[fanfic] Konpeito
Title: Konpeito
Author: legare_virtuoso
Rating: R
Pairings: Hibari/Mukuro 1869
Warnings: Lime, delicious lime. Suggestive sexual content. Hibari, Mukuro. Warnings in and of themselves. Abuse of AU concept.
Author Notes: Merry Christmas nonoji! Enjoy your delicious pair of very much AU 1869 fics. Sadly, I didn't manage to get anything but 1869... But Mukuro's awesome?
Merry Christmas also to the khr_exchange09 and hitman_reborn members, and eventually to Fanfiction.net when I manage to get it all cross posted properly. If you don't celebrate Christmas... Happy Winter Chrismahanakwanzadon. Giant thank-you to sinny_chan for being my epic usual taskmaster and general idea debunker. Much love to the mods at khr_exchange09 for making this even possible!
i. Relativity
Sometime between Hibari Kyouya’s first mission and the end of the world, he was actually happy. Sure his definition of happy involved many trips to healers and a few thousand people screaming in agony, but the fact of the matter was that he was happy. His tonfa bit people to death, his bird was chirping, the Vongola Guild was in the middle of a faction war, and the world was in fact ending. Hibari’s life couldn’t possibly get any better, and if he was a lesser herbivore he’d probably be skipping through the streets singing show tunes. Since he is not one of such lesser beings, Hibari Kyouya expresses his happiness through other means, namely the chief pursuit of biting people to death as painfully as he possibly can. It rather helps that all the Vongola Guild can seem to ask him for is in the name of the annihilation of his fellow species (and quite a few others to the side, but that’s missing the point), compounds his glee into one carnivorous package and sets it loose on the innocent population.
It’s only too bad that this world is ending, magic all used up and moon drifting out of orbit.
And Hibari’s happiness died that day, the very moment a lanky arm draped across his shoulders like the owner holds some sort of relevance in Hibari’s life, when his quiet contemplation by the lakeside was disrupted. Rokudo Mukuro is a liar, a thief, and everything in the world that Hibari has ever hated. He is strife and discord, a careful veil of silken debauchery drawn over the sinful depths of mix-matched poison. And it is this strange harlot that Hibari wants to hurt, can’t resist the urge to throw him to the ground and break open moon-bathed skin to count the lines of red that would paint the dirt. “Don’t act so familiar, herbivore.” He shoves off the arm and stands to the side, angry hand lacing in blue hair as lips lock in a furious battle for dominance. Hibari hates how he can feel Mukuro smile against him, lets blunt nails scratch at his skin because the stupid herbivore can’t help it. The world is ending and all Hibari cares about is wiping that expression off Mukuro’s face by any means, delights in the other man’s breathy gasp. He lies to himself as he bends the other man over and bites at his neck, convinces himself that this is how a carnivore keeps the herbivores in line.
And as he passes his hand over the obligingly naked planes of the camp whore’s body, Hibari can’t help but let his own predator’s smile stretch over his face with every begging plea.
Hibari Kyouya does not ‘make love’ with Rokudo Mukuro. What they do in the unnatural twilight is closer to animalistic rutting than any sort of fuzzy herbivore ritual, a chaotic mess of limbs entwined with a series of unholy grunts and moans. Because the world is ending, didn’t you know it, and Hibari has it in his head that the last thing he is going to do before he dies will be the complete annihilation of whatever dignity that damn man has left. There won’t be a later, no whispered confessions of love in an unwilling ear. Hibari won’t buy him chocolate and flowers and won’t play a cat to leave the corpses of herbivores on his doorstep. Mukuro won’t be anything more or less than he already is, a silk courtesan that follows the Vongola Guild in the hopes of one more romp in the proverbial hay. The world ends in something akin to violence, passed backwards over carnal sin and left three bars back in the song of a little yellow bird nesting in the hair of a dead man.
