[fanfic] Her Majesty's Pet
Title: Her Majesty’s Pet
Author: legare_virtuoso
Rating: R
Warnings: Xanxus. Crazy Xanxus. Sex.
Prompt: VII - 60. Haru/Xanxus: Deception; "Angelic in your syntax, Demonic in your motive"
Word count: 2092
Summary: When Haru leaves, Xanxus loses his mind. Sequel to I Carillion a Dieci.
Author Notes: I blame chaernotwasted. Not only is this her prompt, but it’s her bloody fault I wrote this. Seriously guys, if you have issues with this, bother her. And look, I did more bits from my Schrodinger Hearts thing on biantaitroika. Except I don't think I'll be using that comm anymore >_>
The blood on his tongue tastes like defeat in its most primal form, and he clutches at the fragmented corpse with tattered fingers and gleaming bone. His guns are long gone in the throes of battle and his box has shattered into dust that burns his lungs as he breathes it in. There are no words to say that can convey the agony in his heart, and he roars at the sheer injustice of it all. She breathes mist and death, and he can hear the rattle of Charon’s morbid boat scraping at the shores of their mortality. But he won’t end like that, presses his nose to her hair and savors the smell of coconut melon shampoo under the blood and gunpowder burns. Xanxus was never her prince, and she was never his princess. She deserved so much better than this cruelty, and he can’t manage the energy to be properly angry about the lack anymore. There are scorch marks on the crumbling remains of the marble pillar holding his back together, spiraling black and rust brown lines that mirror the parts of his fingers that he’s left behind.
The last thing he sees before the flames consume them is her smiling face and her hands reaching to embrace him through hell itself.
He chokes on his scream of rage as he bolts upright, knocks the whiskey glass off his desk and his throne of a chair crashing into the wall. The scars have spread until he can see them again, reddish brown marks that can’t be truly removed no matter how hard he tries. But he can feel her in his arms still, imagines the cold weight dragging him through brimstone and eternity. Fingers splinter wood and scratch at the years of polish as he curses under his breath in the dawn gloom. He is ruined and knows it, bows his head to the executioner
She wrote him a dynasty in three words once and signed it with a ridiculous cartoon cat.
There’s a space in his bed where she belongs and he hasn’t the courage to beg for her to come back. He swore to her, once upon a time that seems millennia ago now, that he would give her his deepest love and fullest devotion. Before God and Vongola he promised nothing but her happiness and he’ll kill himself to ensure it’s done. So he bites his pride back with feral words and blazing will, grits his teeth and stomps his way off to the firing range to work off the extra edge of rage. The targets burn and can’t be replaced fast enough to keep up with the cartridges he’s using, and at some point Xanxus begins blasting holes in the Rain-reinforced concrete.
He can remember every moment of their time together in crystal quality, from the way she smiled gratefully when he saved her life to the way she screamed when he took it away from her again.
The face she makes when he’s inside her is enough to drive him feral every time, turns everything from romantic love to animalist rutting. The Varia can hear how he sends her over the edge and howls after her, the creaking of bedsprings fading out in echoing ripples through the empty rooms of the mansion. In the mornings he doesn’t bother trying to take his shirt back from her naked sprawl, runs his fingers through her hair and tries to ignore how his scars catch on the silk threads. When she wakes it is like watching the spring rise from winter, and he can’t bring himself to tear his eyes away from that smile. “Mmm, what time is it?”
She is the only one who can sit in his throne, and sometimes she likes to wear some ridiculous outfit and imperiously order him around as if she was the Boss.
Whatever she wants he will do it, half from fear she will leave him otherwise and half because he likes the sex afterward.
Haru hasn’t been home in three weeks and she was supposed to be back in two, but he won’t go where she is unless she calls. He waits, rewards the whispers of his whipped status with a blazing bullet and a deadpan glare, because the fortune she gave him is the only rule she asked him to follow. Bester is at her side where he cannot follow, keeps her safe when he is not allowed, and he should be content with that.
‘Wait for me.’
