the alternative escape plan

theburningempty — Sun, 22 Mar 2009 23:59:41 GMT

title: A Thousand Million (Gokudera -> Hibari)
rating: R - sexual misconduct WHEEE
sample: These unspoken bureaucracies and rituals are what hold them in perfect tandem.
note: takes place in an AU concocted by the brilliant evocates: Hibari is the Tenth Vongola Decimo, Gokudera is his loyal right hand man. That's all you need to know.

A breath skitters over his ear, deft fingers uncoil his tie and folds it over a hand neatly. His right hand man always insists that this act is not worth the wrinkles, for it would be an unspeakable, unthinkable affront to the Tenth's image. Buttons are undone but his underling does not dare to touch his skin. Uninvited intimacy is never professional and never welcomed by either man. Limits are everywhere, it boxes them in but never restricts. They're simply invisible walls that uphold Order like the pillars of the Parthenon. These unspoken bureaucracies and rituals are what hold them in perfect tandem. "Tenth... Allow me to serve you-

"Allow me to thrill you."

All it takes is a smile that's barely there to the naked eye. And so discipline goes uninterrupted in this lazy, indulgent afternoon. He relaxes into his chair, relaxes into touches that are nothing less than pure undiluted worship. Gokudera Hayato pours in everything he has and like a gentleman and a true boss, Hibari takes it all in stride. He must have heard a million ways to say "Tenth" by now and these are nothing new. But he relishes these ones- there's one that whispers against his skin, another that is as soft as a child's adoring kiss to a cheek, another that breathes it like a sacred prayer and a blessing (though never is it spoken as a curse, never.)

A thousand paper cranes.

Hibari could crush them anytime, curl his fist, cripple flightless wings. For paper is paper, be it folded or crumpled. He lets out a hiss as Gokudera licks. It makes him smirk in private knowledge (and in secret pride) because the best mouth in Italy does not belong to a seasoned whore on the streets. He's always appreciated how the man's devotion burns any sense of shame into something beyond ashes- to the point that it simply doesn't exist. His title is murmured again, this time with a bottomless ache that echos into the core of Hibari's arousal. (Something in him wakes, something primal is beginning to stir and thrash.) He bucks his hips up into the mouth that adores him enough to say anything. To do anything.

This is exactly why he leaves everything be, better to have a thousand million paper cranes than a silent paper tiger.

theburningempty — Fri, 20 Mar 2009 20:23:01 GMT

title: Spoils of the Senseless (Hibari/Gokudera, past Dino/Hibari)
rating: R - adult concepts
sample: We'll fucking outshine Apollo and Hyacinth and we'll blind everyone else.
note: co-written with the very lovely pollinia and crossposted to misc places because indeed we like too spread the sad.

( 1400 words and a fake cut )

theburningempty — Fri, 20 Mar 2009 19:58:46 GMT

title: Lights Off (Hibari/Gokudera, past Dino/Hibari // almost TYL)
rating: R
sample: Your mouths collide (Pure abstract mockeries of a kiss. They're too empty mean anything.) Your limbs tangle, skin slides against skin without even a shread of intimacy.

The first time he lets you fuck him is after Dino's wedding. You both fall into the sheets with a gracelessness akin to familiar, impersonal rituals. Your mouths collide (Pure abstract mockeries of a kiss. They're too empty mean anything.) Your limbs tangle, skin slides against skin without even a shread of intimacy. You can feel his racing pulse beneith his passive exterior, the pittering pattering line of beats that quickens under your teeth and tongue.

You realize in an instant that this is not the man you know.

But you comply anyway. The cloud guardian you know slammed you against a wall in high school. He had caught your looks and wandering glances and knew what you were. And in all the confusion he took what he wanted and left you just like that. Quiet, red faced, staring down at a slick hand dripping with the mingling cum of two boys. The cloud guardian you know does as he pleases. Does you as he pleases. No strings or uneccesarily things attached. It's all direct contact and straight forward contracts with no small print to be seen. But the man before you now is a stranger brimming over with foreign touches and obtuse desires. He turns off the lights and in the pitch darkness you embrace a man you've never known before. He guides you into him and you thrust in blind. You'll never be able to shake off the memories of those touches, whose words were reserved for someone else (not you, not you, never you. Not in a blink and not in a lifetime.)

Questions are for people who care. Questions are for people who don't already know the answer.

