(no subject)
The clock ticks on the wall, slow and piercing in the thick air of the bedroom, and it is in sync with Lancia's soul dying peice by peice. Like a discolored jigsaw puzzle, faded pigments that are no longer anything but nostalgic blurs of a better time, slowly yanked apart by its frail contours- the hand of a mere child reaching out to dismantle it. A boy he had once thought to be only a boy, in a time when boys were for caring and raising and families were for keeping and loving and he was a good man.
A good man who had blood on his hands, but slept through the night. A good man who fought to protect and protected to keep. Who kept his family in his heart even while he slept those dreamless nights.
Now it was a different time though. Boys were secretly the end of the world, families were parts strewn across a dining room, and he was an empty thing bathing in a sea of red with no memory.
He couldn't sleep.
The boy is next to him, right now- older, but still a boy, although by now Lancia knows that he couldn't be farther from such an innocent creature. His face is soft, his hair feathery and parted in a clean zig zag, and sapphire eyelashes- long, but boys his age still had that small charm of effeminicy to them- hug his cheeks. Lancia stares at that peaceful face, at those shut eyes. Tries to burrow holes with his gaze through the thin eyelids and see that he's not a boy- because boys did not have ruby eyes with pupils that changed from number to number and day to day and minute to minute and he's drowning in every second that he's not choking Rokudo Mukuro.
Lancia thinks about it, even reaches out; his strong hands, the strongest in north Italy, brushing against that delicate trachea. Just to crunch it. And maybe somehow this weight of sin on him would get a little lighter. Maybe the souls of his family could sleep, maybe Lancia could sleep too.
Rokudo smiles, shifts. Wakes up. And he feels another thin cardboard snippet of his jigsaw detach and pluck itself out of the entity called a heart. His hand is still in place, and Rokudo leans forward, eyes alarmingly gentle when he presses his lips to Lancia's. His pupil changes to a six, and the familiar sensation of his limbs moving on their own takes over. Lancia goes limp, still, and the boy-monster-thing rolls him over, climbs ontop of him. His body is warm, thin, his mismatched eyes bright with excitement in the room's dim light. If Lancia could move, he'd hug his arms around that slender waist, grip it until the spine laying beneath snaps. But all he can do is breath fast, as his pants are unzipped, his mind is gripped by chilly hands and the tickticktick of the clock tangos with the kufufufu of those lips pressing to his.
Maybe once upon a time, Lancia would be concerned with the idea of a 16 year old boy touching him like this- making the soft, relaxed, tranquil parts of his body roar to life in pulsing raging hardness. His lungs burn with breaths that force his pitiful existance to continue. His eyes refuse to shut, staring straight at the monster's maw closing so gently around his cock. And his jigsaw heart, it dismantles another peice, and another, and another, because Lancia knows this is sick, is wrong, is tragically disgusting-
and to Rokudo Mukuro, the monsterboything who he once thought of as a little brother, it is all a game.
He imagines Hibari would scowl like this. Would shift like this. Would gasp like this.
Mukuro's wrists weave and bob, hands orchestrating his illusory doll, and he decides, with a carved on smile, that her eyes would most definitely glare like this.
Ah yes, and the illusion was nearly complete- tailored to fit the Prefect wonderfully. Thin thighs that curve nicely out from beneath the hem of that school regulated length skirt, those small but energetic breasts that bounced and heaved beneath the starchy button up shirt...
And she would definitely, definitely writhe like this. He tilts his head to the side, eyes keening, runs a smooth palm across the firm muscles, soft flesh, crawling skin of a thigh, and he knows Hibari would tense like this. Would get this glint in her eyes when he teasingly brushed fingers along the border of her cotton panties, would struggle not to gulp when he runs nails carelessly across the warm cloth between her legs, pushes against the intimate dip of skin beneath. He imagines- illusions- makes real, what she would look like on the brink of orgasm, all teeth and hate and utter shame, her body trembling in submission and bangs sticking to her face, insides all knotted up and surging with the desire for his touch. The only thing that would deny it still would be her eyes. Glaring, flashing, holding that true threat of animalistic destruction. But really, defiance in a gaze- it means nothing, Mukuro has learned. The powerless can be as resentful as they'd like, but they will still inevitabley dance as he plucks their strings, composes a sweet song of slavery.
Ah, and with every song, there's always the crescendo, the zenith of emotion, the part where Ken will inevitabley air guitar and Chikusa will roll his eyes. Licking his lips, he decides that there is no other appropriate action for this- but to commit the ultimate offense. He'll rip her school uniform, dirty it, desecrate it, and when she snaps with complete madness over his heresy, he'll yank her panties aside and cram himself in between those swollen lips, will laugh at the flagrant wetness that swallows him whole when he buries in to the brim.
For a moment, he imagines blood, imagines a curling scream rising like a golden note from Hibari's throat. Purity lost. But then, fantasy aside, he decides that there's simply no way someone with such raw hatred, such carnal passion, could have never indulged in such a thing. Even if not with another person, perhaps with a nicely shaped vegetable? He almost forgets his erection in the hilarity of the image, but he's quick to get back to the chase, when he illusions Hibari finally kissing him, masking a moan they both hate but can't deny.
Still working on other stuff, but thought I'd post what I got already since the chat cries for porn.