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lysapadinAnd here are a collection of miscellaneous drabbles and ficlets from various prompt memes & such—stuff that isn't going to make it into actual full-length fic form.
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fic_promptly: Prince of Tennis, any, waking up a girl doesn't change the fact that there is still tennis practice
Yuuta & his team; sort of in the same universe as Clownfish; futurefic. 614 words.
Trump
It's seven a.m. and Yuuta ought to be warming up, but everyone else is in a great big tizzy and it's starting to look like maybe practice isn't going to get started on time today.
Frankly, Yuuta doesn't see what the big deal is. The first rule of tennis at St. Christopher Gakuin is that practice starts precisely at seven a.m. and anyone who is not on the courts and warming up when the bell in the clock tower at the heart of campus tolls for the seventh time is in for all the trouble a cranky team captain can dish out. (Not that this has ever really been a problem for Yuuta; as Kaasan likes to point out, a person who is truly passionate about something isn't likely to let much stand in the way of that something. Yuuta loves tennis and thus setting an alarm for too-fucking-early is simply a way of life, as is his budding coffee addiction.) Yuuta is here, and in uniform, and ready to go, but apparently that's not good enough for some people.
"But—but—" Words seem to be failing Mizuki-san, which is a rare enough event that Yuuta is sort of tempted to take a picture or something to record the occasion. "You—" He gestures, waving his hands at Yuuta like that's going to make the point for him. Whatever his point is.
Yuuta glances down, considers the t-shirt pulled tight across curves that weren't there yesterday, and looks back up again. "Look, I haven't had time to do laundry lately. This was the only clean t-shirt I had that even sort of fit. I'll find one that fits better later, okay?"
Akazawa-buchou sounds pained when he says, "It's not the t-shirt's fit that's the problem."
"Actually, it kind of is," Kaneda says, slow and thoughtful. "When you think about it."
And he's not exactly wrong, Yuuta agrees, more irritated than anything else. It's not so much that the breasts are the problem, but the fact that they're generous enough to be immediately noticeable is.
Aniki didn't have this problem. But then, Aniki. If the world has ever contrived to inconvenience Aniki, Yuuta sure isn't aware of it. Figures.
And the longer they stand around gawking, the less time they have for tennis practice, so Yuuta heaves a huge sigh, looks up at the sky (pearly grey shading to gold as the sun comes up), and says, "Look, it's just a thing, okay? Sometimes it happens in my family. You go to bed with one, uh, configuration, and wake up with the other one. It's not a big deal."
That sets Mizuki-san off in a fresh round of sputtering, none of which makes a whole lot of coherent sense.
It just figures that Kaneda, their budding scientist, is the one who frowns and says, "Okay, but why?"
Yuuta has no intention of answering that question, at least not with the full truth. "Couldn't say." Not can't say, and Kaneda doesn't miss that, but Yuuta refuses to go into any more detail with the guys all standing around listening. Some things are just personal, after all. "Anyway! On to more important things. Are we going to play some tennis today or what?"
That just makes them groan, like they've lost track of what's really important in life, but after a little more chivvying they start moving again and Mizuki-san stops sputtering (though he's still a little wild-eyed and prone to staring). Yuuta settles in to warming up in earnest and puts all other considerations to the side. They'll still be there later, but for now, there's tennis and next to that, what else could matter?
Fromfic_promptly, prompt: Katekyo Hitman Reborn, any, tying a tie
Hibari Kyouya on the common necktie; 221 words.
When in Rome
Hibari has mixed feelings on the common necktie. He can't deny that they are useful things: he's not the type to number his kills, but he's killed more than a few men using nothing more than their ties. A necktie may be used as an impromptu garrote; failing that, it may be used as a noose, or, more simply, as a way of holding a man in place while one demonstrates one's displeasure on his body. Stripped from around the neck, the tie may also be used in lieu of rope or as a gag. He has even seen neckties used as tourniquets and impromptu bandages, though this is clearly not the optimum application.
No, it's certainly true that the wretched things have their place, and he has no objection to it if the de rigeur uniform of the mafia world means that all of his rightful prey have already placed a useful implement of their destruction around their own throats.
