(no subject)
Title: Spoils of the Senseless
Fandom: Katekyo Hitman Reborn!
Pairing: Hibari/Gokudera
Rating: R [sex and language]
Word Count: 1400
Notes: Written with the amazing theburningempty who does the most amazing things with metaphors and heartbreak, oh yes, which (as one can imagine) makes her one of my favorite people ever. ♥
Notes v2.0: Crossposting because we are big whores.
He passes Gokudera Hayato's sister in the hall. She breezes straight by him without a glance, but she does not leave without a word,
"Stay away from him."
And then the next week:
"You two are not meant for each other."
- - - - -
A few days later they're in the rubble of a decimated enemy warehouse. Gokudera's high off the destruction, off a job well done. He inhales the fresh night air, it's laced with dust and ashes and the scent of fresh carnage. He's got a jagged smile that's too young and too daring for a man of his age, of his position, of his occupation. Hibari has a stern face that is simply too old. Doesn't matter. The dead tell no tales and they're both as good as dead.
Gokudera pulls him in by his tie and dips in under his chin; his nose brushes against the hollow of his pale-as-a-fishbellly throat before he bites. Hibari grips his hair and tugs. Eye for an eye. Theft for theft. The look in Gokudera's eye is a glint of a man who lives and thrives at the frontlines of the present. Too beat up by his own past, too unstable to handle his own future.
And then it's a fumbling, rough jack off in the ruins of a building and among the empty shells of the dead. It's appropriate, somehow. Corpses among the corpses, barely a beating heart in the place, barely a spare breath. They've left remains of themselves scattered across continents, oceans, crushed at the heels of the untrustworthy. Gokudera looks at his stained hand (a mix of his own and Hibari's), smirks at the thought of his old Calthoilic church and talk of heretic gays and stodgy abstience. His life's gone to waste and so has his cum. Fuck it. He licks his palm clean. He fancies that God is extracting his wrath on a puppy somewhere just like the brochure said he would.
Fuck it.
He's a waste of space, a waste of a lot of things and he doesn't give a flying damn. He catches Hibari's eye and smiles slow and dark like a boy with a secret and a plan.
He pulls him in for a kiss.
It's a slick, cruel gesture, loaded with all of the things a kiss shouldn't be, and Hibari has never been one to turn down a challenge. All forked tongue and reptilian eyes, he licks himself off Gokudera's tongue, off his lips, lifts up his own sticky fingers and streaks the cold mess over the hard line of Gokudera's cheek. (Animals eat their young. It's how the world turns.) They're all tangled up in each other in the most uncomfortable, intangible ways anyway. This shouldn't be clean. This should be a filthy mess, decay and ruins like everything else around them. He slips his fingers into Gokudera's mouth. I dare you to make this clean. In return, Gokudera shamelessly sucks those digits like they were a cock. The feel of his eager tongue sends a current up Hibari's arm, and Gokudera's eyes fall downcast as he draws those slick fingers out of his mouth.
He rests his forearms around Hibari's neck. He's all casual grace with heavy words drowned out by a heavier purr, "Let's fuck." (Dino Cavallone used to cringe at that phrase, "Such crude words for something so lovely." And his fingers would dip under the covers and his voice would dip low and sultry, "Kyouya-") But it's the perfect word for this, no honey-sick delusions here. Just the mockery in Gokudera's tone. (Hibari didn't think "fuck" could sound any farther from "making love" than it did already, but Gokudera has a way of rasping sandpaper over the concept until it's ravaged all to hell. Gokudera has a way like that with a lot of things.) It's just still-hard cocks and cum on their lips and adrenaline in their veins like crystalline drugs and a job well done. Just Hibari shoving him to the ground rough enough to skin the palms of Gokudera's hands when he lands.
They're a tangle of limbs. It's an extraction of pleasure. It's every man for himself. Fuck it all. It's just a fumbling tumbling blur and then clarity. Gokudera's orgasm is wretched out like a back alley abortion. (Care not for life nor love nor kin, selfish would-be parents.) They're forehead to forehead gasping and panting and soiled beyond any measure. He murmurs breathlessly,
"What would you do if I said we're over?" He kisses Hibari on the cheek, a scatter of butterfly stings. "What would you do?"
"Say good riddance," Hibari pants against his neck and thrusts harder.
Hibari is used to these games. ("Hey, Kyouya. What if I asked you not to come back again?" That teasing smile, calculating eyes. Love me.) And if there's not room for something in the empty studio apartment of his life, it's these childish games, these look-at-me love-me love-me-best needy tricks that Gokudera pulls out of his chest like useless extra hearts (like the first one had use at all to start with). It's just a pistol full of blanks held to his temple. He doesn't even blink.
