Title: Crazy Little Thing Called Love
Characters:
Squalo, Xanxus
Summary:
Squalo can't imagine wanting more than this.
Notes:
For Cliché Bingo, prompt: "What is this thing you call 'Love'?." Smut. 663 words.


Crazy Little Thing Called Love

Squalo thinks about it, sometimes, when Xanxus' hands are on his hips, fingers digging in tight enough to sting a little from where his nails are damn near breaking the skin: just what the hell is it that he's doing here, letting his boss fuck him like this?

He's never really been able to come up with a satisfactory explanation for it, not one he could have put into words, the kind he could say out loud and that would keep people's eyes from sliding away from him like they were convinced that he was fucking insane. Not that he actually gives a flying fuck for what other people actually think about him, most of them. But it would be nice, maybe, to have something that would wipe the smirk off Bel's face, or make Mammon shut up when he gets going, since the boss doesn't want them dead yet, which, in Squalo's opinion, is an enormous pity.

Xanxus' grip on his hips shifts, tilting them higher, and his cock slides deeper. It disrupts Squalo's thoughts, breaks them apart and spins them around like a kaleidoscope as the stretch and the heat of it burn through him, making him groan and fist his hand in the sheets. When he can think again, his thoughts have settled into new patterns: fuck, he loves this, loves the big hands framing his hips and leaving crescent-shaped patterns of bruises on them, and the strain in his thigh muscles from being spread relentlessly wide against the bed, and the steady rhythm of Xanxus' cock driving into him, merciless and hard as the man himself. Xanxus doesn't make much noise when they fuck--he might growl at Squalo, one- and two-word orders to turn over or to suck him, and sometimes he grunts with his satisfaction, but mostly he stays silent. Perhaps, Squalo thinks, throat gone dry with his panting, that's because he makes enough noise for the both of them. He can't help it, really, not when Xanxus is pounding into him like this. It feels too good not to moan out loud, too good not to curse and arch and claw at the sheets with the sharp-edged perfection of it.

Like now: Xanxus' thrusts turn faster, and the sound of his breathing is harsh. Squalo groans, something inarticulate even to himself, and braces himself on an elbow as he reaches his hand down to his cock. Xanxus isn't a generous lover--and the appellation "lover" would make him snort, if he were in a good mood, and send him into a rage, if he weren't--and he probably hasn't ever even heard of the idea of a reach-around. There's a lot of things Xanxus hasn't heard of, really, and a fuck load more of them that are broken inside Xanxus' head, but Squalo doesn't mind. He doesn't mind having to do this for himself, either. Part of him likes the image of it, anyway: him on his knees, with a hand on his cock and his ass in the air, and Xanxus behind him, fucking him with his teeth bared and his eyes dark. There'd been a mirror, once, in a hotel somewhere in Venice, where they'd fucked after a mission. Squalo had been able to watch the whole thing--Xanxus with bruises already purple and mottled on his side, him still with blood splashed across his cheek and drying brown and dark in his hair. It had been so hot that he'd felt seared with it, after. Remembering it now is all it takes to send him off, dragging him down and wringing him out without mercy.

He sprawls against the bed, after, boneless and satisfied, until Xanxus shoves at him and growls at him to get cleaned up and then get out. Squalo does, without complaint, because he's got what he came for and so has Xanxus.

And really, he can't imagine wanting more, except maybe to go back to that hotel in Venice.

- end -

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