxus’s hips drive up, his cock sinks in so deep Squalo can feel it like a
blow, and Squalo’s coming, groaning sound and satisfaction so intense it’s
hardly even pleasure against the heat of Xanxus’s mouth. It’s like being
shaken, like someone else has taken over his body to shudder and quake through
each wave of heat that hits him, like each sticky pulse over Xanxus’s painful-
tight hold is obedience to some unspoken command on the other man’s lips.
Xanxus doesn’t let go. He holds on, fingers tight on Squalo’s cock and hand
fisted into the other’s hair, and when he thrusts up Squalo chokes on his
inhale, the friction inside him more than coherency can stand. The rhythm is
too fast, the sensation too much, Squalo’s vision is threatening white again
and his lungs are dragging for air he can’t manage to hold when Xanxus finally
takes a breath loaded with the weight of expectation. His head comes up, his
mouth fits against Squalo’s, and when he groans through his orgasm it spills
over Squalo’s tongue, burns a brand against the inside of his mouth as Xanxus’s
movement gives way to the spill of fire into him.
Squalo lingers, after, when Xanxus has gone still and heavy with languid
warmth, the two of them pressed close enough that he can borrow Xanxus’s breath
on each exhale. He’s ready for a shove, a growl, a protest as inevitable as
death, but what comes instead are fingers easing in his hair, Xanxus’s hold
drawing away from his sticky cock to find out the dip of his spine under a
curtain of white hair.
“The country,” Xanxus says against his mouth, the hand against Squalo’s head
keeping him from pulling back enough to see the color of the other man’s eyes.
Squalo shuts his eyes. “The country,” he repeats, letting himself sag into the
hold Xanxus has on him. “I’ll give it to you, boss.”
“You had better,” Xanxus growls, molten and dark, and Squalo can feel his
smile. “Scum.”
When Xanxus kisses him, Squalo sees the white heat of electricity behind his
shut eyes.
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