[FIC] Reborn!+Others: Drabble fics
PLACEHOLDER FOR THE DRABBLES.
A Different Type of Game
Characters/Pairings: Ryohei, Yamamoto, Hibari. Hints of Ryohei->Hibari<-Yamamoto
Rating: PG
Prompt: 'RYOHEI AND YAMAMOTO FIGHTING OVER HIBARI. NOT TYL' -- infighter
See, see, there's something about Yamamoto and Ryohei that no one ever seems to understand. It's almost a secret between them; a silent understanding; two eyes catching each other across a baseball field or a boxing ring. This is something that they both know as well as the sweat on their brows. It is this:
It has never been a game. Not in the way that everyone seems to think it is.
They are sportsmen. Every game is a competition of a highest order. Every game forces them to push themselves beyond their limits, to the 'extreme' as Ryohei always seems to say it. Every game, whether competitive or friendly, is simply about winning, winning, winning.
Yamamoto and Ryohei both are not used to losing.
(Ryohei has never lost at all, except once. Yamamoto plays with his team, but he always wins it for them; except for once.)
Their eyes meet as they walk down a corridor. Hibari sweeps past them, his jacket fluttering in the air like huge black wings, widening his shoulders and making him look larger and even more intimidating than he always is.
But they both have never been afraid of him, not really. Ryohei has always faced death in the face; has felt its cold, cold hand on his shoulders every time he steps up onto the ring. It doesn't matter that there are rules to prevent heavy injuries - the threat looms over him thick and dark and heavy every time he bandages his hands to fight. He knows that he might die. (And that feeling, the triumph over that feeling, is why he loves boxing. It is the greatest rush; the greatest victory when he always wins and ends up alive.)
And Yamamoto has never felt fear in the form of anyone. He feels fear in the form of failure, and failure alone. (Death is failing his father; failing his friends. He knows that now.)
Hibari's tonfas flash silver in the sun as they watch him and watch each other. There is an upward curve on those thin lips, sharp and vicious. Hibari has never been kind, after all. (That is why they watch him, why they-) Yamamoto's hands curl around the baseball bat, weighing it in his hands and his smile is automatic, wide and sincere still. Ryohei closes his eyes and feels his fists and his body.
At the same time, they wonder what it would be like to be 'bitten to death'.
"You're loitering," Hibari says, breaking the silence that hold court between them, held between each inhale and exhale. "Why are you not in class."
It is not a question. It is a challenge.
Yamamoto's smile sharpens, his feet shifting against the concrete floor as he steps forward. Ryohei merely raised his fists. Hibari tilts back his head, and there is the barest flash of surprise in his eyes. He has never learnt how to hide his emotions, Yamamoto thinks almost fondly. He's always so terribly honest, like a blunt instrument. Like the tonfa in his hand. Hibari smiles.
It is a game, between them. One that is quiet and secret between the three of them. Because if Hibari knows- he won't play with them anymore, will he?
"I'll bite you to death," Hibari intones, and he strikes.
Yamamoto laughs, and Ryohei shouts: "This is EXTREME!"
End
First Meeting
Characters/Pairings: Xanxus, Tsuna
Rating: G
Prompt: 'Xanxus raising baby!Tsuna.' -- thelovemafia
"What is this trash," Xanxus growls. He holds a child in his large hands, fingers under his armpit as he glares dark and malicious. The baby sticks a thumb into his mouth, sucking on it as his eyes filled up with tears. He sniffles.
Xanxus growles again.
"His name is Tsunayoshi," Nana says, smiling like Xanxus is a beautiful, kind man. He is the son of her husband's boss, isn't he? She must be polite to him. "We call him Tsu-kun- ah, I mean." She ducks her head, the picture perfect subservient Japanese wife. "Tsuna-kun."
'Tsuna' sniffles again. Xanxus narrows his eyes. 'Tsuna' quietens down immediately. Xanxus's eyes continue to narrow.
"Ch'," Xanxus says, taking note of the large brown eyes and the explosion of brown that is masquerading as its- his hair. "Trash."
Nana smiles again, reaching forward to take the baby from Xanxus's arms when it- he opens his mouth. The thumb drops out of it, but the sound is muffled anyway.
"Mrii-swan," Tsuna says, and his smile is small and shaky. It brightens a little when Xanxus stops glaring (out of pure shock, for the record). "Nwii-swan!"
The room goes completely silent. Nana freezes. Xanxus's mouth falls open.
"Nwii-swan!"
"Oh my god," Squalo says.
End
Coerced
Characters/Pairings: Yamamoto/Hibari
Rating: PG-13
Prompt: '8018 underwear photoshoot (Vongola-models!AU)' -- questofdreams
"Strip," the designer says, a skinny little man with large, loud hair and a louder presence. He holds out a pair of black silk boxers to Hibari. "Wear this, Hibari-san." He turned around and handed another piece of underwear to Yamamoto, this time a pair of dark blue briefs. "You too, Yamamoto-kun."
"Alright," Yamamoto nods, smiling genially as he took the piece of barely-there cloth. At the same time, Hibari replied with a flat, "No." Pause. The designer stops breathing. Yamamoto turns to look at the older man, lifting an eyebrow. His smile remains unchanged.
