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TITLE: and lead us not
FANDOMS: khr, naruto
PAIRING/CHARACTERS: rokudo mukuro & hatake kakashi
RATING: r - ish? IDKIDKIDK.
SUMMARY/WARNINGS: for realityfinale. i started this in september, and i just now finished it. BUT THE POINT IS -- I FINISHED IT.
I'VE GOT SUCH A FILTHY HEART SOMETIMES
Nine days, thirteen hours, and twenty-five minutes before Mukuro kills Kakashi, he can already tell that the other man is slowly beginning to crack.
"But I said no," and his voice is a muffled laugh against the floor as his head is pushed down, down, down against the concrete, and he just lets him, bides his time, tilts his head back against those fingers wrapped tightly around his neck.
( Do you really think you could do anything if I didn't let you do it -- ? )
Kakashi's fingers tremble with that same electric power he seems to favor so much, too much, and Mukuro feels it drip over his muscles, through his skin and into his bones. It's painful, he supposes idly, but it's not painful enough, and he's not pushing hard enough, because nothing he ever does will be enough. He's not arrogant; he's just right. There's a difference.
And he smiles, when Kakashi curls himself over him, all wiry tense muscle, freezing like he doesn't know what he's doing, like he doesn't understand what he's supposed to be doing. Smiles, when Kakashi's hand moves to his belt and jerks it open, his breath quick and uncertain against the side of his neck. Smiles, when Kakashi's fingers skirt lower, even further, dragging a gloved palm against the head of his cock, and Mukuro almost wants to laugh again.
Because. Because.
He's being shoved into the ground so hard his lungs feel like they're being crushed, and Kakashi has a blade against his throat, right beneath the jugular, all it would take is one little slip and he'd cut him right open, filleting his fucking neck like it's just another piece of meat and spilling blood all down the front of his white shirt. He can't breathe, but he's breathing fine anyway, and Kakashi is the one panicking, and how --
( How fucking funny. )
So. He lets him. He lets him do whatever the fuck he wants to do. He lets Kakashi work his hand over his cock, his fingers curling until his knuckles are pushing against heated flesh. He lets him press his forehead against the stiff leather of his jacket as he jerks him off, because he's the one with the heaving chest, because he's the one holding that blade against his neck with one violently shaking hand.
Mukuro counts off the seconds and the minutes in his head, remembers every single one, remembers every single little bit of this and files it away into a place marked YOU'RE ALREADY DEAD, BITCH in bright, bold red letters. Kakashi can do whatever he wants, because he won't be doing anything pretty soon, and Mukuro laughs until his stomach muscles ache, even with that blade pressing harder and harder into his throat, even as his hand slides up over the concrete, twisting into rooted grass and dirt.
When he comes, it's not because of those fingers roughly tugging and jerking at his cock, closed around him like a vise and not pausing for even a second because if he pauses he'll realize what he's doing and we can't have that we can't have that, can we, no, go ahead and sit pretty in your denial. He comes because he wants to, and because he already knows.
He'll pry open his skull.
» » »
Three days, six hours, and fifty minutes before Mukuro kills Kakashi, the sun is setting, and the evening is quiet. Kakashi's fingers flatten over the pages of his book, smoothing along yellowed paper and black ink, as he watches Mukuro play chess and win against himself.
The bits of sunlight still left stream through the window, cascading along dusty old floorboards, and the silence that sits in the room isn't necessarily unsettling, but it's not comforting, either. At least, not for Kakashi, and Mukuro sees him shifting anxiously against the wall every other minute or so, and the corner of his mouth lifts into the beginnings of a smile.
There's that old saying, better the devil you know than the one you don't, and sometimes, Mukuro wonders if that's why Kakashi insists on this casual sort of familiarity. If maybe somehow he feels like he's doing something this way, even if he isn't, because Mukuro's all poison and so much more, and there's not one part of him that Kakashi knows anything about.
His hand inches over the marble of the chessboard, and he drops his chin to his chest, lowering his eyes as he focuses back on his game.
