[KHReborn] YamaMuku: We all fall down.
TITLE: We all fall down.
FANDOM: Kateikyoushi Hitman Reborn
PAIRING/S: Yamamoto/Mukuro, mentions of Yamamoto/Gokudera
RATING: PG-13
SUMMARY: TYL!AU-ish. There’s no rain, no mist, but there is madness. (600+ words)
NOTES: Written for xnoriko_sakumax via khr_exchange09.
Am I in too deep? Have I lost my mind? (Hero, Enrique Iglesias)
When the nights are especially cold and while everyone else has gone off to bed, Yamamoto takes long careful strides towards that room at the end of the hall. And after slipping inside, wordlessly shuts the door behind him. He doesn’t ever look back.
It’s not really a click he hears, but a soft hitch of steel against wood, choked breath, a vaguely ominous sound that upsets nothing, not even a vibration out of place. Only because the occupant of that room already knows he’s there, knows everything. Instead of vibrations, there is a still trembling in the air - distinct provocation. Yamamoto doesn’t like to admit that it appeals to his instincts, to his senses, right down to the core. And he doesn’t need to; the other man already knows this as well.
“Are you lost?”
Yamamoto raises a brow, frown evident, and leans against the wall adjacent, making no move to answer the question. It is probably another one of his games, fraying at the edges of an already beaten, bruised mind. The lights are off, silvery streams of moonlight falling through translucent white curtains, they billow in the evening breeze. It’s almost quixotic, almost whimsical - only, he knows it isn’t. And Yamamoto was never a romantic anyway, so it really doesn’t matter.
Mukuro steps away from his end of the room then, quietly padding over. A rumpled shirt is hanging off of his left shoulder, the lone button of his trousers undone, sheer anticipation rocking back and forth. Their eyes meet just as the other guardian stops in front of him.
“Do you enjoy doing this?” His voice is low, deadly, accusation beneath a warning. Mukuro smirks in reply, runs a hand through his hair and watches Yamamoto watching him, drinking in the sight of him, the way his arm twists, his muscles contract. Yamamoto grits his teeth, though nothing betrays this frustration except his eyes, a smoldering hazel in the dark.
“I’m not quite sure what you mean,” Mukuro leans in, trailing slim fingers against his arm, encircling his wrist. “And besides,” his hand is held up in between them, Mukuro’s tongue sliding against the inside of his palm, “I was under the impression you were enjoying it, too.”
Yamamoto growls, a sound in the back of his throat; Mukuro hears it regardless. His lips move to the point where a pulse beats, he can probably hear that just as clearly. It’s disgusting, Yamamoto thinks, disgusting. But he allows the other man to nip at it anyway, allows Mukuro to slide his arms ‘round his neck and tug him down, allows that smirk to press against his own lips, allows himself to want even if everything else in him denies it.
Mukuro’s knee pushes his legs apart, wedges itself in place, forceful. Make no apologies, take everything in sight. A hand starts to unbutton his shirt, nearly rips it off once Mukuro has reached the hem. It isn’t a mystery, he likes being in control, thrives on it. And Yamamoto lets him have it, lets him do whatever it is he pleases. Because-
“If you aren’t, I can always find a replacement.” The words are mouthed against his cheek before Mukuro bites down on his neck, no doubt leaving bruises, meaning to leave them. It is a grim reminder. Betrayal? Maybe. He closes his eyes.
“There’s Gokudera-kun,” Mukuro continues, tone light, full of lascivious intent, pulling away for a brief moment to study the look on his face. There’s Gokudera-kun. It repeats itself like a mantra, a whisper of a prayer, blasphemous.
Yamamoto imagines Gokudera’s eyes, pleading, trying not to make a sound but it’s a losing battle. Yamamoto imagines the Storm Guardian on his hands and knees, writhing beneath Mukuro’s sheets, imagines a strained voice calling out to him, begging him for release. He inhales, and exhales. Mukuro is waiting as he opens his eyes again, ready to taunt him, tease him. But then-
“That won’t be necessary.” It never is.