When you're both done he flicks on the lights. His eyes aren't even watery, they aren't even glassy. They're as clear as the sky at noon and carefully impartial. Untouched. Like this frenzied needy fuck had never happened. He dresses in silence then closes the door without a word. Without a sound.

You think again to yourself, as you watch him through the door, as you light up a cigarette naked and alone. You say this aloud to yourself because there's no one else to hear,

"I don't ever want to fall in love."

theburningempty — Sat, 04 Oct 2008 02:53:05 GMT

title: drabbles 1-5 (80various/D18/69vs.59/8059/G59)
rating: PG
sample: there is only so much we can throw away for ourselves before we lose it all.

1. Yamamoto/various
Yamamoto thinks love is a lot like playing Russian Roulette with blanks and bullets. Life spins the barrel for you and hands you the revolver when it's time... but it's your choice whether you want to pull the trigger or not. Most of the time he pulls it. He doesn't know if he's fearless or just plain stupid for skinnyviolentexotic boys and dangerouslydangerouslyalluring men.

But it's always BANG and it's always like this:

Your heart bursts every every time and you're sweating a puddle as the explosion echoes back to you with every pulse. Your thoughts run a million miles per second: Blank or bullet? Blank or bullet? Blank or bullet? Blank or bullet? Your ears ring, there's a pitchfork singing in your heart and all you can do is watch the aftermath.

Blank or bullet?

- - - - -

2. Dino/Hibari
Sometimes you find yourself leaning into touches that don’t really exist. Returning looks you wish were there. Searching for openings when there are none. Looking for warmth within the fathomless embrace of voids. You childe your imagination but you can’t stop indulging yourself (why not: aren't we all a little guilty of hope?) Better to fall weak to private sins than to quietly descend into madness.

Honestly, you were never truly qualified to be his teacher in the first place. But you cling to the notion because it’s something to keep you both in orbit of something platonic (so cursed we are: to want what we can’t have, to have what we don’t want.) These are fine, careful, self-imposed lines to tread and it’s the least you can do when you’re with him. It’s the closest and furthest you’ll trust yourself to go. You know there may come a day when you’ll be forced to pay the consequences for doing more of what you should have done less. For doing less of what you should have done more.

Because really... there is only so much we can throw away for ourselves before we lose it all.

- - - - -

3. Gokudera vs. Mukuro
Greater men have been devoured and gutted inside out and outside in by these illusions. But on the brink of everything Gokudera Hayato somehow manages to hang on.

His blood stills when that silky voice, amused and mocking, pierces the din once more, “Paper tiger, paper tiger… why do you insist on breathing fire?”

He hopes… no, he prays feverishly to God that infuriating rhyme will never hit the streets of Rome to live forever on the tongues of children. It’s not a rare occurrence for the nastier more humiliating fates of Mafioso to be immortalized in this roundabout fashion. The children of the Costa Nostra are not raised on witty tales of talking animals nor the exciting escapades of Royalty… they grow up on the legends of men and fools who were their forefathers. Every single Familgia, every single generation has their rhymes of shame and honour. Gokudera’s always aspired that his would be one of the latter… but it in the churning stomach of Mukuro’s illusions he feels like he’s been chasing the horizon for all of his life.

He lets loose a blast from his skull cannon into the direction of the Mist Guardian’s know-it-all-seen-it-all-done-it-all chuckle. The inferno blooms in a moment of desperate glory before it’s snuffed out like a flickering match. From the dispersing smoke and mirrors Mukuro lunges forward, spinning his trident.

“Do not make me repeat myself again: there is nothing to burn here, you silly boy.”

And this is how the true eye of the storm descends.

- - - - -

4. Yamamoto/Gokudera inspired by this translation
Gokudera Hayato.
The first time Yamamoto’s eyes scrolled the boy’s name (white and chalky against the dusty green of the board) he laughed to himself.

A hawk dude out of a temple prison? Or was it hell instead of prison? A hellish prison? Whatever, that surname was hilarious but it had to be made up.

And it was.

Later he found out. And later he’d wonder. He’d look over his shoulder and look (really look) at Gokudera. Names are important. You grow into them. Or you could grow out of them, you could become the polar opposite but they’re still there you know? He’d scratch his chin, tip of his fingernail nicking his scar. He guessed Gokudera grew out of his Italian name so much he flicked it away like one of his many cigarette butts. Probably ground it into the dirt with his heel. Either he snuffed it out like nothing or he snuffed it out carefully like it was something.

