WinterDust: Mmm, another story. This time, it's a bit longer. Enjoy
The heavy body lands with a thud and there's a sickening crack; the dust from the asphalt finally settles on top of mangled trashcans and bloodied figures sprawled across the narrow street. The walls of his fortress the alleyway are high and his power overwhelming; Agon is the King, sitting on top of his throne, decorated with the blood of his enemies.
It's Saturday afternoon, nearing two o'clock: his favorite time to hunt. He leans back, relaxed, because it's time to admire the view. Sunlight spills into the alleyway, creeping across the ground to fully unveil the carnage from the shadows of those high walls of Agon's castle. There's red glistening on the pavement and the slight twitch from those insects are made more prominent; Agon is bristling with pride and he knows that he hasn't been sane in a long, long time.
The lighting is perfect, just too damn perfect, and Agon smirks to himself as he imagines how fucking beautiful the memory of this victory will be once Hiruma takes those goddamn photos, evil cackle and all.
The sun creeps along, slowly –minutes pass but there is no evil cackle or the sound of flashing cameras. Any minute now, his eyes stare at the corner of the street where Hiruma always makes his entrance. More time passes by and the King is irritated beyond reason –not that Agon is ever reasonable – because the lighting is ruined; it's not perfect anymore. Agon grits his teeth and slides off his throne; he doesn't even have the courtesy to step over the bodies strewn across the ground, because this is the first time the fucking trash's been late to one of their Saturday rendezvous.
Agon decides that he'd be the one to stand the fucker up the next time the trash calls; he kicks aside another trashcan and turns the corner.
d.u.s.t.
Hiruma Youichi doesn't contact him for over a week and Agon's sick of that heavy feeling in his chest that stirs whenever he picks up the phone only to hear the soft feminine voice of an admirer instead of the sharper, deeper voice of a certain quarterback.
d.u.s.t.
"Don't mess with me, you shit."
It's another nice day –not too cold and not too hot. There's another dumbass crushed beneath his foot, knife still clutched tightly in his left hand. Agon knows this fucker's awake though, despite the chipped tooth and bleeding lips, because the hand that's gripping the knife is shaking, shaking, shaking in fear of him. Agon crouches down, peering at the insect beneath him through the dark lenses of his glasses, and allows himself a wide, gleeful smirk because he knows that only he –Agon Kongou, a God above Gods- can getaway with pilfering a wallet from an armed and conscience thug without the slightest fear of getting hurt.
Then there's a familiar sound; the demented and twisted cackle of a certain quarterback he hasn't heard in weeks. There's another familiar feeling stirring: it makes his heart beat faster and makes his muscles tense just slightly –Agon hates this feeling, too, because it always comes before that shitty weight settles on his chest and makes it harder to breathe for a while.
He doesn't know it yet, but he's been searching for that bleached hair and lanky figure for nine days now, the same figure standing over there beyond the fence –over there next to the fucking Fatty instead of here next to him taking photos of this trash quivering beneath his feet.
There's something more –with Hiruma, there's always something more – and Agon's a fucking genius so he sees it all. There's third person; he's tall and built and proportional –unlike Fatty. Since he's God, his vision is good enough to make out the rugged features of this guy's face. Standing next to him, Hiruma looks much younger than he usually does because he's shorter, thinner, and smoother.
Agon teases the trash about it all the time: he's in his fucking last year of middle school and he's still practically hairless (Hiruma tells him to shut the fuck up, but he can't put enough malicious intent behind his words when Agon's pounding into him to make it sound threatening at all). But secretly, Agon Kongou loves the feel of the future-quarterback's flesh against his, all slick and slippery with sweat, and Agon prays to his invincible self that Hiruma will stay just as fuckable in the future.
He knows he's getting hard just thinking of it, but he doesn't feel like sticking his hand down his pants when there's a dumbass passed out next to him (still pretending).
And today, there's some kind of something creeping up on him when he sees the blonde next to that other guy –better than Kurita, but nevertheless disliked – and he thinks its suffocation, maybe a sickness (Agon's never been sick in his entire life; still, something hurts and hurts and hurts).
Then there's that laugh – one he hasn't heard for the nine days with no contact from Hiruma – and it's his cue to leave.
d.u.s.t.
By the time he remembers that he's supposed to be ignoring Hiruma's calls, he's already standing in front of their usual rendezvous point, hands in his pant pocket and leaning against the wall of his castle because he has every right to be there. He curses and turns back after he's gathered enough balls to even start walking away (deluding himself that the only reason he wants to see the trash is to beat him – he's coming, he's coming, he's coming), but there's already a cackle and a Here so early, fucking dreads.
d.u.s.t.
There is no target today. There's only Agon jerking Hiruma deeper into their fortress, lifting his skinny figure right off of the ground, and slamming him into a corner hidden from outside view by a large trashcan. Hiruma's already let loose a stream of curses, in that sharp, articulate way of his that Agon will never admit that he'd missed. So instead of reveling in the other's voice like a romantic fool (trash, trash, trash), he shuts the fucker up with his mouth so suddenly that he tastes blood. As soon as he moves away to bite Hiruma's neck, there's a harsh fuck that's husky enough to send the blood pooling into Agon's groin.
He doesn't waste any time undoing his jeans – Hiruma slides his down, too, because he knows that Agon's too selfish to care about his ruined clothes at the end of it – and grinds the first chance he gets at flesh-to-flesh contact; not a moment is wasted and Hiruma barely has enough time to tug his underwear lower before Agon's fingers are plunged deep inside, stretching him (That fucking hurts— fucking dreads).
Hiruma can't even breathe properly with Agon's weight pressing him against the alley's wall and Agon, being the fucker he is, nearly kills him when he thrusts in, strong arms hoisting thin legs over wide shoulders to bend him in half – he doesn't even have enough air to chant: shit, shit, shit.
Agon's gripping Hiruma's ass with intent to bruise, because this is his damn it – the fucking insanity of it all. He can't lose this and just the idea of losing at all (because there's no way that Hiruma could mean something to Agon Kongou, of all people) makes him thrust harder and faster and deeper; he buries his face into the crook of Hiruma's neck, and as they move, the weight of Hiruma's wrists, the sting of his nails digging into his shoulders, and the slight slipping of one leg onto Agon's bicep is made much more noticeable.
He's gripping (clinging to) the trash with intent to bruise but it's always never enough.
d.u.s.t.
Hiruma doesn't contact him for a week-and-a-half after that. But Agon knows that he's with Fucker 1 and Fucker 2 beyond that fence. There's a rumor that Hiruma Youichi's building a bridge between dreams and realities.
d.u.s.t.
Agon doesn't exactly understand why he's standing in front of Shinryuuji High; he doesn't even like football.
WinterDust: This story's less worksafe (not at all, really). I hope that the emotions were conveyed, too. I may repost edits and things - I have another story half-written so look forward to that. Hearts to all!