It merely discontents him that propriety demands he do the same himself, and he never cinches the precise Windsor knot at his throat without a sense of distaste.
It is what is done, so he does it, and consoles himself with the assurance that he will never allow anyone to use his tie for any purpose he does not permit.
For a prompt frombranchandroot: Xanxus/Squalo/Yamamoto, Xanxus is watching this time.
Squalo/Yamamoto, smut, 630 words.
Exhibition
The floor is hard under Takeshi's knees and Squalo is sprawled out over him, all his normal tightly-coiled energy stilled for the moment. He's relaxed, his head tipped back to show his throat and his body one long, loose curve as he braces himself against the mattress, spread out like an offering.
Maybe he is, kind of. As Takeshi lets the weight of Squalo's hand guide the way he slides his mouth over Squalo's cock, following the lazy beat of Squalo's hips, he can feel Xanxus' gaze on them like the touch of a hand.
It's Xanxus' bed that Squalo is sprawling against, but Xanxus hasn't made any move away from the door yet, either to interrupt them or join in. Takeshi isn't really sure what that means. Wondering about it is distracting him a little from the slow back-and-forth slide of Squalo's cock between his lips.
On the other hand, there's no denying that the little boost of adrenaline running through his system is putting a real edge to the whole experience. He'd have gotten hard just from the way Squalo is fucking his mouth, slow like they have all night for it, but knowing that Xanxus is hanging back and watching them from a place that's just out of Takeshi's peripheral vision—that has Takeshi's cock achingly hard.
He keeps his hands on Squalo's knees, regardless, rubbing circles against the insides of them with his thumbs, and lets the weight of Squalo's hand against the back of his skull pull him down, all the way down, until Squalo groans openly and all Takeshi's world is narrowed to the scent and taste of Squalo's skin and the weight of Squalo's cock on his tongue, the pleasant aching of his jaws and the way Squalo fucks his throat with shallow little thrusts. Xanxus is still watching them, Takeshi can feel it, but he stays silent, even when Squalo groans again, tightening his fingers in Takeshi's hair and arching taut as he comes.
His grip doesn't relax until he does, so it's not until Squalo goes loose and sprawls against the bed, breathing hard, that Takeshi lets his cock slide out of his mouth and sits back on his heels. Before he can make up his mind what to do next, Squalo lifts his head and grins over him, somewhere between a challenge and an invitation. "Hey, Boss."
Xanxus grunts; Takeshi is pretty sure it's not an annoyed sound. He glances around when he finally hears movement, nearly silent footsteps as Xanxus prowls away from the door. His brows are furrowed together, but Takeshi is inclined to say that's because Xanxus is thinking about something, the heavens only know what.
There's one other thing, too: he's hard, the line of his cock pressing against the front of his slacks.
That's a good enough sign that Takeshi feels okay about holding his ground, such as it is, considering that he's just blown Squalo, who is Xanxus' man first and always despite everything, in Xanxus' own bed. He tilts his head back to look up at Xanxus when the man comes to stand over them both. "Hey," he says, for lack of anything better to say.
Xanxus doesn't say anything at all, just looks down at him as the seconds tick by. Takeshi can't get a read on him at all, but Squalo's knee stays relaxed under his palm. He tries to tell himself that it's a good sign—that Squalo would be far more tense if he thought things were about to go sour—but he can't entirely convince himself.
Then Xanxus snorts and drops a hand onto his head, the weight of it heavy as he threads his fingers through Takeshi's hair. "Hey," he says, and that's all—but that's enough.
Fromanehan, prompt: Yuuta faces Sanada in the high school tennis circuit.
From the same 'verse as something in my WIP files, where Yuuta is completely in love with tennis and going pro (among other things). 603 words.
Up-and-Coming
This year the bracket at Regionals put Rikkai and Seishun on the same branch, and so semifinals is a brisk, demanding match all around. Tezuka looks distinctly put out by the fact that Rikkai is the team advancing to finals, which Genichirou suspects is due (at least in part) to the sunny smile Seiichi gives him at the close of their match, but that's all right. It's Tezuka and Seishun; a loss here will only inspire them to greater efforts at Nationals. Genichirou's looking forward to seeing what shape those efforts take.
