[KHR!] A conversation begins with a lie
Title: A conversation begins with a lie (Title taken from 31_days)
Author: Kanon
Genre: …? Romance… of sort, I guess
Rating: PG-15
Pairing: 10069, Byakuran x Rokudo Mukuro
Disclaimer: Me owns no mafia, no rings, no money; nothing but the perversity of a fangirl.
Summary: For wamyne. It’s all but a lie, a dangerous yet thrilling tango filled with sincerely faux love.
Spoilers: TYL Arc
Warning: I don’t think the sexual innuendo is that strong but the hint is there, I guess. Oh, and first ever writing either of the characters.
Author’s Note:
A oneshot under the disguise of a drabble, written for the almighty wamyne, due far too long ago from a request meme. Tori, don’t ask how it became this, ‘cuz I did start with ‘neko!Byakuran pestering Mukuro’ in my mind and somehow, I ended up with ‘Byakuran pestering about-to-become-neko!Mukuro’… O_O;;; It’s after that Byakuran vs Mukuro fight and totally pawns the recent notion that Mukuro is one of the new Funeral Wreaths.
:::::A conversation begins with a lie by Kanon:::::
“Mukuro-kun, how are you feeling today?”
The sweet voice sings out to the complete darkness in a tone that reminds of an innocent nursery rhyme, the tender care in each word laced with subtle yet sure falseness. In the dark room, from a corner that harbours the deepest of midnight black, comes a jingling sound in response and the perpetual smile widens, one side just an inch higher than the other. The imbalance is barely discernible but the man knows the most subtle changes do not go unmissed by the captivating and certainly interesting mismatched eyes.
How lovely, he thinks, for once, with genuine affection from the anticipation humming in his very blood. He wants to keep those eyes all for himself, unblinking and fixated, gleaming in a formaldehyde jar so that they will not disgustingly rot and loose the stark, contrasting colours.
But he restrains, because he knows that the kanji-imprinted red and deep blue irises shine so beautifully at the moment, for there is the force of life running through them; and a very intriguing one too, at that.
“Byakuran-san. How most pleasant of you to drop by.”
The smooth voice drawls languidly, albeit dry and sometimes hoarse, from a place that cannot be pinpointed in the dingy confinement and the pale lilac eyes disappear behind the curved eyelids.
He has been ‘dropping by’ - quoting his new ever so enjoyable prey - here every day at same time of the day for weeks now, yet the amused, even courteous, greeting has not changed a single bit.
Of course, it’s all a lie, the pleasantry from his impeccable playmate and the mock concern he so skilfully croons, but that is what makes all this simply flawless. Because breaking those that will never break brings an adrenaline rush like never before; like the time that he broke the charming and brave - oh yes, certainly brave - young lady, like the time he broke the soft-spoken yet strong-willed Vongola Tenth. It is like drug, the addictiveness so sweet like marshmallows; sure, the method he used was different each time - it would quickly grow so boring otherwise - but the catharsis that the moment of the first crack only he can hear brings is all the same and irrefutably unbeatable.
Oh, but he has to agree that this is by far the most pleasurable and while the other’s readiness is almost a blow to his fun, the insincerity behind the eagerness is the compelling spice for their little play.
Unaffected by the utter lack of light, Byakuran takes a step forward, confident and at complete ease, as if he can perfectly well see the various objects littering the cold, unforgiving floor. However, something unseen catches his foot and gets the brunt of his swift movement, shrilling harshly as it rolls away. The ear-piercing sound mars the excited grin on the captor’s - not quite a winner but only just yet - face. The footstep sounds no more and the chuckling voice returns.
“What is it, Byakuran-san? Your favourite collar doesn’t suit your fine palate anymore?”
So that’s what it was, Byakuran muses, wondering if the Vongola Mist Guardian knows where each and every of his toys are. The said metal collar lay silent in a distance, crusts of dried blood that Byakuran cannot see but knows of coating the protruding spikes around it. It is the very proof of their… private time and a mere mental image of it makes him smile again.
The pale eyes are once more full of joy and kindness that Mukuro knows not to trust. A hand - the one with the Mare Sky Ring - disappears into the inside of the Millefiore uniform, so white and pristine that it seems to glow in the inky blackness, and pulls out a simple red leather collar with a shiny golden bell dangling at the front. On the other side of the room, Mukuro, his clothes nothing but shreds since long, his now-cooled blood sickening on his bare skin, does not lose his soft, mysterious smile but cannot help tensing a little at the sight of such an innocent object. After all, nothing that the juvenile Millefiore boss brings can be ‘innocent’; all the more when it actually looks so harmless.
Byakuran feels his latest target’s seemingly indifferent gaze fixing on his ‘present’ and feels satisfaction swelling up inside his chest. Mukuro, despite all the darkness enveloping him, sees the stretching of the lips that would soon be whispering sincerely meaningless sweet nothings into his ear. For a moment, he ponders, half in amusement, the possibility of someone ever having told Byakuran that his mind is so twisted and warped that it is sick, but then scoffs at the very idea of it immediately; anyway, it’s not as if he is not free of charge either. As scandalous as his current state is, chained, cuffed, dirtied, bloodied, and so damn tired, he smiles and he cannot deny that he is, in an equally sick way, enjoying this regularly repeated torture of blood, pain and pleasure.
And of course, behind all the faux submission lies the baseless yet certain confidence, not of his survival, but of his victory.
“Mukuro-kun,” Byakuran purrs, “ready or not, here I come.”
Mukuro, as usual, accepts the challenge with a graceful smile and lightly flexes his cuffed wrist, his fingers curled in.