Gokudera laughs low at that, he throws back his heavily marked neck. His eyes flutter closed as Hibari continues to move in him. He speaks in half in clarity, half in broken moans. "Would you kill me? We could go down in a lovers feud. People will remember us for our fuck ups and our amazing fucks." He clenches his insides, relishes the hitched breath he draws out. He traces his lips and mouth against Hibari's jawline and hisses hungrily, "We'll fucking outshine Apollo and Hyacinth and we'll blind everyone else. Death by our own hands instead of a discus and a jealous bitch of a goddess."
With the heel of his hand, Hibari shoves Gokudera's head back down to the cement floor with enough force to make him groan. As if this matters enough to kill him. As if this matters enough to hurt him. Hibari is the one who does the hurting. "I don't have time for this. Be quiet." And it's back to the shift and rasp of bodies like tinder in a raging fire, back to Gokudera's curses and Hibari's own measured breath, his erratic movements, his resistance to Gokudera's seeking hips. (The image of a snake eating its own tail comes to mind. Scene change. Then a bed in an extravagant manor, blond hair splayed over a pillow. Scene change. The flash of a whip and its ghost-like sting. Scene change. Sand in an hourglass, pick your cliche.)
Gokudera hears a name slip out that is not his and pretends he doesn't hear it. Doesn't hear that hiss that curls into his ear to coil around his heart and lungs. When he finally comes again Gokudera grits out Hibari's name because he doesn't have anyone else's. Never has (never ever will.) Hibari can't tell if Gokudera spits out his name like poison as a challenge or as a weakness. And it doesn't matter because it's not like he can demolish something that's already crushed and scattered like gravel anyway (like baby teeth spat out, something outgrown but worth some petty change if you stick it under your pillow and pretend to believe).
When they're half dressed Gokudera rests his forehead against Hibari's. Quiet. Almost as if they were companions and something more. (Hey, Hibari. What if we pretended we were in love? Head over heels and all that damn shit? Have a make-believe game just between us. Let's roll around and screw in our lies like pigs in their mud and filth.)
Hibari cups his face like something to be scrutinized, ridiculed. And the kiss he presses to Gokudera's lips is as soft as any lie, as feather-light as the best mockery.
When he pulls back, he spits on the floor.
It makes Gokudera smirk. He coos into the shell of an ear like an ocean's rolling echo. "I love you too."
Hibari has always been good at ignoring things that aren't there. He straightens his jacket, straightens his tie. Gokudera lights a cigarette and breathes out more than smoke. Invisible demons begone. Deliverance is tobacco wrapped in paper. Forgiveness, one warehouse fuck away.
Fandom: Katekyo Hitman Reborn!
Pairing: Hibari/Gokudera
Rating: R [sex and language]
Word Count: 1400
Notes: Written with the amazing theburningempty who does the most amazing things with metaphors and heartbreak, oh yes, which (as one can imagine) makes her one of my favorite people ever. ♥
Notes v2.0: Crossposting because we are big whores.
He passes Gokudera Hayato's sister in the hall. She breezes straight by him without a glance, but she does not leave without a word,
"Stay away from him."
And then the next week:
"You two are not meant for each other."
- - - - -
A few days later they're in the rubble of a decimated enemy warehouse. Gokudera's high off the destruction, off a job well done. He inhales the fresh night air, it's laced with dust and ashes and the scent of fresh carnage. He's got a jagged smile that's too young and too daring for a man of his age, of his position, of his occupation. Hibari has a stern face that is simply too old. Doesn't matter. The dead tell no tales and they're both as good as dead.
Gokudera pulls him in by his tie and dips in under his chin; his nose brushes against the hollow of his pale-as-a-fishbellly throat before he bites. Hibari grips his hair and tugs. Eye for an eye. Theft for theft. The look in Gokudera's eye is a glint of a man who lives and thrives at the frontlines of the present. Too beat up by his own past, too unstable to handle his own future.
And then it's a fumbling, rough jack off in the ruins of a building and among the empty shells of the dead. It's appropriate, somehow. Corpses among the corpses, barely a beating heart in the place, barely a spare breath. They've left remains of themselves scattered across continents, oceans, crushed at the heels of the untrustworthy. Gokudera looks at his stained hand (a mix of his own and Hibari's), smirks at the thought of his old Calthoilic church and talk of heretic gays and stodgy abstience. His life's gone to waste and so has his cum. Fuck it. He licks his palm clean. He fancies that God is extracting his wrath on a puppy somewhere just like the brochure said he would.
Fuck it.
He's a waste of space, a waste of a lot of things and he doesn't give a flying damn. He catches Hibari's eye and smiles slow and dark like a boy with a secret and a plan.
He pulls him in for a kiss.