Across the bracket, it's Minowodai that sweeps Hyoutei out of the way to take the other finals slot.
Seiichi puts Genichirou in singles three for the final match on the assumption that Tachibana will take singles one and Hoshino will be in singles two. Akaya's in singles two, because Seiichi wants him to get the experience with Hoshino's steamroller-style tennis, and Seiichi hasn't even bothered to pretend that he's not taking singles one for purely selfish reasons. Genichirou doesn't begrudge the slot to him much; even three years on, it's difficult to forget missed opportunities. (Nationals is going to be a different matter, of course.)
They had expected Tachibana to put either Kamio or Ibu into singles three—probably Ibu—but when the time comes, it's neither one.
Genichirou had been aware, vaguely, that Fuji Shuusuke had a younger brother; he was pretty sure that he'd even known that the younger Fuji was at Minowodai—hadn't he heard something about that from last summer's tournaments? And it's Fuji Yuuta who takes the courts for singles three.
He doesn't look much like his brother, Genichirou thinks when they meet to shake hands over the net. He's taller, for one, and meets Genichirou's eyes steadily. He smiles, but it's an open, pleased grin, not the feline smile Fuji usually wears when he walks onto the court. (In the privacy of his own mind, Genichirou freely admits that Fuji Shuusuke annoys him; opponents are not cat toys, but no one could prove that by the way Fuji acts.)
Genichirou is fairly sure he's learned his lesson about underestimating his opponents, but Fuji Yuuta's tennis is still a surprise, because he doesn't play a bit like his brother does. If Fuji Shuusuke's game is one of cat-and-mouse, technical skill and counters and subtlety, Fuji Yuuta's tennis is as straightforward as his smile. Not simple—there's strategy there, and strength—but all the straightforwardness of someone who really, truly loves the game, which is something that Fuji Shuusuke's tennis doesn't have.
And there's skill, too. Quite a lot of skill, in fact, more than anyone who's relatively unknown ought to have. Composure, too; when Genichirou steps into muga, Yuuta doesn't even bat an eye. If Genichirou hadn't known any better, he'd say that the younger Fuji faced opponents who know how to use muga on a regular basis. (But to his knowledge, Tachibana hasn't reached muga, and Fuji Shuusuke likely never will. It's a puzzle, a strange one that Genichirou tucks away for consideration after the match.)
Genichirou wins his two sets, but Yuuta takes some games off him. They shake hands again, Yuuta still grinning, and Genichirou walks back to Rikkai's bench in a thoughtful mood.
Seiichi raises his eyebrows as he takes his seat. Genichirou takes a drink of water as he thinks about his reply; when he does speak, he glances at Akaya to make sure their kouhai is listening. "He's one to watch," he says, finally.
He's not at all surprised when, in the due course of time, Yuuta proves him right.
Forandreaphobia, prompt:
... here we are at the place
where I get to beg for it
where I get to say Please, for just one night, will you lay down next to me, we can leave our
clothes on, we can stay all buttoned up?
or will I say
Roll over and let me fuck you till you puke, Henry, you owe me this much, you can indulge me
this at least, can’t you? but we both know how it goes. I say I want you inside me
and you hold my head underwater, I say I want you inside me
and you split me open with a knife.
Reborn, 287 words.
Inherent Features
The problem is, he's a hitman, born and then born again to it, unquestionably the best of the best and has been for long enough that it's very nearly a given (for some people, never for him, because a hitman who takes anything for granted is very shortly going to be an ex-hitman on account of being dead). Reborn is a hitman, the hitman. This does not preclude his having emotions, his knowing the searing knife edge of desire twisting in the gut or even the things that are softer, raw and vulnerable like a bruise, things that ache when they are pressed.
But he did not get to where he is by letting those things influence him. At best they are indulgences, on par with a good meal or a decent cup of coffee, pleasant to have and to enjoy, circumstances permitting. He has hedonistic tendencies; perhaps this is what gives rise to the confusion, but it is precisely because he has lived hand-to-mouth and on starvation rations, stealing sleep in snatches, that Reborn has no interest in dispensing with those tendencies merely for the sake of correcting a few misapprehensions. Besides, it suits his purposes to be underestimated, even when it causes him minor inconvenience.