( do you like games don't say yes i know you're lying )
Mukuro's not insane. He's not. He's so clear in his coherency and his reasoning for everything he does that he can't be insane. Insanity is for men of weaker will than he.
But Kakashi is getting there. And he's like a dog that senses that something is off, that something is wrong, that a storm is coming, but he doesn't know how to stop it or how to avoid it or how to get the fuck out of its way. So he's just standing around waiting, bracing himself for the inevitable impact, but he knows.
And that's why he looks at him and curls his fingers into his palms when he thinks Mukuro's not paying attention. There's nothing else he can do. He's only human, after all, dressed up to look like something else, but that's what he is. And Mukuro hasn't forgotten.
Mukuro glances at the clock on the wall behind him and knocks down the last of his pawns.
Three days, six hours, and forty-nine minutes.
» » »
Three minutes before Mukuro kills Kakashi, he has him down on one knee with his fingers fisted tightly in his hair.
Blood reeks, it smells of life lost and of rot, and it's everywhere, dripping over everything, coated on Mukuro's wrists and hands, spotted in places on his cheek and neck. He has nothing against messes when he's the cause of them, and Kakashi is breathing brokenly, wetly, as if he's the one with the crushed lungs now, except the catch is he probably is.
He had a timeframe set out for all of this, carefully calculated, but he lost count around ten minutes ago, and he tips his chin up in thought as he leans Kakashi's head against his hip, his thumb brushing along his chin to press into the tender muscle beneath his ear. Less than five minutes. Is that it?
Time flies.
Kakashi has a hand at his belt, and he's pulling away, pulling back with whatever little bit of strength he has left, swaying unsteadily there before him. Mukuro glances back down and draws him closer, presses his face against his stomach and loosens that hand in his hair.
"Come," he says, and his fingers stroke down through his hair to the back of his neck as he lifts Kakashi's head with the end of his trident. "I'll help you close your eyes."
Mukuro drags his mouth open and kisses him to muffle his screams.
FANDOMS: khr, naruto
PAIRING/CHARACTERS: rokudo mukuro & hatake kakashi
RATING: r - ish? IDKIDKIDK.
SUMMARY/WARNINGS: for realityfinale. i started this in september, and i just now finished it. BUT THE POINT IS -- I FINISHED IT.
I'VE GOT SUCH A FILTHY HEART SOMETIMES
Nine days, thirteen hours, and twenty-five minutes before Mukuro kills Kakashi, he can already tell that the other man is slowly beginning to crack.
"But I said no," and his voice is a muffled laugh against the floor as his head is pushed down, down, down against the concrete, and he just lets him, bides his time, tilts his head back against those fingers wrapped tightly around his neck.
( Do you really think you could do anything if I didn't let you do it -- ? )
Kakashi's fingers tremble with that same electric power he seems to favor so much, too much, and Mukuro feels it drip over his muscles, through his skin and into his bones. It's painful, he supposes idly, but it's not painful enough, and he's not pushing hard enough, because nothing he ever does will be enough. He's not arrogant; he's just right. There's a difference.
And he smiles, when Kakashi curls himself over him, all wiry tense muscle, freezing like he doesn't know what he's doing, like he doesn't understand what he's supposed to be doing. Smiles, when Kakashi's hand moves to his belt and jerks it open, his breath quick and uncertain against the side of his neck. Smiles, when Kakashi's fingers skirt lower, even further, dragging a gloved palm against the head of his cock, and Mukuro almost wants to laugh again.
Because. Because.
He's being shoved into the ground so hard his lungs feel like they're being crushed, and Kakashi has a blade against his throat, right beneath the jugular, all it would take is one little slip and he'd cut him right open, filleting his fucking neck like it's just another piece of meat and spilling blood all down the front of his white shirt. He can't breathe, but he's breathing fine anyway, and Kakashi is the one panicking, and how --
( How fucking funny. )
So. He lets him. He lets him do whatever the fuck he wants to do. He lets Kakashi work his hand over his cock, his fingers curling until his knuckles are pushing against heated flesh. He lets him press his forehead against the stiff leather of his jacket as he jerks him off, because he's the one with the heaving chest, because he's the one holding that blade against his neck with one violently shaking hand.