Hibari's scowl deepens. Yamamoto's smile widens; a challenge and a reassurance both shown clearly in the curve of those lips.
Hibari scowls as he storms to the changing room, boxers in his hand.
***
Yamamoto tilts his head back against the light brown calf leather couch that he is leaning against. He is sitting on the floor, a hand stretched out beside him - the perfect picture of poise and confidence. He is grinning, friendly and open even as his body seems to glow with its tanned skin and toned muscles. He has no need for oil to force his skin into a gleam; only for the positioning of the camera. The lights adjust around his figure, casting the pair of briefs into the spotlight.
The door opens, and Hibari steps in, every step soft and deliberate and purely dangerous. His white shirt drapes around his shoulders, unbuttoned and exposing every inch of his pale skin and chiselled muscles and-
scars.
Scars decorate nearly his entire body - remnants of bullet wounds, stab wounds, sword slashes, burns and cuts. They are bits and pieces of his war spoils; of those battles he had won both in his youth and as he had grown. A ripple of surprise goes through the camera crew and the designer, but it was only a ripple - after all, these are Italians. They know what Yamamoto and Hibari are, after all.
Hibari drops into the couch, uncaring of the designer's unsubtle efforts to direct him. The shirt remains on his shoulders. He shakes his head, brushing a strand of hair out of his eyes as he drew a leg upwards. The man holding the lights shifts suddenly, casting a long shadow across Hibari's torso, masking the scars with darkness. Hibari buries a hand into Yamamoto's hair, tightening lightly as he pulls the head up and forward, forcing Yamamoto's eyes to rest on him. He smirks; Yamamoto cocks his head to the side and smiles, wide and mischievous.
The cameras flash around them.
End
clothes make the man
Characters/Pairings: Dino, Mukuro, Hibari. Something like Dino->Hibari<-Mukuro
Rating: PG
Prompt: "D1869 or whatever order you want. Dress" -- uwahblood; Supermodel!AU
It is a common refrain that clothes make a man. It is upon this refrain that the fashion world is built: pictures with beautiful models wearing beautiful clothes screams out the message that those clothes would make you, dearest customer, just as gorgeous and successful if you buy it. It is the advertisement; the lure. That is why fashion labels employ models.
Butat the same time there is a paradox. It is the man - or woman - who actually makes the clothes. A good model makes customers like the clothes. A better one make them love it. And an absolutely brilliant model makes the customer thinks that he - or she - will never be able to live life properly without having that piece of clothing or accessory in their closet. They ache for it, feeling inadequate and feeling that buying that piece of well-cut cloth would fill the gap inside of them. (Which is, of course, false. But that is something that is rarely spoken about because no one here is a fool.)
Hibari Kyouya is one of the best, if not the best out there. There's something about him: his poise, his grace, the turn of his ankle as he moves, the shift of his wrist as he opens a hand. Or perhaps it's those slanted eyes, dark and intense and grabbing the attention of whoever that even glanced at a picture of him. Or maybe it is his sheer magnetic presence that commands light and composition without much effort. It's something that many photographers and designers had spent days trying to figure out, with no avail.
Rokudo Mukuro is not such a fool. He knows precisely what makes Hibari Kyouya so popular and arresting: it is not any of those qualities. It is the fact that Hibari was all of that and more, and yet he is one of the biggest asshole that anyone will ever meet. An asshole and a brat who always wants his own way, and settles for nothing else.
(There's something unique about that; a contradiction, perhaps. That is why Mukuro liked him so much.)
Hibari is backdropped by dark blue curtains and a lit chandelier. He stands with a hip jutting out, one knee straightened and the other bent. A hand rests on a thigh, the other stretched outwards, fingers curled into a loose fist.
Mukuro's clothes draped upon his body like liquid silk, soft and smooth as it clings to his skin. He uses nothing but the best materials and the best designs for this model, because Hibari Kyouya should only wear clothes that he can show off. Long, gleaming leather pants parade every curve of his thigh and calf, clinging to his hips with the ease of a long-time lover. It catches the light most pleasingly, lengthening his already long legs until it seems like they never end. The pants flare out at the ankles like the pants of a well-tailored suit. That is the first hint.
His shirt is white, long sleeves opening at his wrist to expose them. It is a mockery of the usual boring white work shirt, with buttons at the false cuffs and embroidery that trails down from the hollow of the throat to the navel. It can be a row of buttons, if one tilts one's head and squint. The collar is raised, half a turtleneck as if upturned, and the shirt fits well enough to show the shape of his body without being tight enough to bare those chiselled muscles that Mukuro knows Hibari has.
On Hibari's shoulders a dark red jacket rests, the centerpiece that flutters in the slight wind in the studio. Silver glints off the shoulders, epaulettes polished to a dark grey gleam - just a hint of the military. The inside lining is a mixture of cashmere and silk, so terribly cool to the touch yet never letting the cold in.