Nevertheless, the fact remains. He is a hitman. To be a hitman is to be a living weapon that bends itself to its master's orders. This is what Reborn was born to be and what he has chosen to make himself, and anyone who does not heed what he is forgets the nature of weapons themselves.
He finds it regrettable, sometimes, but anyone who forgets that they are dealing with a weapon earns whatever injury they incur in so doing.
Fromanruik, prompt: Yamamoto/Gokudera - The former spends some time curled up with Uri.
Gokudera, Yamamoto, and Uri; 191 words.
Suborn
"No, what is this, seriously, what the fuck," Hayato said. "For God's sake, you have your own box animals, what the fuck are you suborning mine for?"
He might as well have been talking to the wall for all the good it did him. Uri flicked one disdainful ear and curled into a tighter ball, and Takeshi just riffled his long fingers through Uri's fur and heaved a contented sigh. "It's not my fault," he said. "I'm being held hostage."
"You weigh ten times as much as Uri, you idiot," Hayato pointed out.
"And Uri has five times as many sharp weapons as I do," Takeshi countered, which, okay, Uri was curled up in Takeshi's lap, so maybe that was a valid point. A very small one.
Still. "My box animal. Not yours. Fuck, you already have two!"
Takeshi shrugged. "What can I say? Maybe Uri just likes me better."
Hayato maintained afterwards that he was fully justified in using the squirt bottle on Takeshi at that point (not that it worked on him any better than it did on Uri, but it was the principle of the thing, damn it).
Frombranchandroot, Natori takes Natsume out flower viewing.
Hiiraga, Urihime, and Sasago pondering the strangeness of humans. 100 words.
Hanami
Natori-sama walked among the trees, talking with the boy. They turned toward each other often; the breeze carried their laughter with its skirl of blossoms.
Urihime was frowning. "His scent changes around the boy, but he does nothing about it." This was as strange as her tone implied; their master was not one to deny himself anything.
"Humans are peculiar creatures," Sasago agreed.
Hiiraga said nothing as Natori-sama brushed his fingers through the boy’s hair, dislodging the petals there. The boy stilled, his face turned up, and Natori-sama dropped his hand.
They walked on.
Yes, Hiiraga thought. Humans were strange.
Fromaskerian, prompt: Their peers/friends/agemates find out about Hibari and Yamamoto's torrid relationship.
Gokudera and Tsuna, traumatized. 206 words.
Traumatic Experiences
"Oh my God," Gokudera moaned, clawing at his eyes, "I never wanted to see that."
Tsuna, leaning against the door next to him, was inclined to agree with that assessment. He pressed his hands to his cheeks, willing them to stop burning. It didn't seem to be helping. "Do you think they, um, noticed us?"
Gokudera screwed up his face in a grimace. "Seemed pretty distracted to me."
Which, yes. Yes, they certainly had. Tsuna contemplated that for a moment, felt his ears start burning, and decided to stop thinking about it. Somehow.
He cleared his throat. "Well. I guess this explains what Yamamoto's been up to lately."
Gokudera looked pained. "Can we never speak of this again, Tenth? Please?"
Tsuna nodded, relieved. "Yes. Yes, that would be good. Very good." He pushed away from the door. "Let's... there was something I needed to do. Far, far away from here."
"I'll help you with that, Tenth!" Gokudera said, nearly stuttering with how eagerly he offered. "Let's just... go. Now."
Before Hibari and Yamamoto finished... finished up, he didn't say, but then, Tsuna didn't suppose he had to.
"Yes," he said, and they walked away from the classroom where Hibari and Yamamoto were... busy... without looking back.
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From
fic_promptly: Prince of Tennis, any, waking up a girl doesn't change the fact that there is still tennis practiceYuuta & his team; sort of in the same universe as Clownfish; futurefic. 614 words.
Trump
It's seven a.m. and Yuuta ought to be warming up, but everyone else is in a great big tizzy and it's starting to look like maybe practice isn't going to get started on time today.