Her skin is far too white for him to touch, unmarred and precious in its unending purity. When he touches her he has a private moment of awe, drives her insane with his single minded exploration and doesn’t quite mean it, wonders how it is he managed to steal away something so innocent from the brat Decimo. His love is clinging and insistent, angry and untamed in its complex madness, and sometimes he cannot tell if he loves Haru as herself or as some living embodiment of Vongola itself. Xanxus isn’t quite himself when she is gone and the Varia suffer for it, slips from his humanity into his old insanity with all the flickering warning of a lightning bolt. Squalo can’t leave him alone when Haru is gone, fears his Boss will drive himself to Timoteo and start the Cradle all over again.
He dreams while he’s awake, thinks she’s there and talks to the shadows in her stead.
When he wakes he sees her dying in his arms, clenches his fingers and howls until Squalo has to come and soothe the ragged edges of instability. Three weeks has become six, and when he touches himself he sees her fingers instead of his, smells her in the shower steam and bathes in the memories of her. His men have surreptitiously begun sending her pleas for her return, cite their boss’s growing madness and beg her to make him stop. Xanxus is getting worse the longer his wife is away from his side, as six spirals into a sideways infinity and Vongola Decimo himself won’t answer the Varia second’s desperate calls. But the Varia have become stronger while Haru is away, partly to deal with their leader’s rage and partly because the faster they accomplish their missions means more time to attempt to find Haru.
She told him to wait and so he will.
Xanxus buries his teeth in her neck and drinks her screams of agony like water, sinks his nails into her spine and slams her against the wall in furious abandon. He breaks her in pieces, hates her with the fury of a man on Angel Dust, throws the remains out the door and shatters the frame with the force of his grip. “Fucking scum, I love my wife.”
Eight weeks has become sixteen, and half the Varia headquarters has been remodeled six times from the force of Xanxus’ rage while the main room and Xanxus’ own have been rebuilt twelve times apiece. Lussuria has had to distract Xanxus with the designs for Haru’s own Varia uniform, and the two men have spent more time sequestered in Xanxus’ office discussing the value of the Japanese principle of ‘zettai ryouiki’ and why it is Xanxus would prefer to never let anyone see that much of Haru’s form. It works well as a distraction, and even Levi heaves a sigh of relief that they won’t all die in their sleep from a few well placed Martello di Fiamma. The fact that Xanxus has assisted Lussuria in the creation of a wardrobe fit for an Italian empress is lost in the overwhelming sense of relief that pervades the Varia manor.
On the twentieth week since her absence into the world, Haru returns to the Varia manor with a tired ‘hahi’ and a worn out Bester at her side. Xanxus doesn’t believe it, stares at her from the other side of his desk and scowls while Bester flops on the floor in defeat.
She’s uncharacteristically quiet when she holds his face in her hands, tears in the corners of her eyes as she rubs at his scars. “Haru is sorry she left Xanxus alone for so long.” Squalo coughs and nods when Xanxus’ stare darts in his direction, quietly (for him at least) makes his way out of the office. Xanxus’ eyes are wild when his arms wrap around her, forehead to her collarbone as he lets her warmth soak into his and her mere presence invade his every sense.
Muffled, he talks and the sound is as hollow as death. “I waited.”
“Haru knows.” Her fingers are gentle as they card through his hair; press his head into her chest as she settles herself on the edge of his desk. “Haru is sorry that Haru took so long.”
“Why?” The question is loaded with sorrow and a thousand other meanings, and it could translate to ‘why did you leave’ or ‘why did you take so long’ to even ‘why did you make me think you had left me.’ He’s too tired to do anything but idly nip at her neck, wrung dry by the rage that filled him for these past five months.
She kisses him like he means the world, pushes him back in his chair and settles between his legs to take advantage of his gasp. “Haru had to learn how to be strong.” She bites and nibbles, sucks on his lip while her fingers rememorize the shape of his chest and the strength that kept her safe. “And to be strong, Haru had to make you remember what it was like before.”