Nonetheless he put out the fire before it could die on its own.

The smallest tilt of a head can change a perspective and a boy, a man, you’ve known for years can become a stranger.

- - - - -

5. Gamma/Gokudera
Lately, he feels like he's growing into the wrong bones. It's been almost decade since he snapped back from the future and Gokudera still hasn't recovered from the whiplash.

Dual memories collide and meld into things that are half truth and half truth. Double vision de ja vu. He can't decide if he's living in a fraternal or siamese twin timeline.

It's worse when he's with him. The same smooth rolling voice that reads aloud the newspaper once purred death threats into the shell of his ear. The same hands that nearly broke his own now lingers on his shoulder.

And all the while the leopard and wolves frolic on the unnaturally green and manicured lawn. Their family's rings that adorn their right hands are as still and silent as metal can be.

White picket fences will always be the first to burn in the blossoming of self destruction.

theburningempty — Wed, 01 Oct 2008 02:47:06 GMT

title: Scramble part2 (Hibari/Gokudera)
rating: PG-15 (incomprehensibly violent sexual tension, there will be blood)
sample: "These days they’re two Molotov cocktails of adrenaline, hormones and old grudges (old excuses more like)"
parts: one

- - - - -

These days they’re two Molotov cocktails of adrenaline, hormones and old grudges (old excuses more like) A single spark of fury is all that it takes, fuck the countdown, it’s instantaneous ignition. Every pore is in flames, murder is a hard shine in their eyes. It’s crazy to think. It’s crazy to know that so much anger could come from such young things such as themselves. Kids with guns. They’re just stupid kids with loaded guns and safety catches off. Finger to the trigger. Finger on the trigger.

Watch where you’re pointing that thing.

And don’t blink you young thing. Don’t even think about it you crazy young thing. Life’s too wild to reason with so just settle with curb stomping its face in. It’ll make you feel better. (It’ll make you feel bitter.)

He’s so in over his head that he’s tumbling head over heels. He’s so screwed up he finds his ground in the goddamngodblessed, blessed sky. His heels are digging into the endless blue. Or into the clouds. Or into Cloud guardians cause that’s where his not-so-metaphorical heel is currently situated. Sometimes (frequently) he even finds his knuckles digging into the ribs of Cloud guardians and his teeth digging into the necks of Cloud guardians. Matching (attempting) blow for blow. Bite for bite.

The scar on the inside of his wrist aches. It’s a twisted knot of burnt flesh, skin’s long healed. But his shaky, twitchy, pride? Not so much. (Not at all.)

Because: Gokudera knows.

Hibari knows.

That it’s a brand.

He tried covering it up with the strap of his watch but every time he took it off at the end of the day… It Was There. He tried ignoring it but everyone just stared simply because It Was There. In his skin and on top of his veins It. Was. There.

All he can do is accept it or reject it.
To do both is impossible, illogical, but it’s happening anyway.

And now? They’re in so deep that intentions are beginning to fuzz and blur in the radiating heat of their mutual hostility. Their little angry world has once again been reduced to a kaleidoscopal vertigo of ceiling, elbows, knees and concrete. Reality is on mute. But through the blinding deafening madness of it all, through the unyielding punches, the mauling bites and the vicious kicks, Gokudera can feel his wrist ache. It’s a shallow echo but it’s a cold snap. It wakes him up.

(It shuts him down.)

Because.
Because he snarls, his voice is an unrecognizable hoarse rumble, and he lunges for a jugular under paleasianalabasterskin. His pearly whites puncture into flesh. He can taste, he can feel, something warm and coppery and thick and liquid trickle down his lips. His chin. His jaw. His adam’s apple. His neck.

The world’s black for some reason and it is then that he notices the touch of a hand awkwardly cupping his face. Fingertips tentatively stroke the lobe of his ear, the corner of his jaw. (Too familiar, too de ja vu, too deliberate to pass off as a mere brush) He snaps open his eyes and instantly Hibari’s stare burns into him (like a cigarette, so much like a cigarette) Something heavy and predatory is shifting between impossibly grey irises. It is then that Gokudera realizes, with his mouth and lips stained in blood, that he’s biting into Hibari’s wrist.