“Kufufufu… pleasure doing business with you, Hibari Kyouya.”
ii. Therapy
They told him that he had lost all the marbles he ever had in the accident, sometime between the first time he died on the table and the sixth. And Mukuro accepts it as the truth, tries not to scratch at the gauze covering his blood soaked eye, and merely nods gracefully at Doctors Reborn and Shamal while trying not to think about anything in particular. He’s afraid of numbers, can feel his spine prickle with cold that isn’t there as he dreams of drowning and flying at the same time. When they let him go it is with stipulations, a multitude of rules he must follow and ‘advice’ that is more burdening and troublesome than the official rules he must endure. But he doesn’t sleep anymore, spends his days staring at blank canvas and wondering where everything went wrong.
Mukuro takes his pills dry and resists the urge to throw things while screaming at the world’s unfairness.
“Mukuro-sama, you look terrible.” Chrome is always obligingly helpful, even when she opens the door and has to dodge a carmine missile that would have ruined her violet locks for weeks. She bustles about the studio and cleans as best as she can, avoids the ever smiling painter with practiced grace and only once has to politely move him out of the way. He doesn’t listen to a word she says as she works, merely nods with a bemused smile and agrees with whatever madness she’s blathered on about. His cute little Chrome is such a darling when she plays the mother hen, even as she thoughtfully comments on his lack of artistic creativity with the grace of a surgeon. “Mukuro-sama… you haven’t painted anything in awhile. Is something wrong?”
“Kufufu, of course not my cute little Chrome.” He runs his fingers through his hair, ignores the paint trails and does his best not to look directly at her. Mukuro keeps dreaming of the lives he’s never had with people he’s never met, a blood-boiling smile that promises equal parts pain and pleasure viewed from the eyes of a girl he calls his sister. “I simply can’t find anything worthwhile to paint.”
“I see. Well Mukuro-sama, I took the liberty of arranging for a model. Doctor Reborn said you needed something interesting to spark your talent again.”
“Oh? Should I be worried?”
She shows herself out with a small smile and a little wave, turns her head over her shoulder to focus her only eye on him. “Mukuro-sama, don’t leave him out there. He won’t like it very much.”
There’s not much to do while Chrome is gone but sleep, curled up in front of white canvas with all the colors of the rainbow spread out across the floor and walls around it. He doesn’t bother to consider what time it is, where he put his brush before he huddled down in front of the physical representation of his own failure. He dreams of drowning and flying at the same time, of a man he’ll never meet and a world that isn’t his own. But for Rokudo Mukuro, the artist who bears the distinct pleasure of having died six times in six minutes, his dreams are his own reality.
In his dream, Mukuro is all powerful, drowning in power that comes to his call with the casual command of one through six. He is a king on a throne of bones, built it up from the carcasses of those foolish Mafiosi who dared to challenge his absolute control. Mukuro lives through Chrome, sees the world through a single eye and leads along a one man zoo and an emotional wasteland to meetings with the underworld of Italy. Chrome is for the Vongola, because by default admission of loss Mukuro himself must serve. But he doesn’t mind, eyes up his foolish tuna and waits until that damned baby is sufficiently distracted before he makes his move. Mukuro will own the Vongola Tenth one way or the other, even if he has to serve until the boy is old and grey to do it. His trident is as feared as the mystery of his red eye and none challenge his reign of terror.
All save one.
Hibari Kyouya is a name that slips past his lips as well as lies do, colors him pink behind the mask of mist and drives all the blood south with unhindered desire. Mukuro made him sick on flowers, brings him to his knees with the sight of the dead man’s blossoms. He wonders when the other man will think of the meaning behind his calling card, whether he has realized yet that there is only one way to make something as perfect as that paragon of lethal beauty stay still so that Mukuro might worship him properly. It hurts to breathe around Kyouya, knowing that something so blessed will never deign to willingly bless him with his godlike presence.