Xanxus can’t bring himself to do anything but let her touch him, digs his fingers into the arms of his chair and smells the leather burning. “Don’t-”
“Haru has to be worthy of being the Varia boss’s wife.” She pushes at his clothes until her fingers can dance on his naked ribs, bites at him until he whimpers and his shirt sleeves catch on fire, tugs at him until he is nothing but perfection in a dignified sprawl. “Do you hate me yet?”
“No.” He lets her draw blood and thinks he’s lost his mind, remembers the feel of her bones when she died and clutches at her hair when she nips her way down to his navel.
She kisses hardness through leather and smiles. “You didn’t wait for me.” He growls and bucks, makes a sound that causes Haru to giggle and nip where she kissed. “It’s all right. Haru will make up for it.”
A smirking Mammon holds out his hand and gleefully accepts his due payment from lower Varia members who cringe at every choking howl their Boss makes as his wife touches him. “VOI! How long have they been at it?!?” Lussuria can only laugh in that irritatingly flamboyant way of his, sews the last ruffle on Xanxus’ personal design and waits for Haru to stumble downstairs. Her face screams that a cat got the cream and the bird before moving on to the fishbowl, and Squalo can only make a face of horror when Haru accepts Lussuria’s offering of that ridiculous outfit and the bottle of honey.
He’s not dreaming when she touches him now, not when she kisses and strokes while she ties him to the head of their bed, couldn’t be dreaming when she teasingly sits in his lap and traces his scars. “Do you know what Haru did when she was away?” Words are a bit difficult to manage when he compares the situation at hand to the agony of eight years bondage, and all that he does is snarl. “Haru learned so many things to be a good Boss’ wife.” She taps his heart and kisses the end of the scars there. “But I am sorry I had to leave to do it.” The evening dissolves in dawn and fades into noon, a cacophony of pleasure heralding a new hallmark in the awkward marriage.
There is a dream Xanxus has when he’s wide awake, where his wife is called the Queen of Varia and sits in his throne. She wears a lace and leather uniform and belongs there, strokes his head in her lap and smiles softly to herself. He tastes cake and scotch when he licks his lips, and can’t decide if he’ll make her wear a garter or keep it all to himself. The madness doesn’t creep at him when Haru is around, held off by sugar sweet words and his wife’s wicked will.
Author: legare_virtuoso
Rating: R
Warnings: Xanxus. Crazy Xanxus. Sex.
Prompt: VII - 60. Haru/Xanxus: Deception; "Angelic in your syntax, Demonic in your motive"
Word count: 2092
Summary: When Haru leaves, Xanxus loses his mind. Sequel to I Carillion a Dieci.
Author Notes: I blame chaernotwasted. Not only is this her prompt, but it’s her bloody fault I wrote this. Seriously guys, if you have issues with this, bother her. And look, I did more bits from my Schrodinger Hearts thing on biantaitroika. Except I don't think I'll be using that comm anymore >_>
The blood on his tongue tastes like defeat in its most primal form, and he clutches at the fragmented corpse with tattered fingers and gleaming bone. His guns are long gone in the throes of battle and his box has shattered into dust that burns his lungs as he breathes it in. There are no words to say that can convey the agony in his heart, and he roars at the sheer injustice of it all. She breathes mist and death, and he can hear the rattle of Charon’s morbid boat scraping at the shores of their mortality. But he won’t end like that, presses his nose to her hair and savors the smell of coconut melon shampoo under the blood and gunpowder burns. Xanxus was never her prince, and she was never his princess. She deserved so much better than this cruelty, and he can’t manage the energy to be properly angry about the lack anymore. There are scorch marks on the crumbling remains of the marble pillar holding his back together, spiraling black and rust brown lines that mirror the parts of his fingers that he’s left behind.
The last thing he sees before the flames consume them is her smiling face and her hands reaching to embrace him through hell itself.
He chokes on his scream of rage as he bolts upright, knocks the whiskey glass off his desk and his throne of a chair crashing into the wall. The scars have spread until he can see them again, reddish brown marks that can’t be truly removed no matter how hard he tries. But he can feel her in his arms still, imagines the cold weight dragging him through brimstone and eternity. Fingers splinter wood and scratch at the years of polish as he curses under his breath in the dawn gloom. He is ruined and knows it, bows his head to the executioner
She wrote him a dynasty in three words once and signed it with a ridiculous cartoon cat.