Frankly, Yuuta doesn't see what the big deal is. The first rule of tennis at St. Christopher Gakuin is that practice starts precisely at seven a.m. and anyone who is not on the courts and warming up when the bell in the clock tower at the heart of campus tolls for the seventh time is in for all the trouble a cranky team captain can dish out. (Not that this has ever really been a problem for Yuuta; as Kaasan likes to point out, a person who is truly passionate about something isn't likely to let much stand in the way of that something. Yuuta loves tennis and thus setting an alarm for too-fucking-early is simply a way of life, as is his budding coffee addiction.) Yuuta is here, and in uniform, and ready to go, but apparently that's not good enough for some people.
"But—but—" Words seem to be failing Mizuki-san, which is a rare enough event that Yuuta is sort of tempted to take a picture or something to record the occasion. "You—" He gestures, waving his hands at Yuuta like that's going to make the point for him. Whatever his point is.
Yuuta glances down, considers the t-shirt pulled tight across curves that weren't there yesterday, and looks back up again. "Look, I haven't had time to do laundry lately. This was the only clean t-shirt I had that even sort of fit. I'll find one that fits better later, okay?"
Akazawa-buchou sounds pained when he says, "It's not the t-shirt's fit that's the problem."
"Actually, it kind of is," Kaneda says, slow and thoughtful. "When you think about it."
And he's not exactly wrong, Yuuta agrees, more irritated than anything else. It's not so much that the breasts are the problem, but the fact that they're generous enough to be immediately noticeable is.
Aniki didn't have this problem. But then, Aniki. If the world has ever contrived to inconvenience Aniki, Yuuta sure isn't aware of it. Figures.
And the longer they stand around gawking, the less time they have for tennis practice, so Yuuta heaves a huge sigh, looks up at the sky (pearly grey shading to gold as the sun comes up), and says, "Look, it's just a thing, okay? Sometimes it happens in my family. You go to bed with one, uh, configuration, and wake up with the other one. It's not a big deal."
That sets Mizuki-san off in a fresh round of sputtering, none of which makes a whole lot of coherent sense.
It just figures that Kaneda, their budding scientist, is the one who frowns and says, "Okay, but why?"
Yuuta has no intention of answering that question, at least not with the full truth. "Couldn't say." Not can't say, and Kaneda doesn't miss that, but Yuuta refuses to go into any more detail with the guys all standing around listening. Some things are just personal, after all. "Anyway! On to more important things. Are we going to play some tennis today or what?"
That just makes them groan, like they've lost track of what's really important in life, but after a little more chivvying they start moving again and Mizuki-san stops sputtering (though he's still a little wild-eyed and prone to staring). Yuuta settles in to warming up in earnest and puts all other considerations to the side. They'll still be there later, but for now, there's tennis and next to that, what else could matter?
From
fic_promptly, prompt: Katekyo Hitman Reborn, any, tying a tieHibari Kyouya on the common necktie; 221 words.
When in Rome
Hibari has mixed feelings on the common necktie. He can't deny that they are useful things: he's not the type to number his kills, but he's killed more than a few men using nothing more than their ties. A necktie may be used as an impromptu garrote; failing that, it may be used as a noose, or, more simply, as a way of holding a man in place while one demonstrates one's displeasure on his body. Stripped from around the neck, the tie may also be used in lieu of rope or as a gag. He has even seen neckties used as tourniquets and impromptu bandages, though this is clearly not the optimum application.
No, it's certainly true that the wretched things have their place, and he has no objection to it if the de rigeur uniform of the mafia world means that all of his rightful prey have already placed a useful implement of their destruction around their own throats.
It merely discontents him that propriety demands he do the same himself, and he never cinches the precise Windsor knot at his throat without a sense of distaste.
It is what is done, so he does it, and consoles himself with the assurance that he will never allow anyone to use his tie for any purpose he does not permit.
For a prompt from
branchandroot: Xanxus/Squalo/Yamamoto, Xanxus is watching this time.Squalo/Yamamoto, smut, 630 words.