Mukuro calls this collection diCHOtoMY. It is his style: daring, different and enticing, especially on Hibari's body. It is as if every piece of cloth has been cut with him in mind, made for him and only him with an ease that only he can pull off.
(This is not far from the truth.)
Flamboyance might be Mukuro's calling card, but it is not for Dino Cavallone. Dino thrives in simplicity, because he is a simple man with simple wants and simple needs. His creativity shines not through creating something entirely new, but through the little details. If Mukuro is about mockery, then Dino is about reaffirmation.
He dresses Hibari in a suit - white shirt, black pants, black jacket, black tie, all made of the finest Italian silk, woven to the smallest detils. Dino's touch is showed in the rounded cuffs of the shirt, the edges curving inwards towards dark grey buttons polished to a shine. The threadwork at the edges peeks outwards in the silver of cloth exposed by the jacket and it is intricate - large curves with the leaves and branches that look as if they are moving, the thread the lightest of greys that stand out against white cloth without being obstrusive.
The wind is blowing harsh in the studio and Hibari keeps the jacket open, exposing the inner lining. Dino paints a gorgeous scenery with the satin inside, of a dark sea with crashing waves and a tree standing solitarily at the left, branches bent due to the wind. At the right is a bird with widespread wings, dark-winged with the brightest eyes.
(Dino Cavallone has always admitted, unabashedly, that Hibari Kyouya is his muse.)
The pants curves against the narrow hips, decorated by a silver belt that is the sole splash of bright light. The hem of the pants are rounded, embroidered with the same patterns as the cuffs of the shirt with a grey thread so dark that it is just so barely noticeable. His shoes gleamed, polished to a black shine that catches one's eyes - the threadwork is evident here, as well - the smallest of waves.
Little details.
Hibari stands with eyes narrowed and sharp, focused on the camera. He cants a hip, one foot forward as he wind whips his hair and jacket around him. His body is in profile, facing the wall but his eyes look straight into the camera. His arm is straightened outwards, fingers curled around a gun that is aimed at the viewer. There's something deathly and purely dangerous about his sensuality, enough to intrigue. Enough to pull the viewer in as they fall into his eyes.
Dino names the collection ALLODOLE. Made for men with statements to make.
He catches Mukuro's eyes, and smiles. Mukuro inclines his head, a glint of a smirk on his lips, his hands wrapped around the red leather jacket.
Hibari turns his head and ignores them both.
(After all, he belongs to no one.)
End
The Opera House
Characters/Pairings: Hibari, Reborn
Rating: G
Prompt: 'I want a scene where hibari books an entire opera to hear some soprano sing and he books it because he wants a few moments of peace.' -- queen_qing
There's something about the lull of the opera - the dip of the low, bass notes that cradles; the high soprano voices that pulls him slowly to sleep. Hibari usually needs complete silence in order to rest, but such things are difficult to find, and therefore he makes do with substitutes. Substitutes of the highest kind.
He books the entire opera for the night and sits in one of the box seats; one with the best view of the entire stage. The costumes catches the light and glitters like jewels and tear-filled eyes, made of satin and silks and lace and cotton. The soprano is dressed in a white dress, corseted at the waist but leaving her enough room to breath. Her shoes tap against the parquet flooring like another percussion beat; a four-step tango harmony.
Hibari's eyes are heavy-lidded as the lead soprano opens her mouth and belts out a song about her Angel of Music. Cloth shifts as the actors-dancers twirl on stage, minute little noises but his ears catch it all. But here it doesn't matter, because it simply becomes part of the white noise; part of the performance; part of his little lullaby. (There are no unwanted voices.)
He sleeps.
***
"So, Hibari," Reborn says, tapping on the table where a brown envelope sits, almost ominous in its innocuous appearance. "You spent ten thousand euros in one night to sleep in the theatre."
Hibari does not yawn. His eyes are bright and sharp as he cocks his head to the side. "Yes," he says, because as far as he knows, he has nothing to be ashamed of.
Reborn cocks his gun - the sound resounds the room and reminds Hibari of a single drumbeat that echoes throughout the opera hall. "I have three cartridges. You have five minutes."
Hibari merely whips out his tonfas, and smiles.
End
Double Meanings
Characters/Pairings: Hibari, Reborn
Rating: G
Prompt: 'Reborn/Hibari, discussing power-play. Hibari thinks they are talking about combat. Reborn is on a completely different tangent.' -- varyola; Supermodel!AU
"Are you up for it, Hibari?" Reborn asks, tilting his head down as he circles the table. His fedora, decorated with its customary orange band (colour splash version, handpainted and made of silk) hid his eyes from view as he perused the different fabrics. His fingers brushed across them, bare skin against Italian silks.
He picks a swathe of it up, black cloth running like a dark waterfall between his fingers. He looks at it under the warm lights of the store, turning it over and over in his hands as he checks the weave.
Hibari stands a distance away, leaning against dark wood panels. His arms are crossed in front of him, one foot over the other. His eyes are narrowed and glaring as he looks at Reborn, "Don't underestimate me."
"I'm not," Reborn replies simply. He holds out the cloth and an attendant approaches immediately, keeping a safe distance from Hibari even as she folds up the fabric and replaces it on the table. Reborn makes a sign, twenty, and she nods and makes a mark on her clipboard.