There’s a space in his bed where she belongs and he hasn’t the courage to beg for her to come back. He swore to her, once upon a time that seems millennia ago now, that he would give her his deepest love and fullest devotion. Before God and Vongola he promised nothing but her happiness and he’ll kill himself to ensure it’s done. So he bites his pride back with feral words and blazing will, grits his teeth and stomps his way off to the firing range to work off the extra edge of rage. The targets burn and can’t be replaced fast enough to keep up with the cartridges he’s using, and at some point Xanxus begins blasting holes in the Rain-reinforced concrete.
He can remember every moment of their time together in crystal quality, from the way she smiled gratefully when he saved her life to the way she screamed when he took it away from her again.
The face she makes when he’s inside her is enough to drive him feral every time, turns everything from romantic love to animalist rutting. The Varia can hear how he sends her over the edge and howls after her, the creaking of bedsprings fading out in echoing ripples through the empty rooms of the mansion. In the mornings he doesn’t bother trying to take his shirt back from her naked sprawl, runs his fingers through her hair and tries to ignore how his scars catch on the silk threads. When she wakes it is like watching the spring rise from winter, and he can’t bring himself to tear his eyes away from that smile. “Mmm, what time is it?”
She is the only one who can sit in his throne, and sometimes she likes to wear some ridiculous outfit and imperiously order him around as if she was the Boss.
Whatever she wants he will do it, half from fear she will leave him otherwise and half because he likes the sex afterward.
Haru hasn’t been home in three weeks and she was supposed to be back in two, but he won’t go where she is unless she calls. He waits, rewards the whispers of his whipped status with a blazing bullet and a deadpan glare, because the fortune she gave him is the only rule she asked him to follow. Bester is at her side where he cannot follow, keeps her safe when he is not allowed, and he should be content with that.
‘Wait for me.’
Her skin is far too white for him to touch, unmarred and precious in its unending purity. When he touches her he has a private moment of awe, drives her insane with his single minded exploration and doesn’t quite mean it, wonders how it is he managed to steal away something so innocent from the brat Decimo. His love is clinging and insistent, angry and untamed in its complex madness, and sometimes he cannot tell if he loves Haru as herself or as some living embodiment of Vongola itself. Xanxus isn’t quite himself when she is gone and the Varia suffer for it, slips from his humanity into his old insanity with all the flickering warning of a lightning bolt. Squalo can’t leave him alone when Haru is gone, fears his Boss will drive himself to Timoteo and start the Cradle all over again.
He dreams while he’s awake, thinks she’s there and talks to the shadows in her stead.
When he wakes he sees her dying in his arms, clenches his fingers and howls until Squalo has to come and soothe the ragged edges of instability. Three weeks has become six, and when he touches himself he sees her fingers instead of his, smells her in the shower steam and bathes in the memories of her. His men have surreptitiously begun sending her pleas for her return, cite their boss’s growing madness and beg her to make him stop. Xanxus is getting worse the longer his wife is away from his side, as six spirals into a sideways infinity and Vongola Decimo himself won’t answer the Varia second’s desperate calls. But the Varia have become stronger while Haru is away, partly to deal with their leader’s rage and partly because the faster they accomplish their missions means more time to attempt to find Haru.
She told him to wait and so he will.
Xanxus buries his teeth in her neck and drinks her screams of agony like water, sinks his nails into her spine and slams her against the wall in furious abandon. He breaks her in pieces, hates her with the fury of a man on Angel Dust, throws the remains out the door and shatters the frame with the force of his grip. “Fucking scum, I love my wife.”
Eight weeks has become sixteen, and half the Varia headquarters has been remodeled six times from the force of Xanxus’ rage while the main room and Xanxus’ own have been rebuilt twelve times apiece. Lussuria has had to distract Xanxus with the designs for Haru’s own Varia uniform, and the two men have spent more time sequestered in Xanxus’ office discussing the value of the Japanese principle of ‘zettai ryouiki’ and why it is Xanxus would prefer to never let anyone see that much of Haru’s form. It works well as a distraction, and even Levi heaves a sigh of relief that they won’t all die in their sleep from a few well placed Martello di Fiamma. The fact that Xanxus has assisted Lussuria in the creation of a wardrobe fit for an Italian empress is lost in the overwhelming sense of relief that pervades the Varia manor.
