Tightropes [March 15th] [Hibari, Chrome; 691896] [Reborn!]
Title :: Tightropes
Prompt :: March 15th, “and I breathe where you breathe” [31_days]
Characters/Pairing :: Hibari, Chrome, abstract mentions of Mukuro; 691896/any variant thereof implied
Rating :: PG-13
Warnings :: Set tyl.
Wordcount :: 200
Summary :: The possibility is there, with every quickening rasp of breath that sounds more and more like a plea; with every desperate gasp of that name.
There is blood spraying across pale pale lips as he watches, blood still caught in the back of that small throat and waiting only to be coughed free, to colour the rest of that dangerously white skin; blood that he can smell, raw and roughly heady like adrenaline.
He can hold it there, he knows, one hand simply tightening about her neck with the other pressed to her sternum to feel the fall and fade of her breath, her heartbeat.
It would take only the lightest of touches, now, little more than a caress; and he would have the upper hand in this game even if he had not yet won.
(A lure: Come and avenge your pawn, your pride.)
The possibility is there, with every quickening rasp of breath that sounds more and more like a plea; with every desperate gasp of that name.
And he thinks, I have waited far too long to show you who truly reigns.
And he elects to claim a bit of that territory for himself; to show that he is not the only one who can make his subjects stand, even if he has not yet been brought down to his knees.
(Breathe.)
Prompt :: March 15th, “and I breathe where you breathe” [31_days]
Characters/Pairing :: Hibari, Chrome, abstract mentions of Mukuro; 691896/any variant thereof implied
Rating :: PG-13
Warnings :: Set tyl.
Wordcount :: 200
Summary :: The possibility is there, with every quickening rasp of breath that sounds more and more like a plea; with every desperate gasp of that name.
There is blood spraying across pale pale lips as he watches, blood still caught in the back of that small throat and waiting only to be coughed free, to colour the rest of that dangerously white skin; blood that he can smell, raw and roughly heady like adrenaline.
He can hold it there, he knows, one hand simply tightening about her neck with the other pressed to her sternum to feel the fall and fade of her breath, her heartbeat.
It would take only the lightest of touches, now, little more than a caress; and he would have the upper hand in this game even if he had not yet won.
(A lure: Come and avenge your pawn, your pride.)
The possibility is there, with every quickening rasp of breath that sounds more and more like a plea; with every desperate gasp of that name.
And he thinks, I have waited far too long to show you who truly reigns.
And he elects to claim a bit of that territory for himself; to show that he is not the only one who can make his subjects stand, even if he has not yet been brought down to his knees.
(Breathe.)