and live in harmony harmony /headbutts stars

[disillude]

[ It's just one pain in the ass after another.

Wherever it is that Kakashi's been placed now, he lands there hard, catching his elbow against the edge of a wooden table as he falls, snapping his head back in time to narrowly keep his chin from smashing against the hard floor. The impact hurts, knocks the breath from his lungs and momentarily

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[disillude]

[ His head feels heavy, like it's being weighed down with copper and lead, and Kakashi isn't sure if it's from the lack of air, or if it's because of how fast his heart is beating, skipping a turn every other second. Mukuro presses against him, pushes into him, and Kakashi is leaning away from the wall, has barely enough sense to squeeze his elbow down against the side of the trident and push it aside, away from his chest.

There's the crackle of electricity, the snapping and popping of the flames licking high into the air around them, and those sounds sort of all bleed together, twisting into one deafening roar that pounds insistently against Kakashi's eardrums. His fingers work down over those hips, to the steel and leather of his belts, and then --

He freezes again, muscles tensing then shuddering, because Mukuro is touching him, biting down until blood pools on his tongue, and Kakashi's breath catches on a hiss like he's been wounded, like Mukuro's just shoved a blade right through his gut. He might as well have, for how he reacts to it, one hand slipping to cup the side of his face, thumb pressing down into the skin beneath his eye like he wants to push in and gouge it from his head.

And he kind of does, really, but he wants to do a lot of things.

It's at this point where the brain stops working, stops trying to catch up, and where all logical thought just dies off into a breathless murmur, too quiet to be heard, too inaudible to be noticed. Kakashi wants a lot of things just like how he wants to do a lot of things, and most of those things involve killing the man that's pressed against him, but he can't, because he's not a man, but he can't, because he doesn't know how, but he can't because he can't.

Which leaves him with very few options. This isn't helping, what is he doing, he's not going to kill him because a dead man can't kill shit, and Kakashi's hand falls to the side of his neck, the fingers of his other digging into the fabric of his shirt as he pushes forward and turns them again, instinctively avoiding the gleaming tines of that trident as he crushes him back against the wall. He nudges his knee between both of his legs, and he's already working off those belts, the metal clinking loudly but not loud enough as he forces them open, drags his mouth down from his ear to the soft skin at the side of his neck, right where the pulse beats heaviest.

He wonders, for the briefest of moments, like a dying defensive flicker, animal instinct that flares and claws at the moral binds of humanity, if ripping it out would help. ]

[tridented]

[ Nothing, he thinks, is probably going right, not the way Kakashi would have wanted it, not how Mukuro would have imagined it at from very start of this whole debacle, (or maybe he did, but that would be telling) that this is how it rolls out, in a painfully sharp clarity. And right now, he’s almost (is) enjoying himself, because it’s funny, how Kakashi keeps on touching even though he can feel the revulsion, the- the whatever, radiating off him and-

He knows exactly what Kakashi would like to do, and Mukuro doesn’t really give a damn, because does he really think that he can hurt him? He can’t, see, and that’s why Mukuro only laughs again, a short, abrupt peal cut off when the air’s knocked out of his lungs again. With another brief stroke, he curls his fingers and then flexes them again, trailing up and pressing hard against every single ridge and bump of Kakashi’s spine, like it’s only a ploy of searching for the best spot to dig his fingers in and then tear Kakashi’s spine out of him, interrupt that fragile network of muscle and bone and vein.

Wouldn’t that be a tasteless thing to do?

Instead, he lets the trident fall against the wall, scratches scraping down the faded wallpaper, gouges left as a reminder. Mukuro’s mouthing something indistinct over the blur of white noise and even when the buckles fall away and he only laughs more, it’s hard not to wonder if he’s already sunk into Kakashi’s bones and taken control of him, that’s why things are spiralling, escalating rapidly out of hand.

The soft exhale of breath is warm against his skin and he can hear it, his own pulse hissing in his ears. If Mukuro has a pulse (a heartbeat, thump, thump, thump) does this mean he’s alive and not dead and still human or something else entirely, it’s anyone’s guess.