Exhibition
The floor is hard under Takeshi's knees and Squalo is sprawled out over him, all his normal tightly-coiled energy stilled for the moment. He's relaxed, his head tipped back to show his throat and his body one long, loose curve as he braces himself against the mattress, spread out like an offering.
Maybe he is, kind of. As Takeshi lets the weight of Squalo's hand guide the way he slides his mouth over Squalo's cock, following the lazy beat of Squalo's hips, he can feel Xanxus' gaze on them like the touch of a hand.
It's Xanxus' bed that Squalo is sprawling against, but Xanxus hasn't made any move away from the door yet, either to interrupt them or join in. Takeshi isn't really sure what that means. Wondering about it is distracting him a little from the slow back-and-forth slide of Squalo's cock between his lips.
On the other hand, there's no denying that the little boost of adrenaline running through his system is putting a real edge to the whole experience. He'd have gotten hard just from the way Squalo is fucking his mouth, slow like they have all night for it, but knowing that Xanxus is hanging back and watching them from a place that's just out of Takeshi's peripheral vision—that has Takeshi's cock achingly hard.
He keeps his hands on Squalo's knees, regardless, rubbing circles against the insides of them with his thumbs, and lets the weight of Squalo's hand against the back of his skull pull him down, all the way down, until Squalo groans openly and all Takeshi's world is narrowed to the scent and taste of Squalo's skin and the weight of Squalo's cock on his tongue, the pleasant aching of his jaws and the way Squalo fucks his throat with shallow little thrusts. Xanxus is still watching them, Takeshi can feel it, but he stays silent, even when Squalo groans again, tightening his fingers in Takeshi's hair and arching taut as he comes.
His grip doesn't relax until he does, so it's not until Squalo goes loose and sprawls against the bed, breathing hard, that Takeshi lets his cock slide out of his mouth and sits back on his heels. Before he can make up his mind what to do next, Squalo lifts his head and grins over him, somewhere between a challenge and an invitation. "Hey, Boss."
Xanxus grunts; Takeshi is pretty sure it's not an annoyed sound. He glances around when he finally hears movement, nearly silent footsteps as Xanxus prowls away from the door. His brows are furrowed together, but Takeshi is inclined to say that's because Xanxus is thinking about something, the heavens only know what.
There's one other thing, too: he's hard, the line of his cock pressing against the front of his slacks.
That's a good enough sign that Takeshi feels okay about holding his ground, such as it is, considering that he's just blown Squalo, who is Xanxus' man first and always despite everything, in Xanxus' own bed. He tilts his head back to look up at Xanxus when the man comes to stand over them both. "Hey," he says, for lack of anything better to say.
Xanxus doesn't say anything at all, just looks down at him as the seconds tick by. Takeshi can't get a read on him at all, but Squalo's knee stays relaxed under his palm. He tries to tell himself that it's a good sign—that Squalo would be far more tense if he thought things were about to go sour—but he can't entirely convince himself.
Then Xanxus snorts and drops a hand onto his head, the weight of it heavy as he threads his fingers through Takeshi's hair. "Hey," he says, and that's all—but that's enough.
From
anehan, prompt: Yuuta faces Sanada in the high school tennis circuit.From the same 'verse as something in my WIP files, where Yuuta is completely in love with tennis and going pro (among other things). 603 words.
Up-and-Coming
This year the bracket at Regionals put Rikkai and Seishun on the same branch, and so semifinals is a brisk, demanding match all around. Tezuka looks distinctly put out by the fact that Rikkai is the team advancing to finals, which Genichirou suspects is due (at least in part) to the sunny smile Seiichi gives him at the close of their match, but that's all right. It's Tezuka and Seishun; a loss here will only inspire them to greater efforts at Nationals. Genichirou's looking forward to seeing what shape those efforts take.
Across the bracket, it's Minowodai that sweeps Hyoutei out of the way to take the other finals slot.
Seiichi puts Genichirou in singles three for the final match on the assumption that Tachibana will take singles one and Hoshino will be in singles two. Akaya's in singles two, because Seiichi wants him to get the experience with Hoshino's steamroller-style tennis, and Seiichi hasn't even bothered to pretend that he's not taking singles one for purely selfish reasons. Genichirou doesn't begrudge the slot to him much; even three years on, it's difficult to forget missed opportunities. (Nationals is going to be a different matter, of course.)
