A matter of recollection
Xanxus doesn't remember how it was he began sleeping with Squalo.
He doesn't remember what started it or how their first time came about. He don't remember if it was perhaps an argument that took a physical turn – in all senses of the word – or if perhaps he just snapped under the sexual tension that had been haunting them like a thick haze from the moment he first laid eyes on the man when they were teenagers.
He doesn't remember when, or even why, he started watching Squalo with perhaps more attention to detail than his reserved attitude warrants. He doesn't remember when, exactly, it occurred to him that the sharp angles or Squalo's face were far too stunning to belong to any mortal man and he doesn't remember when it was that he realized that the lithe body of his rain guardian was the sexiest thing he'd ever seen.
Xanxus was never known for being the most patient of people to walk the planet and combined with his vicious drive to possess anything he so desired, it makes it amazing that he managed to go so long without jumping his right-hand man. That, for years upon years, he managed to keep his hands to himself in the name of pride, rather than pushing Squalo down and fucking him senseless.
But in the end, Xanxus is only one of many disgusting humans – even if he is utterly superior in every way – and carnal lust can only be successfully suppressed for so long before a person gives into their instincts.
Xanxus could recall nothing from their first sexual encounter beyond unending bliss, the feel of Squalo arching beneath his touch, profanities blending seamlessly in with panting as sharp fingernails raked down his back, returning the none-too-gentle touch as Xanxus took him hard and took him fast, brutal and unrelenting.
He could remember being angry, viciously, terribly angry. Why, oh why had it taken this long for him to realize how ungodly brilliant Squalo was in bed? Why hadn't he done this sooner? Why the fuck had he wasted so long needlessly?
Sex with Squalo always brought out rage within Xanxus. He was infuriated by his own intoxication with the younger man, he was infuriated with the way that nobody else he'd ever slept with could do to him what Squalo could, he infuriated that Squalo was the only person in the entirety of existence who was just so fucking perfect.
Xanxus had tried many times after he began sleeping with Squalo to find satisfaction in other women. He had tried – oh fuck, had he tried – searching for the same solace he found within the skinny swordsman in a variety of other bed mates, attempting, in vain, to convince himself that Squalo meant nothing. That there were plenty women in the world he could turn to for what he needed.
It never worked, and the rage that these sexual encounters brought out within him was different entirely from that which Squalo could extract.
These women, they were too soft, too demure and too fragile. One touch felt like it could break them, like they'd shatter if he so much as shifted the wrong way. Their skin was smooth and unblemished, their hair perfectly conditioned and treated like a precious jewel, their wanton giggles and fleeting touches an annoyance rather than a pleasure. Even the most wild of women could do little to please him, instead being a mere imitation of the satisfaction he could obtain with Squalo, a shadowed mockery.
It drove him mad and he could do naught but storm out, slamming the door behind him and leaving a cowering, whimpering, inadequate woman behind him as he went.
After touching Squalo for the first time, no woman in the world was enough to satisfy him and the very idea of touching another man – one who wasn't Squalo – was so utterly repulsing that it made Xanxus physically ill to consider it.
Sex with Squalo was rough, merciless and forceful. Xanxus could roughly grasp his skinny wrist and slam them above him, biting hard on the perfectly scarred skin as he fucked him ruthlessly without having to worry about the man breaking beneath him. The smirk on Squalo's lips, the noises he made and the way he could move his hips drove Xanxus to the breaking point, and for every mark of possession he left upon him, whether it be blackened bruises or a bite mark standing flush against the pale skin, Squalo returned.
Xanxus could run his hands through the uncaringly mused hair, tugging it harshly to bring the other up for an invasive kiss, biting roughly as he did so, teeth clashing violently as their tongues met in a fever. He could push him up against any surface without any complaint, hands dominating and questing as he sought to make the man his; meeting fierce opposition.
Sleeping with Squalo was a lot like a fierce battle; only more satisfying.
Nobody, repeat, nobody, could bring out the feral madness within Xanxus quite like Squalo could. The high tilt of his eyebrows and the way he cocked his head to the side, allowing his hair to cascade over his shoulder as he wrapped his fingers around the back of Xanxus's neck and jerked him down to his own level did things to him that no one else would ever be able to accomplish.
It was amazing, astounding, really, how Squalo seemed to be able to do exactly what Xanxus wanted him to do and more. The way the skinny body felt beneath his hands as he harshly clutched at his hips to hold him steady while he pounded him unforgivingly into the mattress beneath him.
Squalo, Xanxus decided, was an infuriating piece of trash that didn't quite understand the many things that seeing him shirtless could do to his boss in a mere second.
The man had him under a spell, Xanxus was sure, completely under his control, and Xanxus despised the idea of anyone but himself being in command of him.
There was little know other option, however, and no matter how many times Xanxus bit harshly into the junction of Squalo's neck as the other viciously scrapped his fingers down his back, collecting skin as he went and sending another spiral of lust shuddering through Xanxus's frame, it would never be enough.
Xanxus didn't really remember when it was that Squalo became an irreplaceable part in his life. He didn't remember how it was that the other had slowly procured his position by his side. He didn't remember how, when, what or why, really, when it came to Squalo. He doesn't really remember any of the things he wished he did when it came to the man, but an irritating inkling at the back of his mind tales Xanxus that this is a trend that won't be changing anytime in the near future.
There was something about Squalo that did this to him, he was sure, and while it rather worried him that someone else had this kind of hold over him, he doesn't quite remember, in the moments when he has the younger man in his grasp, tasting the spice in his mouth, why, exactly it is, that this is a bad thing.
Xanxus doesn't remember how it was he began sleeping with Squalo; but fuck, he hoped it never ended.