(There's no one who doesn't know who 'Reborn' is, in the fashion world. Ten and two years ago he used to be one of the very best supermodels on the market before he resigns one day out of a whim, saying that the clothes he was forced to wear is inferior and he would rather make his own. Now the Vongola brand, headed by a man who might not know clothes and cloth like the back of his hand but whose mind is sharper than a knife, is one of the most prominent in the industry.)
"It's a simple question."
Hibari tilts his head back, a challenge in his eyes and in the upward curve of his lips. "I am."
"Good," Reborn steps forward, invading into Hibari's personal space slightly. The model does not move away, and simply cocks his head to the side. Waiting. Reborn's eyes are devious as they dart to the side for the briefest of seconds.
"I have been waiting," Hibari hisses low and vicious, and there is a flick of his wrist and the weapons he is famous for carrying slips out of his sleeves. He wraps his fingers around the handles, bringing them out. His smirk turns bloodthirsty. The leather soles of the shoes make no sound as they scrape along the darkwood floors. "Show me, then."
The attendants remain perfectly calm and still.
Reborn reaches forward and grabs Hibari's tie, stepping in even closer as he pulls the younger man closer. The designer smirks, leaning in and ducking his head until his breath ghosts over Hibari's skin. "I will hold you to your word, Hibari Kyouya. You will model for me."
Hibari's eyes widen for a moment for he only looks at Reborn, breathes coming and going at regular intervals. "Only if you defeat me."
"Now you're going back on what you have said," Reborn says, and his smile is wide and smug. "You promised me that you are 'up to it', Hibari. Nothing else."
The tonfa presses a little close. "Ch'."
Reborn pushes it away from his throat with a hand that is suddenly wrapped around a gun. His smile is wide. "Those are amateur moves."
"Then fight me."
"Perhaps after you have done what you have promised to," Reborn tips his hat at the supermodel, his eyes hidden by the brim once more. "Then I will show you. If I am free."
With that last parting comment, he leaves the shop. A moment passes.
Hibari's tonfa embeds itself into the wood.
End
Strength
Characters/Pairings: Hibari, Euphemia
Rating: PG-13
Prompt: 'EUPHIE/HIBARI' -- lewdness; Amat!verse
The winds of Atia were cold at night.
Hibari, dressed in nothing but a thin black yukata, leaned forward, his elbows balancing against the railing of the roof. He was standing, shoulders set and back straight, looking out to the cityscape of Atia like a hawk, like a conqueror, his eyes sharp and narrowed.
In the distance he could see the Coliseum, a dark grey structure looming over the rest of the buildings around it. He smiled, the barest upward curve of his lips.
(He could still smell the blood of the herbivores that he had defeated in that place. He could feel the bones that cracked underneath his tonfa; of skin splitting and uscles tearing like paper under his fists, his weapons, his teeth. Everyone there was simply so weak, falling over like straw puppets, begging for their lives, after just one strike.)
She came up from behind him like a ghost, interrupting his thoughts. She was clothed in a simple white shift, her long pink hair loose and spilling over her shoulders, curving around her breasts like brightly-coloured silk. His gaze turned from the city, to her.
"The skies are so beautiful tonight," Euphemia murmured, soft and low and sweet. She placed a pale hand on the railing, fingers clenching it as the wind whipped her hair backwards. Even in the face of the sharp wind, she did not turn her head, merely smiling and closing her eyes against the sea-scented breeze.
Hibari nodded, curt and short, "It is."
Silence hung between them after that. It was a comfortable and soothing one, periodically broken by the sound of their own breathing and the movements of the tides far away. (Hibari could hear the air move as the water moved against it.) He turned to look at her as she sighed aloud, arms wrapped around herself as if to ward off the cold.
(Yet she did not say a word, or even permit herself to shiver.)
There was strength in the steely curve of her spine, in the shape of her wrist, in the slender column of her neck. A certain brightly shining steel, covered by smooth, gentle velvet. A snake pretending to be a flower, almost.
Almost as she was not despicable like those who pretended to be like her; who hid their bloodlust and selfishness behind cordial smiles and gentle laughter. She was simply herself, and she did what she wanted to reaffirmed that. She would never change herself because of the opinion of others.
That will, he thought, was strength itself.
She noticed his stare and smiled at him, bright and blinding like a star. Tilting her head to the side, there was a questioning look in her eyes.
But Hibari merely shook his head and did not speak (there was rarely to need for words, between them). He reached forward and captured the fluttering strands of herr hair within his long, thin fingers. She stepped in closer, leaning in slightly to the touch.
Her smile still remained.
He cupped his hands around her face, tracing his callused thumbs over the smooth skin of her cheeks. Her hand pressed against his shoulders, holding him a distance away before leaning in herself, the distance between their faces closing until their foreheads touched. Their lips brushed each other.
His hand was on the small of her back; both an invitation andn a challenge. And her hands slid into his hair, her mouth opening against his; an answer.
Hibari smirked, and Euphemia smiled.