A tongue darts out and slowly wets bruised, split, busted-up lips. Hibari’s head dips down under his chin. Instead of ripping out his throat he is silent and still. For a tender second nothing happens, reality’s volume dials up as the drumming pulse in his ears and their sharp out of synch pants. Then Hibari jerks his bloody wrist free and pins Gokudera’s arms down like a vice. Nails dig into skin, a hard muscled thigh presses against his crotch and a hot, wet tongue sweeps up the trickle of blood up his neck.

Up his adam’s apple.

Along his jaw.

Up his chin.

And to his lips.

//TBC

theburningempty — Mon, 01 Sep 2008 19:34:12 GMT

title: Licking Wounds and Nursing Egos (Xanxus/Squalo)
rating: PG-13 (mentioned sex)
sample: "Though you'll never tell anyone... you like Squalo’s left wrist."

Cue the aftermath. This takes place after the Rings Battle.

Though you'll never tell anyone... you like Squalo’s left wrist. You like how pale it is. You like how delicate it looks. You like how it abruptly ends into a freakish stump.

The first time you saw it, the newly crowned Sword Emperor was unconscious and drugged out on a steady trickle of morphine. Dead air occupied the space where Squalo's hand used to be. However you didn’t feel a single shift of regret churn your insides.

This was Squalo. He was "wounded". He was "injured". He was "hurt". But incredibly he couldn't have been further from "crippled".

So you kissed that left wrist.
Stump, stitches, scabs and all.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

It's the night before you leave for Russia.

You both have never had such angry sex before.
Violent, rough and needy, sure. But-

You reach for the bottle to take another swing as you lie in bed with him.

Hours ago you both fucked like defeated dogs licking each other's wounds. You drowned in alcohol. He drowned in you. Different waters. Same result. You're both pathetic and wallowing in the aftermath of a pitifully one-sided battle. Give you a shallow puddle and you'll stick your face in it. Open your arms and he'll spread his legs. You'll drag him down and he'll never mind. He never minds as long as it's you. It makes you sick. It makes you untangle yourself from his sprawled arms and get out of bed. Your flight is at 7. You can't be late. You take a quick shower. Under the hot spray you let your mind go blissfully blank. You go on cruise control.

Your suit case is already packed and by the door. Your guns are locked up and sealed in some god-forsaken vault. Your underwear's behind a toppled chair. A single suit hangs in your closet.

You're shrugging on your jacket and straightening your tie and you pause when a flash of colour catches your eye. Feathers are peaking out of a half closed drawer.

Out on the balcony you pour out the rest of your whiskey onto the colourful heap. The moist morning breeze is chilly but all you can think of are sun soaked vineyards. You remember playing Cowboys and Indians with the Dino Cavallone when you were both children. You were always the Chief and he the Sheriff. You light a match. An Italian prince is nothing in Russia so you burn your crown in a dusty ice bucket.

You snuff out the smoking ashes with a glass of water. Squalo's still asleep. You know exactly why you find yourself threading your fingers through his hair. Tracing his cheeks, thumb brushing his lips, palm cupping his chin. But you'll never admit it, even in your own head you're too proud to define that feeling in words. To give it shape, to give it form is a surrender you're not ready to make.

You take his left wrist and you bend down to kiss the stump. This is the second time you've pressed your lips against it.

You look up to find that he's looking back at you. Steel eyes clear and focused, his breath's caught in his chest, his are pupils dilated. From the darkness, from something else. You don't want to know. There are no words. So you quietly let go of his wrist and leave without them.

The world's axis is tilted, snapped off its orbit like a broken twig. Or maybe it's just you.

It's just you.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

From the start you have been living life at its bones. You kill on automatic, manual if you come across a rare thrill. You let mundane days meld into a muddy daze. Think any deeper then you know you’ll snap. You spend your days floating on your back. Close your eyes and a bottomless ocean can feel like a bath tub. Two years in exile is nothing compared to the eight you spent quenched frozen in ice in the basement of your own palace.

This is the mantra calms you, this is the mantra that saves you.

Two is nothing like eight.
Two is nothing like eight.

Another Godfather is on his knees sniveling for mercy. You rest your hand on his forehead and bapitize him in flames. You shut your ears to his blood curdling screams. In a moment of clarity you close your eyes and feel the loving warmth of the blaze that caresses your cheek. You quietly enjoy the feel of Italian sun in the howling cold of Russia. In the dying agony of your last and final target, you think of vineyards.