“Meow.”
Author: Kanon
Genre: …? Romance… of sort, I guess
Rating: PG-15
Pairing: 10069, Byakuran x Rokudo Mukuro
Disclaimer: Me owns no mafia, no rings, no money; nothing but the perversity of a fangirl.
Summary: For wamyne. It’s all but a lie, a dangerous yet thrilling tango filled with sincerely faux love.
Spoilers: TYL Arc
Warning: I don’t think the sexual innuendo is that strong but the hint is there, I guess. Oh, and first ever writing either of the characters.
Author’s Note:
A oneshot under the disguise of a drabble, written for the almighty wamyne, due far too long ago from a request meme. Tori, don’t ask how it became this, ‘cuz I did start with ‘neko!Byakuran pestering Mukuro’ in my mind and somehow, I ended up with ‘Byakuran pestering about-to-become-neko!Mukuro’… O_O;;; It’s after that Byakuran vs Mukuro fight and totally pawns the recent notion that Mukuro is one of the new Funeral Wreaths.
:::::A conversation begins with a lie by Kanon:::::
“Mukuro-kun, how are you feeling today?”
The sweet voice sings out to the complete darkness in a tone that reminds of an innocent nursery rhyme, the tender care in each word laced with subtle yet sure falseness. In the dark room, from a corner that harbours the deepest of midnight black, comes a jingling sound in response and the perpetual smile widens, one side just an inch higher than the other. The imbalance is barely discernible but the man knows the most subtle changes do not go unmissed by the captivating and certainly interesting mismatched eyes.
How lovely, he thinks, for once, with genuine affection from the anticipation humming in his very blood. He wants to keep those eyes all for himself, unblinking and fixated, gleaming in a formaldehyde jar so that they will not disgustingly rot and loose the stark, contrasting colours.
But he restrains, because he knows that the kanji-imprinted red and deep blue irises shine so beautifully at the moment, for there is the force of life running through them; and a very intriguing one too, at that.
“Byakuran-san. How most pleasant of you to drop by.”
The smooth voice drawls languidly, albeit dry and sometimes hoarse, from a place that cannot be pinpointed in the dingy confinement and the pale lilac eyes disappear behind the curved eyelids.
He has been ‘dropping by’ - quoting his new ever so enjoyable prey - here every day at same time of the day for weeks now, yet the amused, even courteous, greeting has not changed a single bit.
Of course, it’s all a lie, the pleasantry from his impeccable playmate and the mock concern he so skilfully croons, but that is what makes all this simply flawless. Because breaking those that will never break brings an adrenaline rush like never before; like the time that he broke the charming and brave - oh yes, certainly brave - young lady, like the time he broke the soft-spoken yet strong-willed Vongola Tenth. It is like drug, the addictiveness so sweet like marshmallows; sure, the method he used was different each time - it would quickly grow so boring otherwise - but the catharsis that the moment of the first crack only he can hear brings is all the same and irrefutably unbeatable.
Oh, but he has to agree that this is by far the most pleasurable and while the other’s readiness is almost a blow to his fun, the insincerity behind the eagerness is the compelling spice for their little play.
Unaffected by the utter lack of light, Byakuran takes a step forward, confident and at complete ease, as if he can perfectly well see the various objects littering the cold, unforgiving floor. However, something unseen catches his foot and gets the brunt of his swift movement, shrilling harshly as it rolls away. The ear-piercing sound mars the excited grin on the captor’s - not quite a winner but only just yet - face. The footstep sounds no more and the chuckling voice returns.
“What is it, Byakuran-san? Your favourite collar doesn’t suit your fine palate anymore?”
So that’s what it was, Byakuran muses, wondering if the Vongola Mist Guardian knows where each and every of his toys are. The said metal collar lay silent in a distance, crusts of dried blood that Byakuran cannot see but knows of coating the protruding spikes around it. It is the very proof of their… private time and a mere mental image of it makes him smile again.
The pale eyes are once more full of joy and kindness that Mukuro knows not to trust. A hand - the one with the Mare Sky Ring - disappears into the inside of the Millefiore uniform, so white and pristine that it seems to glow in the inky blackness, and pulls out a simple red leather collar with a shiny golden bell dangling at the front. On the other side of the room, Mukuro, his clothes nothing but shreds since long, his now-cooled blood sickening on his bare skin, does not lose his soft, mysterious smile but cannot help tensing a little at the sight of such an innocent object. After all, nothing that the juvenile Millefiore boss brings can be ‘innocent’; all the more when it actually looks so harmless.
Byakuran feels his latest target’s seemingly indifferent gaze fixing on his ‘present’ and feels satisfaction swelling up inside his chest. Mukuro, despite all the darkness enveloping him, sees the stretching of the lips that would soon be whispering sincerely meaningless sweet nothings into his ear. For a moment, he ponders, half in amusement, the possibility of someone ever having told Byakuran that his mind is so twisted and warped that it is sick, but then scoffs at the very idea of it immediately; anyway, it’s not as if he is not free of charge either. As scandalous as his current state is, chained, cuffed, dirtied, bloodied, and so damn tired, he smiles and he cannot deny that he is, in an equally sick way, enjoying this regularly repeated torture of blood, pain and pleasure.
And of course, behind all the faux submission lies the baseless yet certain confidence, not of his survival, but of his victory.
“Mukuro-kun,” Byakuran purrs, “ready or not, here I come.”
Mukuro, as usual, accepts the challenge with a graceful smile and lightly flexes his cuffed wrist, his fingers curled in.
“Meow.”