End
SEVEN OR SO MORE TO GO. o/~
A Different Type of Game
Characters/Pairings: Ryohei, Yamamoto, Hibari. Hints of Ryohei->Hibari<-Yamamoto
Rating: PG
Prompt: 'RYOHEI AND YAMAMOTO FIGHTING OVER HIBARI. NOT TYL' -- infighter
See, see, there's something about Yamamoto and Ryohei that no one ever seems to understand. It's almost a secret between them; a silent understanding; two eyes catching each other across a baseball field or a boxing ring. This is something that they both know as well as the sweat on their brows. It is this:
It has never been a game. Not in the way that everyone seems to think it is.
They are sportsmen. Every game is a competition of a highest order. Every game forces them to push themselves beyond their limits, to the 'extreme' as Ryohei always seems to say it. Every game, whether competitive or friendly, is simply about winning, winning, winning.
Yamamoto and Ryohei both are not used to losing.
(Ryohei has never lost at all, except once. Yamamoto plays with his team, but he always wins it for them; except for once.)
Their eyes meet as they walk down a corridor. Hibari sweeps past them, his jacket fluttering in the air like huge black wings, widening his shoulders and making him look larger and even more intimidating than he always is.
But they both have never been afraid of him, not really. Ryohei has always faced death in the face; has felt its cold, cold hand on his shoulders every time he steps up onto the ring. It doesn't matter that there are rules to prevent heavy injuries - the threat looms over him thick and dark and heavy every time he bandages his hands to fight. He knows that he might die. (And that feeling, the triumph over that feeling, is why he loves boxing. It is the greatest rush; the greatest victory when he always wins and ends up alive.)
And Yamamoto has never felt fear in the form of anyone. He feels fear in the form of failure, and failure alone. (Death is failing his father; failing his friends. He knows that now.)
Hibari's tonfas flash silver in the sun as they watch him and watch each other. There is an upward curve on those thin lips, sharp and vicious. Hibari has never been kind, after all. (That is why they watch him, why they-) Yamamoto's hands curl around the baseball bat, weighing it in his hands and his smile is automatic, wide and sincere still. Ryohei closes his eyes and feels his fists and his body.
At the same time, they wonder what it would be like to be 'bitten to death'.
"You're loitering," Hibari says, breaking the silence that hold court between them, held between each inhale and exhale. "Why are you not in class."
It is not a question. It is a challenge.
Yamamoto's smile sharpens, his feet shifting against the concrete floor as he steps forward. Ryohei merely raised his fists. Hibari tilts back his head, and there is the barest flash of surprise in his eyes. He has never learnt how to hide his emotions, Yamamoto thinks almost fondly. He's always so terribly honest, like a blunt instrument. Like the tonfa in his hand. Hibari smiles.
It is a game, between them. One that is quiet and secret between the three of them. Because if Hibari knows- he won't play with them anymore, will he?
"I'll bite you to death," Hibari intones, and he strikes.
Yamamoto laughs, and Ryohei shouts: "This is EXTREME!"
End
First Meeting
Characters/Pairings: Xanxus, Tsuna
Rating: G
Prompt: 'Xanxus raising baby!Tsuna.' -- thelovemafia
"What is this trash," Xanxus growls. He holds a child in his large hands, fingers under his armpit as he glares dark and malicious. The baby sticks a thumb into his mouth, sucking on it as his eyes filled up with tears. He sniffles.
Xanxus growles again.
"His name is Tsunayoshi," Nana says, smiling like Xanxus is a beautiful, kind man. He is the son of her husband's boss, isn't he? She must be polite to him. "We call him Tsu-kun- ah, I mean." She ducks her head, the picture perfect subservient Japanese wife. "Tsuna-kun."
'Tsuna' sniffles again. Xanxus narrows his eyes. 'Tsuna' quietens down immediately. Xanxus's eyes continue to narrow.
"Ch'," Xanxus says, taking note of the large brown eyes and the explosion of brown that is masquerading as its- his hair. "Trash."
Nana smiles again, reaching forward to take the baby from Xanxus's arms when it- he opens his mouth. The thumb drops out of it, but the sound is muffled anyway.
"Mrii-swan," Tsuna says, and his smile is small and shaky. It brightens a little when Xanxus stops glaring (out of pure shock, for the record). "Nwii-swan!"
The room goes completely silent. Nana freezes. Xanxus's mouth falls open.
"Nwii-swan!"
"Oh my god," Squalo says.
End
Coerced
Characters/Pairings: Yamamoto/Hibari
Rating: PG-13
Prompt: '8018 underwear photoshoot (Vongola-models!AU)' -- questofdreams
"Strip," the designer says, a skinny little man with large, loud hair and a louder presence. He holds out a pair of black silk boxers to Hibari. "Wear this, Hibari-san." He turned around and handed another piece of underwear to Yamamoto, this time a pair of dark blue briefs. "You too, Yamamoto-kun."
"Alright," Yamamoto nods, smiling genially as he took the piece of barely-there cloth. At the same time, Hibari replied with a flat, "No." Pause. The designer stops breathing. Yamamoto turns to look at the older man, lifting an eyebrow. His smile remains unchanged.