A summer solstice within a winter solstice, you have created your own equinox.

Two is nothing like eight.
And eight is nothing like two.

Finally you let yourself think of home and think of him.

theburningempty — Fri, 18 Apr 2008 22:56:45 GMT

title: Unrequited Animosity (Dino/Hibari... semi-tyl)
rating: PG-13
sample: "You’ll always be haunted by the first time you found yourself alone when you woke up to quietly leave him."

You’ll always be haunted by the first time you found yourself alone when you woke up to quietly leave him. It was your intention to depart without a trace like you always did, save for a spot of fading warmth between the bed sheets and the bathroom’s fogged up glass and mirrors. But for the first time he beat you to the door. He beat you to the taxi. He beat you to the airport. And he was gone. He plunged headfirst into the depths of the world outside before you could.

You’ll never forget waking up then sobering in a cold snap. You’ll never forget that for one horrible moment you were a lost child (but lost to who? … Some questions are better left unanswered.) A void filled the absent space beside you, a void distinctly labelled “Dino Cavallone”. You sat up instantly, your head abuzz with swarms of questions. Your eyes darted and searched the velvet darkness before you finally stilled yourself, before you evened your breath, before you slowed your frantic heart and before you realized you were completely alone.

The digital clock on the bedside table branded “5:14 am” into the night like a cigarette.

The next time you encounter him there was not even a word of apology, not even a single shitty excuse. It ticks you off. You soon find yourself ticked off that you’re ticked off. You still yourself like you did that night. Steel and stones snapping bones, chit chat is empty and petty, vicious cycles will never erode you.

But deep and down, this reversal of roles bothers you.

- - - - -

He thinks this is just another friendly-yet-not-so-friendly spar. However to you it’s a private execution of vengeance. You expect the mindless adrenaline to soothe you. You plan to revel in the memory of his bruised and bloody body the next time your heart betrays you. It’s worked before. It will work again. So is the inevitable fate of those you will never bring yourself to like.

The ferocity of your blows is steadily growing at an exponential rate. You see his expression flicker and shift into something grim and troubled when he notices you’re only aiming for joints and vitals. You care but you don’t.

This will work because you will it to. This will work simply because you want it to. Never mind the doubt that’s nibbling at the far corners of your resolve. You’ll make this (not-irrelevant, not-childish) fight satisfy your nameless hunger, you’ll make yourself cherish the (not-horrible) moment you land the finishing blow. You are going to tenderly cradle this vision of carnage in your head every night before bed. When victory comes you are going to bask in glow of triumph. Everything troubling you will be snuffed out once the source of it all is knocked out cold on the concrete. This will work because you will it to, because you want it to. It’s as simple (and uncomplicated) as that.

His eyes sharpen and his concern grows evident when he narrowly dodges another swing that could’ve shattered his jaw. That look disgusts you. You wish- no, correction: you are going to make him stop looking at you like that because it reignites your urge to rip out your own heart and mount the shitty, incompetent thing on a wooden stake in your front yard.

Kyouya. Stop.

Soundlessly you lash out at him and your tonfa continue to whirl in an impenetratable weave and whistle of steel. Fuck off.

Fuck off already.

Stop it, Kyouya.

The steady tone of his voice is quiet yet chiding. Something akin to shame burns the tips of your ears, he hasn’t spoken to you like that since you graduated Namimori. You care but you don’t. It’s not because you can’t… but because you shouldn’t. This unwanted awareness is yet another tick and another tock to the countdown. The countdown before something ugly and weak you’ve been struggling to cork bursts free within you and an inner hell lets itself loose into your mind and body.

You’re dead set on your making own little explosion to wipe the both of you off the stinking face of the earth before that even comes close to happening. You’ll go down fighting tooth and nail because you won’t-you can’t envision an exit in any other way. Steel and stone snapping bones. Steel and stone snapping bones.

Kyouya.

Stop it.
He’s the one who should stop it.

theburningempty — Sun, 30 Mar 2008 13:19:26 GMT

title: Scramble part1? (Hibari vs. Gokudera/Uh picture them in their late teens, kay?)
rating: PG-13
sample: "They're just like dogs. Snarling, hissing, growling as they wrestle each other into the ground."

Wrote this for the kink meme ~~but I-I can't find it in my heart to complete it... it's fine the way it is.~~
- - - - -
They're just like dogs. Snarling, hissing, growling as they wrestle each other into the ground.