They had expected Tachibana to put either Kamio or Ibu into singles three—probably Ibu—but when the time comes, it's neither one.
Genichirou had been aware, vaguely, that Fuji Shuusuke had a younger brother; he was pretty sure that he'd even known that the younger Fuji was at Minowodai—hadn't he heard something about that from last summer's tournaments? And it's Fuji Yuuta who takes the courts for singles three.
He doesn't look much like his brother, Genichirou thinks when they meet to shake hands over the net. He's taller, for one, and meets Genichirou's eyes steadily. He smiles, but it's an open, pleased grin, not the feline smile Fuji usually wears when he walks onto the court. (In the privacy of his own mind, Genichirou freely admits that Fuji Shuusuke annoys him; opponents are not cat toys, but no one could prove that by the way Fuji acts.)
Genichirou is fairly sure he's learned his lesson about underestimating his opponents, but Fuji Yuuta's tennis is still a surprise, because he doesn't play a bit like his brother does. If Fuji Shuusuke's game is one of cat-and-mouse, technical skill and counters and subtlety, Fuji Yuuta's tennis is as straightforward as his smile. Not simple—there's strategy there, and strength—but all the straightforwardness of someone who really, truly loves the game, which is something that Fuji Shuusuke's tennis doesn't have.
And there's skill, too. Quite a lot of skill, in fact, more than anyone who's relatively unknown ought to have. Composure, too; when Genichirou steps into muga, Yuuta doesn't even bat an eye. If Genichirou hadn't known any better, he'd say that the younger Fuji faced opponents who know how to use muga on a regular basis. (But to his knowledge, Tachibana hasn't reached muga, and Fuji Shuusuke likely never will. It's a puzzle, a strange one that Genichirou tucks away for consideration after the match.)
Genichirou wins his two sets, but Yuuta takes some games off him. They shake hands again, Yuuta still grinning, and Genichirou walks back to Rikkai's bench in a thoughtful mood.
Seiichi raises his eyebrows as he takes his seat. Genichirou takes a drink of water as he thinks about his reply; when he does speak, he glances at Akaya to make sure their kouhai is listening. "He's one to watch," he says, finally.
He's not at all surprised when, in the due course of time, Yuuta proves him right.
For
andreaphobia, prompt:... here we are at the place
where I get to beg for it
where I get to say Please, for just one night, will you lay down next to me, we can leave our
clothes on, we can stay all buttoned up?
or will I say
Roll over and let me fuck you till you puke, Henry, you owe me this much, you can indulge me
this at least, can’t you? but we both know how it goes. I say I want you inside me
and you hold my head underwater, I say I want you inside me
and you split me open with a knife.
Reborn, 287 words.
Inherent Features
The problem is, he's a hitman, born and then born again to it, unquestionably the best of the best and has been for long enough that it's very nearly a given (for some people, never for him, because a hitman who takes anything for granted is very shortly going to be an ex-hitman on account of being dead). Reborn is a hitman, the hitman. This does not preclude his having emotions, his knowing the searing knife edge of desire twisting in the gut or even the things that are softer, raw and vulnerable like a bruise, things that ache when they are pressed.
But he did not get to where he is by letting those things influence him. At best they are indulgences, on par with a good meal or a decent cup of coffee, pleasant to have and to enjoy, circumstances permitting. He has hedonistic tendencies; perhaps this is what gives rise to the confusion, but it is precisely because he has lived hand-to-mouth and on starvation rations, stealing sleep in snatches, that Reborn has no interest in dispensing with those tendencies merely for the sake of correcting a few misapprehensions. Besides, it suits his purposes to be underestimated, even when it causes him minor inconvenience.
Nevertheless, the fact remains. He is a hitman. To be a hitman is to be a living weapon that bends itself to its master's orders. This is what Reborn was born to be and what he has chosen to make himself, and anyone who does not heed what he is forgets the nature of weapons themselves.
He finds it regrettable, sometimes, but anyone who forgets that they are dealing with a weapon earns whatever injury they incur in so doing.