Hibari's scowl deepens. Yamamoto's smile widens; a challenge and a reassurance both shown clearly in the curve of those lips.
Hibari scowls as he storms to the changing room, boxers in his hand.
***
Yamamoto tilts his head back against the light brown calf leather couch that he is leaning against. He is sitting on the floor, a hand stretched out beside him - the perfect picture of poise and confidence. He is grinning, friendly and open even as his body seems to glow with its tanned skin and toned muscles. He has no need for oil to force his skin into a gleam; only for the positioning of the camera. The lights adjust around his figure, casting the pair of briefs into the spotlight.
The door opens, and Hibari steps in, every step soft and deliberate and purely dangerous. His white shirt drapes around his shoulders, unbuttoned and exposing every inch of his pale skin and chiselled muscles and-
scars.
Scars decorate nearly his entire body - remnants of bullet wounds, stab wounds, sword slashes, burns and cuts. They are bits and pieces of his war spoils; of those battles he had won both in his youth and as he had grown. A ripple of surprise goes through the camera crew and the designer, but it was only a ripple - after all, these are Italians. They know what Yamamoto and Hibari are, after all.
Hibari drops into the couch, uncaring of the designer's unsubtle efforts to direct him. The shirt remains on his shoulders. He shakes his head, brushing a strand of hair out of his eyes as he drew a leg upwards. The man holding the lights shifts suddenly, casting a long shadow across Hibari's torso, masking the scars with darkness. Hibari buries a hand into Yamamoto's hair, tightening lightly as he pulls the head up and forward, forcing Yamamoto's eyes to rest on him. He smirks; Yamamoto cocks his head to the side and smiles, wide and mischievous.
The cameras flash around them.
End
clothes make the man
Characters/Pairings: Dino, Mukuro, Hibari. Something like Dino->Hibari<-Mukuro
Rating: PG
Prompt: "D1869 or whatever order you want. Dress" -- uwahblood; Supermodel!AU
It is a common refrain that clothes make a man. It is upon this refrain that the fashion world is built: pictures with beautiful models wearing beautiful clothes screams out the message that those clothes would make you, dearest customer, just as gorgeous and successful if you buy it. It is the advertisement; the lure. That is why fashion labels employ models.
Butat the same time there is a paradox. It is the man - or woman - who actually makes the clothes. A good model makes customers like the clothes. A better one make them love it. And an absolutely brilliant model makes the customer thinks that he - or she - will never be able to live life properly without having that piece of clothing or accessory in their closet. They ache for it, feeling inadequate and feeling that buying that piece of well-cut cloth would fill the gap inside of them. (Which is, of course, false. But that is something that is rarely spoken about because no one here is a fool.)
Hibari Kyouya is one of the best, if not the best out there. There's something about him: his poise, his grace, the turn of his ankle as he moves, the shift of his wrist as he opens a hand. Or perhaps it's those slanted eyes, dark and intense and grabbing the attention of whoever that even glanced at a picture of him. Or maybe it is his sheer magnetic presence that commands light and composition without much effort. It's something that many photographers and designers had spent days trying to figure out, with no avail.
Rokudo Mukuro is not such a fool. He knows precisely what makes Hibari Kyouya so popular and arresting: it is not any of those qualities. It is the fact that Hibari was all of that and more, and yet he is one of the biggest asshole that anyone will ever meet. An asshole and a brat who always wants his own way, and settles for nothing else.
(There's something unique about that; a contradiction, perhaps. That is why Mukuro liked him so much.)
Hibari is backdropped by dark blue curtains and a lit chandelier. He stands with a hip jutting out, one knee straightened and the other bent. A hand rests on a thigh, the other stretched outwards, fingers curled into a loose fist.
Mukuro's clothes draped upon his body like liquid silk, soft and smooth as it clings to his skin. He uses nothing but the best materials and the best designs for this model, because Hibari Kyouya should only wear clothes that he can show off. Long, gleaming leather pants parade every curve of his thigh and calf, clinging to his hips with the ease of a long-time lover. It catches the light most pleasingly, lengthening his already long legs until it seems like they never end. The pants flare out at the ankles like the pants of a well-tailored suit. That is the first hint.
His shirt is white, long sleeves opening at his wrist to expose them. It is a mockery of the usual boring white work shirt, with buttons at the false cuffs and embroidery that trails down from the hollow of the throat to the navel. It can be a row of buttons, if one tilts one's head and squint. The collar is raised, half a turtleneck as if upturned, and the shirt fits well enough to show the shape of his body without being tight enough to bare those chiselled muscles that Mukuro knows Hibari has.
On Hibari's shoulders a dark red jacket rests, the centerpiece that flutters in the slight wind in the studio. Silver glints off the shoulders, epaulettes polished to a dark grey gleam - just a hint of the military. The inside lining is a mixture of cashmere and silk, so terribly cool to the touch yet never letting the cold in.
Mukuro calls this collection diCHOtoMY. It is his style: daring, different and enticing, especially on Hibari's body. It is as if every piece of cloth has been cut with him in mind, made for him and only him with an ease that only he can pull off.