Freeze.

Mukuro’s a statue beneath Kakashi, head tucked against and away from him, on his shoulder, eyes out of plain sight and really, the whole effect’s rather ruined by the faint amusement still laced in every pore of his being, the fingers that glide up the back of Kakashi’s neck and hold him there firmly, like some bitch reprimanding a puppy by the scruff of their neck, and Mukuro murmurs: ]

Think about it, Hatake Kakashi. How very easy it would be.

[ He draws his fingers away, traces the contour of Kakashi’s jaw with one, to where his lips meet skin that’s a carelessly exposed tableau and taps along his jugular in time to the pulse. Unbidden, it’s said.

Right here.

How close is he now, to the limit? ]

[disillude]

[ Everything can be qualified as very easy when you're Mukuro, when you're capable of the things that he's capable of, and Kakashi thinks that, his brain stops for a second at those words like he's actually considering it, but it's still hard to really think, why isn't he thinking, he just really wants to --

( Do a lot of things. It always comes back to this, circles right back around, and Kakashi is selfish, or maybe he's not selfish enough, maybe he needs to be a little more selfish because that'll keep him alive. He wants to what, finish what you fucking start, Kakashi, come on. )

His fingers dig into the fabric of Mukuro's pants at his waist, and then they drag down, over his hips, and he says nothing, he doesn't try to pull away, his muscles tense briefly, for about half a second, before they're all relaxing within the same breath. And he can't kill him, he can't even come close, but he wants to, wants to maybe sink his fingers in ( past bone and flesh ) and pull and pry, or maybe he just wants to ( what do you want to do ) fuck him ( until his back scrapes over the concrete ) and prove that he's human after all.

But that's never enough, it'll never be enough.

So fuck it.

He possibly says something right then, like shut up or stop talking or something like that, or it could just all be in his head, and he's not saying anything at all because his throat has tightened to a point where words are completely impossible. It's then that he pulls back, and one hand moves away from Mukuro's waist, bare fingers latching tight onto his jaw as he forces his head back, tips it back against the wall behind him, his thumb pushing into the hollow space between his jaw. ]

I don't care.

[ He does care.

He doesn't even sound like himself, it hurts to speak, and the three words rip from his throat like they're being forced from his lungs, and everything just sort of burns. The hand at his hip dips down, strokes over bare, revealed skin, before his fingers are slipping and curling around his cock, squeezing hard. ]

[tridented]

[ Maybe he wants this, maybe he wants that, but whatever, right? The wall meets him, and right now, with his neck exposed and pants halfway off and this whole motherfucking mess around them, you'd think Mukuro's at his most vulnerable, but he's not acting it at all. There's a lazy sort of assuredness in his posture, one that proclaims that everything up until now has been a careful orchestra of time and patience.

(If there's anything Mukuro's always been especially good at, it's being selfish. Take, take, take and no givebacks no returns, because he wants it all for himself and no one else.)

There must not be enough oxygen in the room anymore or maybe Mukuro's just not breathing like he should, but the flames die, asphyxiated by his own will and nothing more, and it really is very easy to do anything, anything at all, like reading the tense, strained silhouette (the room dim once more) Kakashi makes, and interpret it for what it is. The little hidden signs that his words are digging in and seeping through the cracks and below into skin.

Frustration. Anger. Discomposure.

(indulgencereversaltriump)

Opposites only attract, and when met, seldom work, and maybe that's the case right here. Has Mukuro pushed it farther (far enough, yes, he has, hasn't he?) this time, and only now things have begun to tip? Part of him says, yes, this is it, now what did you expect? A lightheadedness threatens to overwhelm him, almost euphoric (maybe it's a childish glee), and he drags his fingers over the bumps and ridges of Kakashi's spine, as if the action serves as a distraction while he considers Kakashi's words--

-the words are recoiling on Mukuro's tongue left unsaid and neglected, he doesn't have time to say them before there are fingers working their way around him and he's digging his nails against tender flesh and bone almost warningly.

Is this a custom where you come from, or are you that frustrated-- ]