Fuck me? Hell no, no, no.
It's fucking fuck you.

A brutal knee to the ribs makes Gokudera’s fingers twitch which makes the burn on his wrist sing. Oh how he’d love to blow something up in this asshole’s face. Bang. Bang. Bang. He can just picture a thousand angles and all with Hibari’s stupid-narrow-slits-for-eyes widening in surprise in that frozen millisecond before the blossoming roar of light and fire. So what if he’s too close? It’ll be worth getting his face burned off just to see it, just to be there to grab this rare chance by the throat. But his explosives are nothing more than ash in the wind because for the first time in years Gokudera’s run Dry. Dry. Dry. However the sacrifice is far from meaningless: Hibari’s own tonfa lay abandoned in the dirt, broken and dented.

When the dust cleared he couldn’t believe it either. Hibari just stared at the scrap metal in his hands before raising them slowly.

He hurled them to the ground. The hollow clang of steel ringing into the empty lot sent a shiver up Gokudera’s spine. Was it a spoiled child’s tantrum? Or a shark merely spitting out a chipped tooth?

He didn’t have time to think any further because Hibari was up in his face, his eyes burning and murderous and clenching Gokudera’s hand in a merciless grip. The abrupt breach of personal space made Gokudera freeze for a disastrous moment. Thought Hibari hated crowds. Hated people. Hated contact. Hated touching. Hated-

Finger tips traced his lips, too deliberate to pass off as a mere brush. They lingered before the man delicately plucked his cigarette from his mouth-

Oh.

-and stubbed it out on the inside of his wrist.

FUCK.

But he didn’t scream, he couldn’t let himself utter a single hiss, not when Hibari’s deadpan stare was drilling into the depths of his own eyes. Watching. Measuring. Weighing. Judging. Like every shade of white his face turned, like every sharp intake of breath, like every fluttering blink was a sign of something. Something that affected some sick twisted equation in Hibari’s fucked up mind.

Realization dawned on him like a deer caught in the headlights of a freight train when a smirk curled Hibari’s pale lips. A tongue darted out but wet them slow and it was like a period to punctuate Gokudera’s death sentence.

He was a herbivore no more in the eyes of Hibari Kyouya.

Hibari jerked him closer, smiling like a razor. Gokudera’s wrist still stung with pain but he was strangely calm before the inevitable clash.

He drew back his fist.

Really… fight or flight is a choice of luxury.
A fucking luxury, he will never have in this miserable lifetime.

//PART TWO

theburningempty — Thu, 27 Mar 2008 00:28:16 GMT

title: The Extraordinary League of Household Items (mild Haine/Badou)
rating: PG-13 for language
IMPORTANT - make sure you know what happened in chapter 2 page 24 to get this.

Haine lurches in his seat when he feels a solid “click” against the metal on his neck. He sits still for a minute before he silently reaches back. He feels the small piece of paper slide between a very familiar force as he stiffly pulls it free.

[Haine.
Toilet paper
Beer
CIGARETTES!!!! DON’T FORGET THEM THIS TIME
New toothbrushes
Porn
Food is purely optional but I’ve being experiencing this really funny craving for some beef jerky lately]

With the same grace and restraint he exercised before, he reaches back again to unstick a tacky magnet from his neck.

That son... Of. A. Bitch.

Badou’s shoulders are still shaking with laughter when he’s on the floor getting the sweet sweet life slowly strangled out of him, “Can’t you see it’s fucking PERFECT? Badou and Haine, Eyepatch and Whitehair, Alarm Clock and Refrigerator.”

'Husband and Wife,' in the part of his mind he reserved for insane thoughts and personas, the Dog mimicks his partner’s singsong voice.

Haine viciously headbutts Badou to make them both shut the fuck up.

theburningempty — Thu, 27 Mar 2008 00:14:21 GMT

title: SPIN (Dino/Hibari)
rating: NC-17 adult themes, reality check is a bitch slap
sample: "Understand that Hibari Kyoya is a fickle, fickle thing that belongs to no one."

SPIN
Secret kisses, they dot your world.
It spins you in a flurry but all you can see are the pockets of memories.
There are more ways than one to make some love.
Just when you think you’ve found them all he surprises you again and again.
In different ways you own each other.
You don’t have to be together to be forever.