(This is not far from the truth.)
Flamboyance might be Mukuro's calling card, but it is not for Dino Cavallone. Dino thrives in simplicity, because he is a simple man with simple wants and simple needs. His creativity shines not through creating something entirely new, but through the little details. If Mukuro is about mockery, then Dino is about reaffirmation.
He dresses Hibari in a suit - white shirt, black pants, black jacket, black tie, all made of the finest Italian silk, woven to the smallest detils. Dino's touch is showed in the rounded cuffs of the shirt, the edges curving inwards towards dark grey buttons polished to a shine. The threadwork at the edges peeks outwards in the silver of cloth exposed by the jacket and it is intricate - large curves with the leaves and branches that look as if they are moving, the thread the lightest of greys that stand out against white cloth without being obstrusive.
The wind is blowing harsh in the studio and Hibari keeps the jacket open, exposing the inner lining. Dino paints a gorgeous scenery with the satin inside, of a dark sea with crashing waves and a tree standing solitarily at the left, branches bent due to the wind. At the right is a bird with widespread wings, dark-winged with the brightest eyes.
(Dino Cavallone has always admitted, unabashedly, that Hibari Kyouya is his muse.)
The pants curves against the narrow hips, decorated by a silver belt that is the sole splash of bright light. The hem of the pants are rounded, embroidered with the same patterns as the cuffs of the shirt with a grey thread so dark that it is just so barely noticeable. His shoes gleamed, polished to a black shine that catches one's eyes - the threadwork is evident here, as well - the smallest of waves.
Little details.
Hibari stands with eyes narrowed and sharp, focused on the camera. He cants a hip, one foot forward as he wind whips his hair and jacket around him. His body is in profile, facing the wall but his eyes look straight into the camera. His arm is straightened outwards, fingers curled around a gun that is aimed at the viewer. There's something deathly and purely dangerous about his sensuality, enough to intrigue. Enough to pull the viewer in as they fall into his eyes.
Dino names the collection ALLODOLE. Made for men with statements to make.
He catches Mukuro's eyes, and smiles. Mukuro inclines his head, a glint of a smirk on his lips, his hands wrapped around the red leather jacket.
Hibari turns his head and ignores them both.
(After all, he belongs to no one.)
End
The Opera House
Characters/Pairings: Hibari, Reborn
Rating: G
Prompt: 'I want a scene where hibari books an entire opera to hear some soprano sing and he books it because he wants a few moments of peace.' -- queen_qing
There's something about the lull of the opera - the dip of the low, bass notes that cradles; the high soprano voices that pulls him slowly to sleep. Hibari usually needs complete silence in order to rest, but such things are difficult to find, and therefore he makes do with substitutes. Substitutes of the highest kind.
He books the entire opera for the night and sits in one of the box seats; one with the best view of the entire stage. The costumes catches the light and glitters like jewels and tear-filled eyes, made of satin and silks and lace and cotton. The soprano is dressed in a white dress, corseted at the waist but leaving her enough room to breath. Her shoes tap against the parquet flooring like another percussion beat; a four-step tango harmony.
Hibari's eyes are heavy-lidded as the lead soprano opens her mouth and belts out a song about her Angel of Music. Cloth shifts as the actors-dancers twirl on stage, minute little noises but his ears catch it all. But here it doesn't matter, because it simply becomes part of the white noise; part of the performance; part of his little lullaby. (There are no unwanted voices.)
He sleeps.
***
"So, Hibari," Reborn says, tapping on the table where a brown envelope sits, almost ominous in its innocuous appearance. "You spent ten thousand euros in one night to sleep in the theatre."
Hibari does not yawn. His eyes are bright and sharp as he cocks his head to the side. "Yes," he says, because as far as he knows, he has nothing to be ashamed of.
Reborn cocks his gun - the sound resounds the room and reminds Hibari of a single drumbeat that echoes throughout the opera hall. "I have three cartridges. You have five minutes."
Hibari merely whips out his tonfas, and smiles.
End
Double Meanings
Characters/Pairings: Hibari, Reborn
Rating: G
Prompt: 'Reborn/Hibari, discussing power-play. Hibari thinks they are talking about combat. Reborn is on a completely different tangent.' -- varyola; Supermodel!AU
"Are you up for it, Hibari?" Reborn asks, tilting his head down as he circles the table. His fedora, decorated with its customary orange band (colour splash version, handpainted and made of silk) hid his eyes from view as he perused the different fabrics. His fingers brushed across them, bare skin against Italian silks.
He picks a swathe of it up, black cloth running like a dark waterfall between his fingers. He looks at it under the warm lights of the store, turning it over and over in his hands as he checks the weave.
Hibari stands a distance away, leaning against dark wood panels. His arms are crossed in front of him, one foot over the other. His eyes are narrowed and glaring as he looks at Reborn, "Don't underestimate me."
"I'm not," Reborn replies simply. He holds out the cloth and an attendant approaches immediately, keeping a safe distance from Hibari even as she folds up the fabric and replaces it on the table. Reborn makes a sign, twenty, and she nods and makes a mark on her clipboard.