From
anruik, prompt: Yamamoto/Gokudera - The former spends some time curled up with Uri.Gokudera, Yamamoto, and Uri; 191 words.
Suborn
"No, what is this, seriously, what the fuck," Hayato said. "For God's sake, you have your own box animals, what the fuck are you suborning mine for?"
He might as well have been talking to the wall for all the good it did him. Uri flicked one disdainful ear and curled into a tighter ball, and Takeshi just riffled his long fingers through Uri's fur and heaved a contented sigh. "It's not my fault," he said. "I'm being held hostage."
"You weigh ten times as much as Uri, you idiot," Hayato pointed out.
"And Uri has five times as many sharp weapons as I do," Takeshi countered, which, okay, Uri was curled up in Takeshi's lap, so maybe that was a valid point. A very small one.
Still. "My box animal. Not yours. Fuck, you already have two!"
Takeshi shrugged. "What can I say? Maybe Uri just likes me better."
Hayato maintained afterwards that he was fully justified in using the squirt bottle on Takeshi at that point (not that it worked on him any better than it did on Uri, but it was the principle of the thing, damn it).
From
branchandroot, Natori takes Natsume out flower viewing.Hiiraga, Urihime, and Sasago pondering the strangeness of humans. 100 words.
Hanami
Natori-sama walked among the trees, talking with the boy. They turned toward each other often; the breeze carried their laughter with its skirl of blossoms.
Urihime was frowning. "His scent changes around the boy, but he does nothing about it." This was as strange as her tone implied; their master was not one to deny himself anything.
"Humans are peculiar creatures," Sasago agreed.
Hiiraga said nothing as Natori-sama brushed his fingers through the boy’s hair, dislodging the petals there. The boy stilled, his face turned up, and Natori-sama dropped his hand.
They walked on.
Yes, Hiiraga thought. Humans were strange.
From
askerian, prompt: Their peers/friends/agemates find out about Hibari and Yamamoto's Gokudera and Tsuna, traumatized. 206 words.
Traumatic Experiences
"Oh my God," Gokudera moaned, clawing at his eyes, "I never wanted to see that."
Tsuna, leaning against the door next to him, was inclined to agree with that assessment. He pressed his hands to his cheeks, willing them to stop burning. It didn't seem to be helping. "Do you think they, um, noticed us?"
Gokudera screwed up his face in a grimace. "Seemed pretty distracted to me."
Which, yes. Yes, they certainly had. Tsuna contemplated that for a moment, felt his ears start burning, and decided to stop thinking about it. Somehow.
He cleared his throat. "Well. I guess this explains what Yamamoto's been up to lately."
Gokudera looked pained. "Can we never speak of this again, Tenth? Please?"
Tsuna nodded, relieved. "Yes. Yes, that would be good. Very good." He pushed away from the door. "Let's... there was something I needed to do. Far, far away from here."
"I'll help you with that, Tenth!" Gokudera said, nearly stuttering with how eagerly he offered. "Let's just... go. Now."
Before Hibari and Yamamoto finished... finished up, he didn't say, but then, Tsuna didn't suppose he had to.
"Yes," he said, and they walked away from the classroom where Hibari and Yamamoto were... busy... without looking back.
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no subject
Date: 30 December 2011 21:58 (UTC)*snickering* Kind of like I can see Tsuna and Gokudera being traumatized, even if there was nothing kinky going on. *amused*
Also, still in love with the Tennis Maniacs arc.
no subject
Date: 31 December 2011 01:03 (UTC)*pats Tsuna and Gokudera* You gotta figure they'd look at Hibari and then at Yamamoto and go "...what is wrong with you, seriously?"
I really need to get back to Tennis Maniacs one of these days. I even know what I need to do next, I just... eh. Haven't.
no subject
Date: 27 July 2012 23:52 (UTC)and omg "You go to bed with one, uh, configuration, and wake up with the other one. It's not a big deal."
I DIED I DIED I DIED HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
And then I went to read Clownfish AND DIED AGAIN
ahahahaha
<3
Geez. Too fricken hilarious.
no subject
Date: 17 August 2012 21:36 (UTC)Glad you enjoyed it!