You want to hold his hand, you’ll never admit it.
The world is full of complexities neither of you are ready for.
Just because you wander, it doesn’t mean you’re lost.
Just because you wait, it doesn’t mean you’ve given up.
You’ll always love each other each in different ways
But that doesn’t mean you can’t see eye to eye.

But whatever you do, don’t look up at the sky,
The grey will break your heart and make you lose your way,
Walk towards each other, it’s all you’ve got.
Gravity will pull you in.

You miss seeing things in black and white
But everything’s moulted to different shades of grey.
Has the world always been in monochrome?

You both wish your escape could last a little longer.
But the reality always interrupts to spirit you both away.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

GIVE & TAKE
The best way to make love to a very feisty Hibari Kyoya, is to make it rough but sensual. Send him reeling, make his head swim in lust so thick he’ll be too preoccupied to resist. Don’t EVER make him resort to begging. Pick up on the cues and give him what he wants before he can utter a word. Spoil him till his guard rots and his mind slips to primal desires. Pleasure him in what little time this window of opportunity has surrendered. Understand that his pleasure is yours and ask for nothing but for him to indulge in you. The trickiest part above all is to stay content with what little he gives you. Understand that Hibari Kyoya is a fickle, fickle thing that belongs to no one.

You can take some wary comfort in the fact that there are always ways to entice him into returning. But that’s it.
Nowadays you can’t afford to wish for anything more.

-----

A small sneering part of your heart pities the man. Dino Cavallone has long halted his foolish, bumbling pursuit but in no way has he given up. He makes love with the intensity of a man fated to drop dead the next day. His desperation is a hard shine in his eyes as he makes love to you and fulfills your every whim. He never complains, even when you simply fuck him and leave. You’re starting to hate how everything about him is beginning to chip your iron resolve. It’s fucking annoying and it’s grating your nerves into splinters but you can’t find it in yourself to leave him completely. He doesn’t know it. But he’s starting to win.

When you feel like staying, you’ll let him know.
It will be a late start.

But it will do.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

POLAR MAGNETISM
There are enough annoying songs, stories and poems that bewail the pain of one-sided love… but are there any about being on the receiving end? Doesn’t anyone ever stop to fucking consider how awkward it is to have someone love you more than you love them? It’s a hundred times worse when that person is completely fine with your inadequacy.

It’s a funny sort of pressure. It feels like your lungs are collapsing. It’s stifling. It’s deflating. You want to take off your tie before the noose lynches you. You want to unbutton your collar before it chokes you. You want to unzip your throat to let the air rush back in before you crumple and fold into the void that rests in your heart.

It’s got to be in there somewhere. It’s sucking in every goddamn feeling you should be developing for your lover. You want to give back something, but all you can do is stick your hand into that black hole and fish around blind.

They say time apart makes the heart grow tender. You just want a fucking vacation.

-----

It’s been years since you unintentionally drove him away. He’s stopped running but he stands by your side at a distance. Truly, he is born to be free. He can’t help it, no matter how much it hurts the both of you.

You’ve learned to ask for more. Being difficult relaxes him because it restores balance for you both.

His kiss is tender now. Before he left it was painful, his lips seared your own with his burning guilt. He wanted you so badly, yet the obstacle was he himself. Those times were so agonizing for the two of you.

Between scattered family meetings and whenever your paths would cross, you both learned to live in the now.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

INEVITABLE
You both have been dreading this. You both know that the Cavallone family cannot be without a heir. Last night you broke the news of your engagement to him. His eyes were hard and his breath shuddered in his throat. Every fibre of your being wanted to kiss it all away but you steeled your resolve to keep your hands to yourself. You told him that she’s nothing like him. She’ll never be a substitute for him and in the same way he’ll never stand in as her.

The slap struck out so fast you didn’t register it until you felt the sting on your cheek and you found yourself staring at the wall.

He’s screaming at you and you break. You both break down like the wretched things you are and you both fuck for the last time.

-----

As soon as the wife bore Dino’s third son she was dead. You remember shutting your cell phone with a cold snap after ordering the hit. They asked if you wanted to make it look like an accident. Like a true Mafioso you declined. A week after the funeral Dino turns up at your hotel room and shoots you in the leg. He pulls the trigger four times, his face is blank but furious.

Months pass before he speaks to you again. His kisses are cold and they stay cold for a very long time.

You care but you don’t. Many years later in return, you give your life protecting his children.