Mukuro counts off the seconds and the minutes in his head, remembers every single one, remembers every single little bit of this and files it away into a place marked YOU'RE ALREADY DEAD, BITCH in bright, bold red letters. Kakashi can do whatever he wants, because he won't be doing anything pretty soon, and Mukuro laughs until his stomach muscles ache, even with that blade pressing harder and harder into his throat, even as his hand slides up over the concrete, twisting into rooted grass and dirt.
When he comes, it's not because of those fingers roughly tugging and jerking at his cock, closed around him like a vise and not pausing for even a second because if he pauses he'll realize what he's doing and we can't have that we can't have that, can we, no, go ahead and sit pretty in your denial. He comes because he wants to, and because he already knows.
He'll pry open his skull.
» » »
Three days, six hours, and fifty minutes before Mukuro kills Kakashi, the sun is setting, and the evening is quiet. Kakashi's fingers flatten over the pages of his book, smoothing along yellowed paper and black ink, as he watches Mukuro play chess and win against himself.
The bits of sunlight still left stream through the window, cascading along dusty old floorboards, and the silence that sits in the room isn't necessarily unsettling, but it's not comforting, either. At least, not for Kakashi, and Mukuro sees him shifting anxiously against the wall every other minute or so, and the corner of his mouth lifts into the beginnings of a smile.
There's that old saying, better the devil you know than the one you don't, and sometimes, Mukuro wonders if that's why Kakashi insists on this casual sort of familiarity. If maybe somehow he feels like he's doing something this way, even if he isn't, because Mukuro's all poison and so much more, and there's not one part of him that Kakashi knows anything about.
His hand inches over the marble of the chessboard, and he drops his chin to his chest, lowering his eyes as he focuses back on his game.
( do you like games don't say yes i know you're lying )
Mukuro's not insane. He's not. He's so clear in his coherency and his reasoning for everything he does that he can't be insane. Insanity is for men of weaker will than he.
But Kakashi is getting there. And he's like a dog that senses that something is off, that something is wrong, that a storm is coming, but he doesn't know how to stop it or how to avoid it or how to get the fuck out of its way. So he's just standing around waiting, bracing himself for the inevitable impact, but he knows.
And that's why he looks at him and curls his fingers into his palms when he thinks Mukuro's not paying attention. There's nothing else he can do. He's only human, after all, dressed up to look like something else, but that's what he is. And Mukuro hasn't forgotten.
Mukuro glances at the clock on the wall behind him and knocks down the last of his pawns.
Three days, six hours, and forty-nine minutes.
» » »
Three minutes before Mukuro kills Kakashi, he has him down on one knee with his fingers fisted tightly in his hair.
Blood reeks, it smells of life lost and of rot, and it's everywhere, dripping over everything, coated on Mukuro's wrists and hands, spotted in places on his cheek and neck. He has nothing against messes when he's the cause of them, and Kakashi is breathing brokenly, wetly, as if he's the one with the crushed lungs now, except the catch is he probably is.
He had a timeframe set out for all of this, carefully calculated, but he lost count around ten minutes ago, and he tips his chin up in thought as he leans Kakashi's head against his hip, his thumb brushing along his chin to press into the tender muscle beneath his ear. Less than five minutes. Is that it?
Time flies.
Kakashi has a hand at his belt, and he's pulling away, pulling back with whatever little bit of strength he has left, swaying unsteadily there before him. Mukuro glances back down and draws him closer, presses his face against his stomach and loosens that hand in his hair.
"Come," he says, and his fingers stroke down through his hair to the back of his neck as he lifts Kakashi's head with the end of his trident. "I'll help you close your eyes."
Mukuro drags his mouth open and kisses him to muffle his screams.