(There's no one who doesn't know who 'Reborn' is, in the fashion world. Ten and two years ago he used to be one of the very best supermodels on the market before he resigns one day out of a whim, saying that the clothes he was forced to wear is inferior and he would rather make his own. Now the Vongola brand, headed by a man who might not know clothes and cloth like the back of his hand but whose mind is sharper than a knife, is one of the most prominent in the industry.)
"It's a simple question."
Hibari tilts his head back, a challenge in his eyes and in the upward curve of his lips. "I am."
"Good," Reborn steps forward, invading into Hibari's personal space slightly. The model does not move away, and simply cocks his head to the side. Waiting. Reborn's eyes are devious as they dart to the side for the briefest of seconds.
"I have been waiting," Hibari hisses low and vicious, and there is a flick of his wrist and the weapons he is famous for carrying slips out of his sleeves. He wraps his fingers around the handles, bringing them out. His smirk turns bloodthirsty. The leather soles of the shoes make no sound as they scrape along the darkwood floors. "Show me, then."
The attendants remain perfectly calm and still.
Reborn reaches forward and grabs Hibari's tie, stepping in even closer as he pulls the younger man closer. The designer smirks, leaning in and ducking his head until his breath ghosts over Hibari's skin. "I will hold you to your word, Hibari Kyouya. You will model for me."
Hibari's eyes widen for a moment for he only looks at Reborn, breathes coming and going at regular intervals. "Only if you defeat me."
"Now you're going back on what you have said," Reborn says, and his smile is wide and smug. "You promised me that you are 'up to it', Hibari. Nothing else."
The tonfa presses a little close. "Ch'."
Reborn pushes it away from his throat with a hand that is suddenly wrapped around a gun. His smile is wide. "Those are amateur moves."
"Then fight me."
"Perhaps after you have done what you have promised to," Reborn tips his hat at the supermodel, his eyes hidden by the brim once more. "Then I will show you. If I am free."
With that last parting comment, he leaves the shop. A moment passes.
Hibari's tonfa embeds itself into the wood.
End
Strength
Characters/Pairings: Hibari, Euphemia
Rating: PG-13
Prompt: 'EUPHIE/HIBARI' -- lewdness; Amat!verse
The winds of Atia were cold at night.
Hibari, dressed in nothing but a thin black yukata, leaned forward, his elbows balancing against the railing of the roof. He was standing, shoulders set and back straight, looking out to the cityscape of Atia like a hawk, like a conqueror, his eyes sharp and narrowed.
In the distance he could see the Coliseum, a dark grey structure looming over the rest of the buildings around it. He smiled, the barest upward curve of his lips.
(He could still smell the blood of the herbivores that he had defeated in that place. He could feel the bones that cracked underneath his tonfa; of skin splitting and uscles tearing like paper under his fists, his weapons, his teeth. Everyone there was simply so weak, falling over like straw puppets, begging for their lives, after just one strike.)
She came up from behind him like a ghost, interrupting his thoughts. She was clothed in a simple white shift, her long pink hair loose and spilling over her shoulders, curving around her breasts like brightly-coloured silk. His gaze turned from the city, to her.
"The skies are so beautiful tonight," Euphemia murmured, soft and low and sweet. She placed a pale hand on the railing, fingers clenching it as the wind whipped her hair backwards. Even in the face of the sharp wind, she did not turn her head, merely smiling and closing her eyes against the sea-scented breeze.
Hibari nodded, curt and short, "It is."
Silence hung between them after that. It was a comfortable and soothing one, periodically broken by the sound of their own breathing and the movements of the tides far away. (Hibari could hear the air move as the water moved against it.) He turned to look at her as she sighed aloud, arms wrapped around herself as if to ward off the cold.
(Yet she did not say a word, or even permit herself to shiver.)
There was strength in the steely curve of her spine, in the shape of her wrist, in the slender column of her neck. A certain brightly shining steel, covered by smooth, gentle velvet. A snake pretending to be a flower, almost.
Almost as she was not despicable like those who pretended to be like her; who hid their bloodlust and selfishness behind cordial smiles and gentle laughter. She was simply herself, and she did what she wanted to reaffirmed that. She would never change herself because of the opinion of others.
That will, he thought, was strength itself.
She noticed his stare and smiled at him, bright and blinding like a star. Tilting her head to the side, there was a questioning look in her eyes.
But Hibari merely shook his head and did not speak (there was rarely to need for words, between them). He reached forward and captured the fluttering strands of herr hair within his long, thin fingers. She stepped in closer, leaning in slightly to the touch.
Her smile still remained.
He cupped his hands around her face, tracing his callused thumbs over the smooth skin of her cheeks. Her hand pressed against his shoulders, holding him a distance away before leaning in herself, the distance between their faces closing until their foreheads touched. Their lips brushed each other.
His hand was on the small of her back; both an invitation andn a challenge. And her hands slid into his hair, her mouth opening against his; an answer.
Hibari smirked, and Euphemia smiled.
End
SEVEN OR SO MORE TO GO. o/~