~OWARI
FANDOM: Kateikyoushi Hitman Reborn
PAIRING/S: Yamamoto/Mukuro, mentions of Yamamoto/Gokudera
RATING: PG-13
SUMMARY: TYL!AU-ish. There’s no rain, no mist, but there is madness. (600+ words)
NOTES: Written for xnoriko_sakumax via khr_exchange09.
Am I in too deep? Have I lost my mind? (Hero, Enrique Iglesias)
When the nights are especially cold and while everyone else has gone off to bed, Yamamoto takes long careful strides towards that room at the end of the hall. And after slipping inside, wordlessly shuts the door behind him. He doesn’t ever look back.
It’s not really a click he hears, but a soft hitch of steel against wood, choked breath, a vaguely ominous sound that upsets nothing, not even a vibration out of place. Only because the occupant of that room already knows he’s there, knows everything. Instead of vibrations, there is a still trembling in the air - distinct provocation. Yamamoto doesn’t like to admit that it appeals to his instincts, to his senses, right down to the core. And he doesn’t need to; the other man already knows this as well.
“Are you lost?”
Yamamoto raises a brow, frown evident, and leans against the wall adjacent, making no move to answer the question. It is probably another one of his games, fraying at the edges of an already beaten, bruised mind. The lights are off, silvery streams of moonlight falling through translucent white curtains, they billow in the evening breeze. It’s almost quixotic, almost whimsical - only, he knows it isn’t. And Yamamoto was never a romantic anyway, so it really doesn’t matter.
Mukuro steps away from his end of the room then, quietly padding over. A rumpled shirt is hanging off of his left shoulder, the lone button of his trousers undone, sheer anticipation rocking back and forth. Their eyes meet just as the other guardian stops in front of him.
“Do you enjoy doing this?” His voice is low, deadly, accusation beneath a warning. Mukuro smirks in reply, runs a hand through his hair and watches Yamamoto watching him, drinking in the sight of him, the way his arm twists, his muscles contract. Yamamoto grits his teeth, though nothing betrays this frustration except his eyes, a smoldering hazel in the dark.
“I’m not quite sure what you mean,” Mukuro leans in, trailing slim fingers against his arm, encircling his wrist. “And besides,” his hand is held up in between them, Mukuro’s tongue sliding against the inside of his palm, “I was under the impression you were enjoying it, too.”
Yamamoto growls, a sound in the back of his throat; Mukuro hears it regardless. His lips move to the point where a pulse beats, he can probably hear that just as clearly. It’s disgusting, Yamamoto thinks, disgusting. But he allows the other man to nip at it anyway, allows Mukuro to slide his arms ‘round his neck and tug him down, allows that smirk to press against his own lips, allows himself to want even if everything else in him denies it.
Mukuro’s knee pushes his legs apart, wedges itself in place, forceful. Make no apologies, take everything in sight. A hand starts to unbutton his shirt, nearly rips it off once Mukuro has reached the hem. It isn’t a mystery, he likes being in control, thrives on it. And Yamamoto lets him have it, lets him do whatever it is he pleases. Because-
“If you aren’t, I can always find a replacement.” The words are mouthed against his cheek before Mukuro bites down on his neck, no doubt leaving bruises, meaning to leave them. It is a grim reminder. Betrayal? Maybe. He closes his eyes.
“There’s Gokudera-kun,” Mukuro continues, tone light, full of lascivious intent, pulling away for a brief moment to study the look on his face. There’s Gokudera-kun. It repeats itself like a mantra, a whisper of a prayer, blasphemous.
Yamamoto imagines Gokudera’s eyes, pleading, trying not to make a sound but it’s a losing battle. Yamamoto imagines the Storm Guardian on his hands and knees, writhing beneath Mukuro’s sheets, imagines a strained voice calling out to him, begging him for release. He inhales, and exhales. Mukuro is waiting as he opens his eyes again, ready to taunt him, tease him. But then-
“That won’t be necessary.” It never is.
~OWARI