So Mukuro has become something of a stalker, wraps illusions around his cute little Chrome and walks through the halls of Kyouya’s home dressed as a regent haired member of the Disciplinary Committee. There’s not much he won’t do to ensure he can stay near the other man, even goes so far as so stop smiling and pinches himself-Chrome in the leg when he feels the urge to laugh.
When Kyouya discovers his lies it’s a surprise to the rest of the Vongola, a fit of violence that promises to go down in mafia history as the most shocking moment of Guardian camaraderie.
Mukuro has to abandon Lippi’s body for his own, disentangles his limbs from Chrome’s possessive grip and slips out into the night to make his way to Kyouya’s side where he belongs. “Kufufu… Did you miss me?”
It’s only later, when his arms are tied to the bedpost by his own tie and Kyouya is biting him to death in a trail of liquid fire that starts at his neck and is proceeding at a languid pace down past his navel, that Rokudo Mukuro realizes exactly how far he will go for the solitary cloud. But when he tries to tell him so in the staccato tones of Japanese Hibari prefers over the fluid pace of Italian, his voice chokes up and all he can manage is a low moan. Kyouya smirks somewhere above his stomach, and long fingers (more accustomed to gripping a tonfa and the idiosyncrasies that act implied) grip and stroke until Mukuro can’t think of anything but-
-Mukuro wakes up to his hand down his pants and a knock on the door, the drop cloth that formed his bed all disheveled from the force of his tossing about. There’s not much to do but curse the fates and will himself somewhat calm before he wraps the paint splattered fabric around him in a parody of a bed sheet. A quick hand through his hair ensures he doesn’t look like a complete recluse (Mukuro makes no comment on the spiked cowlick that will never leave him alone, a genetic trait that even his cute little Chrome shares) and a quick roll of his neck works the kinks out in a series of disgusting little crackles.
“Hello?” A fist to his face later, and Mukuro sees stars and his own personal demon.
“My name is Hibari Kyouya. I’m your new model. Don’t let me wait outside ever again.”
Author: legare_virtuoso
Rating: R
Pairings: Hibari/Mukuro 1869
Warnings: Lime, delicious lime. Suggestive sexual content. Hibari, Mukuro. Warnings in and of themselves. Abuse of AU concept.
Author Notes: Merry Christmas nonoji! Enjoy your delicious pair of very much AU 1869 fics. Sadly, I didn't manage to get anything but 1869... But Mukuro's awesome?
Merry Christmas also to the khr_exchange09 and hitman_reborn members, and eventually to Fanfiction.net when I manage to get it all cross posted properly. If you don't celebrate Christmas... Happy Winter Chrismahanakwanzadon. Giant thank-you to sinny_chan for being my epic usual taskmaster and general idea debunker. Much love to the mods at khr_exchange09 for making this even possible!
i. Relativity
Sometime between Hibari Kyouya’s first mission and the end of the world, he was actually happy. Sure his definition of happy involved many trips to healers and a few thousand people screaming in agony, but the fact of the matter was that he was happy. His tonfa bit people to death, his bird was chirping, the Vongola Guild was in the middle of a faction war, and the world was in fact ending. Hibari’s life couldn’t possibly get any better, and if he was a lesser herbivore he’d probably be skipping through the streets singing show tunes. Since he is not one of such lesser beings, Hibari Kyouya expresses his happiness through other means, namely the chief pursuit of biting people to death as painfully as he possibly can. It rather helps that all the Vongola Guild can seem to ask him for is in the name of the annihilation of his fellow species (and quite a few others to the side, but that’s missing the point), compounds his glee into one carnivorous package and sets it loose on the innocent population.
It’s only too bad that this world is ending, magic all used up and moon drifting out of orbit.