It's a slick, cruel gesture, loaded with all of the things a kiss shouldn't be, and Hibari has never been one to turn down a challenge. All forked tongue and reptilian eyes, he licks himself off Gokudera's tongue, off his lips, lifts up his own sticky fingers and streaks the cold mess over the hard line of Gokudera's cheek. (Animals eat their young. It's how the world turns.) They're all tangled up in each other in the most uncomfortable, intangible ways anyway. This shouldn't be clean. This should be a filthy mess, decay and ruins like everything else around them. He slips his fingers into Gokudera's mouth. I dare you to make this clean. In return, Gokudera shamelessly sucks those digits like they were a cock. The feel of his eager tongue sends a current up Hibari's arm, and Gokudera's eyes fall downcast as he draws those slick fingers out of his mouth.
He rests his forearms around Hibari's neck. He's all casual grace with heavy words drowned out by a heavier purr, "Let's fuck." (Dino Cavallone used to cringe at that phrase, "Such crude words for something so lovely." And his fingers would dip under the covers and his voice would dip low and sultry, "Kyouya-") But it's the perfect word for this, no honey-sick delusions here. Just the mockery in Gokudera's tone. (Hibari didn't think "fuck" could sound any farther from "making love" than it did already, but Gokudera has a way of rasping sandpaper over the concept until it's ravaged all to hell. Gokudera has a way like that with a lot of things.) It's just still-hard cocks and cum on their lips and adrenaline in their veins like crystalline drugs and a job well done. Just Hibari shoving him to the ground rough enough to skin the palms of Gokudera's hands when he lands.
They're a tangle of limbs. It's an extraction of pleasure. It's every man for himself. Fuck it all. It's just a fumbling tumbling blur and then clarity. Gokudera's orgasm is wretched out like a back alley abortion. (Care not for life nor love nor kin, selfish would-be parents.) They're forehead to forehead gasping and panting and soiled beyond any measure. He murmurs breathlessly,
"What would you do if I said we're over?" He kisses Hibari on the cheek, a scatter of butterfly stings. "What would you do?"
"Say good riddance," Hibari pants against his neck and thrusts harder.
Hibari is used to these games. ("Hey, Kyouya. What if I asked you not to come back again?" That teasing smile, calculating eyes. Love me.) And if there's not room for something in the empty studio apartment of his life, it's these childish games, these look-at-me love-me love-me-best needy tricks that Gokudera pulls out of his chest like useless extra hearts (like the first one had use at all to start with). It's just a pistol full of blanks held to his temple. He doesn't even blink.
Gokudera laughs low at that, he throws back his heavily marked neck. His eyes flutter closed as Hibari continues to move in him. He speaks in half in clarity, half in broken moans. "Would you kill me? We could go down in a lovers feud. People will remember us for our fuck ups and our amazing fucks." He clenches his insides, relishes the hitched breath he draws out. He traces his lips and mouth against Hibari's jawline and hisses hungrily, "We'll fucking outshine Apollo and Hyacinth and we'll blind everyone else. Death by our own hands instead of a discus and a jealous bitch of a goddess."
With the heel of his hand, Hibari shoves Gokudera's head back down to the cement floor with enough force to make him groan. As if this matters enough to kill him. As if this matters enough to hurt him. Hibari is the one who does the hurting. "I don't have time for this. Be quiet." And it's back to the shift and rasp of bodies like tinder in a raging fire, back to Gokudera's curses and Hibari's own measured breath, his erratic movements, his resistance to Gokudera's seeking hips. (The image of a snake eating its own tail comes to mind. Scene change. Then a bed in an extravagant manor, blond hair splayed over a pillow. Scene change. The flash of a whip and its ghost-like sting. Scene change. Sand in an hourglass, pick your cliche.)
Gokudera hears a name slip out that is not his and pretends he doesn't hear it. Doesn't hear that hiss that curls into his ear to coil around his heart and lungs. When he finally comes again Gokudera grits out Hibari's name because he doesn't have anyone else's. Never has (never ever will.) Hibari can't tell if Gokudera spits out his name like poison as a challenge or as a weakness. And it doesn't matter because it's not like he can demolish something that's already crushed and scattered like gravel anyway (like baby teeth spat out, something outgrown but worth some petty change if you stick it under your pillow and pretend to believe).
When they're half dressed Gokudera rests his forehead against Hibari's. Quiet. Almost as if they were companions and something more. (Hey, Hibari. What if we pretended we were in love? Head over heels and all that damn shit? Have a make-believe game just between us. Let's roll around and screw in our lies like pigs in their mud and filth.)
Hibari cups his face like something to be scrutinized, ridiculed. And the kiss he presses to Gokudera's lips is as soft as any lie, as feather-light as the best mockery.
When he pulls back, he spits on the floor.
It makes Gokudera smirk. He coos into the shell of an ear like an ocean's rolling echo. "I love you too."
Hibari has always been good at ignoring things that aren't there. He straightens his jacket, straightens his tie. Gokudera lights a cigarette and breathes out more than smoke. Invisible demons begone. Deliverance is tobacco wrapped in paper. Forgiveness, one warehouse fuck away.