On the twentieth week since her absence into the world, Haru returns to the Varia manor with a tired ‘hahi’ and a worn out Bester at her side. Xanxus doesn’t believe it, stares at her from the other side of his desk and scowls while Bester flops on the floor in defeat.
She’s uncharacteristically quiet when she holds his face in her hands, tears in the corners of her eyes as she rubs at his scars. “Haru is sorry she left Xanxus alone for so long.” Squalo coughs and nods when Xanxus’ stare darts in his direction, quietly (for him at least) makes his way out of the office. Xanxus’ eyes are wild when his arms wrap around her, forehead to her collarbone as he lets her warmth soak into his and her mere presence invade his every sense.
Muffled, he talks and the sound is as hollow as death. “I waited.”
“Haru knows.” Her fingers are gentle as they card through his hair; press his head into her chest as she settles herself on the edge of his desk. “Haru is sorry that Haru took so long.”
“Why?” The question is loaded with sorrow and a thousand other meanings, and it could translate to ‘why did you leave’ or ‘why did you take so long’ to even ‘why did you make me think you had left me.’ He’s too tired to do anything but idly nip at her neck, wrung dry by the rage that filled him for these past five months.
She kisses him like he means the world, pushes him back in his chair and settles between his legs to take advantage of his gasp. “Haru had to learn how to be strong.” She bites and nibbles, sucks on his lip while her fingers rememorize the shape of his chest and the strength that kept her safe. “And to be strong, Haru had to make you remember what it was like before.”
Xanxus can’t bring himself to do anything but let her touch him, digs his fingers into the arms of his chair and smells the leather burning. “Don’t-”
“Haru has to be worthy of being the Varia boss’s wife.” She pushes at his clothes until her fingers can dance on his naked ribs, bites at him until he whimpers and his shirt sleeves catch on fire, tugs at him until he is nothing but perfection in a dignified sprawl. “Do you hate me yet?”
“No.” He lets her draw blood and thinks he’s lost his mind, remembers the feel of her bones when she died and clutches at her hair when she nips her way down to his navel.
She kisses hardness through leather and smiles. “You didn’t wait for me.” He growls and bucks, makes a sound that causes Haru to giggle and nip where she kissed. “It’s all right. Haru will make up for it.”
A smirking Mammon holds out his hand and gleefully accepts his due payment from lower Varia members who cringe at every choking howl their Boss makes as his wife touches him. “VOI! How long have they been at it?!?” Lussuria can only laugh in that irritatingly flamboyant way of his, sews the last ruffle on Xanxus’ personal design and waits for Haru to stumble downstairs. Her face screams that a cat got the cream and the bird before moving on to the fishbowl, and Squalo can only make a face of horror when Haru accepts Lussuria’s offering of that ridiculous outfit and the bottle of honey.
He’s not dreaming when she touches him now, not when she kisses and strokes while she ties him to the head of their bed, couldn’t be dreaming when she teasingly sits in his lap and traces his scars. “Do you know what Haru did when she was away?” Words are a bit difficult to manage when he compares the situation at hand to the agony of eight years bondage, and all that he does is snarl. “Haru learned so many things to be a good Boss’ wife.” She taps his heart and kisses the end of the scars there. “But I am sorry I had to leave to do it.” The evening dissolves in dawn and fades into noon, a cacophony of pleasure heralding a new hallmark in the awkward marriage.
There is a dream Xanxus has when he’s wide awake, where his wife is called the Queen of Varia and sits in his throne. She wears a lace and leather uniform and belongs there, strokes his head in her lap and smiles softly to herself. He tastes cake and scotch when he licks his lips, and can’t decide if he’ll make her wear a garter or keep it all to himself. The madness doesn’t creep at him when Haru is around, held off by sugar sweet words and his wife’s wicked will.