And Hibari’s happiness died that day, the very moment a lanky arm draped across his shoulders like the owner holds some sort of relevance in Hibari’s life, when his quiet contemplation by the lakeside was disrupted. Rokudo Mukuro is a liar, a thief, and everything in the world that Hibari has ever hated. He is strife and discord, a careful veil of silken debauchery drawn over the sinful depths of mix-matched poison. And it is this strange harlot that Hibari wants to hurt, can’t resist the urge to throw him to the ground and break open moon-bathed skin to count the lines of red that would paint the dirt. “Don’t act so familiar, herbivore.” He shoves off the arm and stands to the side, angry hand lacing in blue hair as lips lock in a furious battle for dominance. Hibari hates how he can feel Mukuro smile against him, lets blunt nails scratch at his skin because the stupid herbivore can’t help it. The world is ending and all Hibari cares about is wiping that expression off Mukuro’s face by any means, delights in the other man’s breathy gasp. He lies to himself as he bends the other man over and bites at his neck, convinces himself that this is how a carnivore keeps the herbivores in line.
And as he passes his hand over the obligingly naked planes of the camp whore’s body, Hibari can’t help but let his own predator’s smile stretch over his face with every begging plea.
Hibari Kyouya does not ‘make love’ with Rokudo Mukuro. What they do in the unnatural twilight is closer to animalistic rutting than any sort of fuzzy herbivore ritual, a chaotic mess of limbs entwined with a series of unholy grunts and moans. Because the world is ending, didn’t you know it, and Hibari has it in his head that the last thing he is going to do before he dies will be the complete annihilation of whatever dignity that damn man has left. There won’t be a later, no whispered confessions of love in an unwilling ear. Hibari won’t buy him chocolate and flowers and won’t play a cat to leave the corpses of herbivores on his doorstep. Mukuro won’t be anything more or less than he already is, a silk courtesan that follows the Vongola Guild in the hopes of one more romp in the proverbial hay. The world ends in something akin to violence, passed backwards over carnal sin and left three bars back in the song of a little yellow bird nesting in the hair of a dead man.
“Kufufufu… pleasure doing business with you, Hibari Kyouya.”
ii. Therapy
They told him that he had lost all the marbles he ever had in the accident, sometime between the first time he died on the table and the sixth. And Mukuro accepts it as the truth, tries not to scratch at the gauze covering his blood soaked eye, and merely nods gracefully at Doctors Reborn and Shamal while trying not to think about anything in particular. He’s afraid of numbers, can feel his spine prickle with cold that isn’t there as he dreams of drowning and flying at the same time. When they let him go it is with stipulations, a multitude of rules he must follow and ‘advice’ that is more burdening and troublesome than the official rules he must endure. But he doesn’t sleep anymore, spends his days staring at blank canvas and wondering where everything went wrong.
Mukuro takes his pills dry and resists the urge to throw things while screaming at the world’s unfairness.
“Mukuro-sama, you look terrible.” Chrome is always obligingly helpful, even when she opens the door and has to dodge a carmine missile that would have ruined her violet locks for weeks. She bustles about the studio and cleans as best as she can, avoids the ever smiling painter with practiced grace and only once has to politely move him out of the way. He doesn’t listen to a word she says as she works, merely nods with a bemused smile and agrees with whatever madness she’s blathered on about. His cute little Chrome is such a darling when she plays the mother hen, even as she thoughtfully comments on his lack of artistic creativity with the grace of a surgeon. “Mukuro-sama… you haven’t painted anything in awhile. Is something wrong?”
“Kufufu, of course not my cute little Chrome.” He runs his fingers through his hair, ignores the paint trails and does his best not to look directly at her. Mukuro keeps dreaming of the lives he’s never had with people he’s never met, a blood-boiling smile that promises equal parts pain and pleasure viewed from the eyes of a girl he calls his sister. “I simply can’t find anything worthwhile to paint.”
“I see. Well Mukuro-sama, I took the liberty of arranging for a model. Doctor Reborn said you needed something interesting to spark your talent again.”
“Oh? Should I be worried?”
She shows herself out with a small smile and a little wave, turns her head over her shoulder to focus her only eye on him. “Mukuro-sama, don’t leave him out there. He won’t like it very much.”
There’s not much to do while Chrome is gone but sleep, curled up in front of white canvas with all the colors of the rainbow spread out across the floor and walls around it. He doesn’t bother to consider what time it is, where he put his brush before he huddled down in front of the physical representation of his own failure. He dreams of drowning and flying at the same time, of a man he’ll never meet and a world that isn’t his own. But for Rokudo Mukuro, the artist who bears the distinct pleasure of having died six times in six minutes, his dreams are his own reality.
In his dream, Mukuro is all powerful, drowning in power that comes to his call with the casual command of one through six. He is a king on a throne of bones, built it up from the carcasses of those foolish Mafiosi who dared to challenge his absolute control. Mukuro lives through Chrome, sees the world through a single eye and leads along a one man zoo and an emotional wasteland to meetings with the underworld of Italy. Chrome is for the Vongola, because by default admission of loss Mukuro himself must serve. But he doesn’t mind, eyes up his foolish tuna and waits until that damned baby is sufficiently distracted before he makes his move. Mukuro will own the Vongola Tenth one way or the other, even if he has to serve until the boy is old and grey to do it. His trident is as feared as the mystery of his red eye and none challenge his reign of terror.
All save one.
Hibari Kyouya is a name that slips past his lips as well as lies do, colors him pink behind the mask of mist and drives all the blood south with unhindered desire. Mukuro made him sick on flowers, brings him to his knees with the sight of the dead man’s blossoms. He wonders when the other man will think of the meaning behind his calling card, whether he has realized yet that there is only one way to make something as perfect as that paragon of lethal beauty stay still so that Mukuro might worship him properly. It hurts to breathe around Kyouya, knowing that something so blessed will never deign to willingly bless him with his godlike presence.
So Mukuro has become something of a stalker, wraps illusions around his cute little Chrome and walks through the halls of Kyouya’s home dressed as a regent haired member of the Disciplinary Committee. There’s not much he won’t do to ensure he can stay near the other man, even goes so far as so stop smiling and pinches himself-Chrome in the leg when he feels the urge to laugh.
When Kyouya discovers his lies it’s a surprise to the rest of the Vongola, a fit of violence that promises to go down in mafia history as the most shocking moment of Guardian camaraderie.
Mukuro has to abandon Lippi’s body for his own, disentangles his limbs from Chrome’s possessive grip and slips out into the night to make his way to Kyouya’s side where he belongs. “Kufufu… Did you miss me?”
It’s only later, when his arms are tied to the bedpost by his own tie and Kyouya is biting him to death in a trail of liquid fire that starts at his neck and is proceeding at a languid pace down past his navel, that Rokudo Mukuro realizes exactly how far he will go for the solitary cloud. But when he tries to tell him so in the staccato tones of Japanese Hibari prefers over the fluid pace of Italian, his voice chokes up and all he can manage is a low moan. Kyouya smirks somewhere above his stomach, and long fingers (more accustomed to gripping a tonfa and the idiosyncrasies that act implied) grip and stroke until Mukuro can’t think of anything but-
-Mukuro wakes up to his hand down his pants and a knock on the door, the drop cloth that formed his bed all disheveled from the force of his tossing about. There’s not much to do but curse the fates and will himself somewhat calm before he wraps the paint splattered fabric around him in a parody of a bed sheet. A quick hand through his hair ensures he doesn’t look like a complete recluse (Mukuro makes no comment on the spiked cowlick that will never leave him alone, a genetic trait that even his cute little Chrome shares) and a quick roll of his neck works the kinks out in a series of disgusting little crackles.
“Hello?” A fist to his face later, and Mukuro sees stars and his own personal demon.
“My name is Hibari Kyouya. I’m your new model. Don’t let me wait outside ever again.”