[fic] KHR - Indelible

[lysapadin]

Title: Indelible
Pairings: Hibari/Yamamoto
Summary: This is what you want, and he gives it to you.
Notes: For round five of khrfest, prompt TYL Yamamoto/TYL Hibari - trade; "that's another suit you've ruined". Adult for smut: rough sex, biting, blood, downbeat ending, second-person pov. 1798 words.

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Indelible

It takes the better part of the hour to do it and the room is a wreck by the time you catch your ankle around his and get Shigure Kintoki to kiss his throat, but you're not worried about the means, just the ends, and Kyouya finally stops raging. So you're going to count it as a win.

Red trickles down the side of his throat and stains his collar, red stark against white, white stark against the black of his suit. For a second you think of stories, fairy tales, and fight the impulse to lean in to taste that line of red for yourself. But you've got as much practice fighting with yourself as him, more even, so you master yourself.

But that's a lie, isn't it?

Actually, you just wrestle with yourself long enough to relieve yourself of the problem: Kyouya leans forward, careless of the way Shigure Kintoki presses a little deeper and parts another couple layers of his skin, and sinks his teeth into your lower lip. So you taste blood anyway, your own, and you relax your grip on Kyouya's wrist and lower Shigure Kintoki and pull Kyouya against you.

He's already hard, but then, so are you.

Kyouya pushes against you, lining his hips up with yours and rubbing against you, and yeah, that feels good. You hear the clatter when he drops his tonfa, but only distantly, because there's blood pounding in your ears now and Kyouya's tongue is in your mouth, slick against yours, and nothing else really matters beside that, not the way your ribs ache or the molar that's loose or even the iron taste of your blood on his lips.

You drop Shigure Kintoki and grab his hips, holding them so you can grind against him. He growls and you groan, same difference, it's all good when there's pressure and friction between you and his fingers are digging into your shoulders. The only bad thing is there's enough padding between them and your skin that the bruises he's leaving will be formless, won't echo the shape of his slim fingers as they splay across your shoulder blades.

But you'll still know where they came from. That's what matters, right? Right.

Kyouya bites you again, catching your throat between his teeth, and if it's not hard enough to break skin, it's still going to leave a mark. It goes straight to your cock; you grip his hips and thrust against him, blood pounding in your veins and gut twisting in knots because this isn't enough after all, you want more, you need more, his skin on yours.

Maybe you fumble a few words out or maybe he reads your mind, but he surges against you, uses his skinny frame and a tricky little move with his hips and his foot knocking into your ankle that you're going to remember later, and the room spins. You hit the floor hard enough to knock the air out of your lungs; he's on you while you're still gasping, his hands scrabbling with your belt and his, getting your flies open before you can quite track what's going on.

You gasp again when he gets your cock out, lines it up with his, and rocks against you, because that's good, well, better. You roll your hips up against his, he grinds down against you, and both of you are panting for breath as you rut against each other. It's fast and hard and the raw sensation of rubbing off against him, the head of your cock leaving wet tracks across his stomach and his shirt, makes you groan and squeeze your eyes shut as you hover on the edge of losing it, and it's not enough, not what you want at all. But Kyouya gets his hand down and wraps those long fingers around you and that's it, you're done, it's another suit that you've ruined as your back comes off the floor and you shoot all over his hand.

He's still hard when your senses come back to you, still kneeling across your hips with red staining his collar and your come on his fingers and his stomach and, yeah, his suit, too. His eyes are still burning and when he sees that you're back with him, he smiles. Shows his teeth. Whatever. His mouth is red from biting you, from kissing you, and you're still not with it yet so you just stare up at him a little blankly while he pulls your slacks down and—oh god, his fingers are slick but not very, and it burns when he pushes them into you.

You're going to feel that later. Hell, you're feeling it now.

You spread your knees wider, plant your feet against the floor, and rock yourself down on his fingers anyway, wanting them deeper, wanting the burning stretch of them as fresh sweat breaks out across your skin. Kyouya gives you what you want, pushes his fingers into you till it aches, till you know you won't stand or sit or walk or anything for a week without your body reminding you of this. You groan and your cock twitches and over you, Kyouya's smile slips a notch wider.

You really are getting hard again and it's about all you can do to gasp his name as he twists his fingers, hitting just the right places to get you the rest of the way there, pleasure wrapping around the burn of your muscles as he crooks his fingers and presses and you think you might be on the verge of begging when he stops, pulls them out, and prowls over you.

His erection didn't even flag a little while he was opening you up. You think that probably says something about him, maybe about you both. Not that it matters, so you raise your head to take him in your mouth. All you need to do is get him good and wet, but you can't help sucking anyway, tonguing the head of his cock and tasting him, smelling the musk on his skin as he grunts and rocks into your mouth. You close your eyes, the better to savor him, and open yourself wide to him, till your jaw aches and your lungs burn with not getting quite enough air.

You could get lost doing this, but Kyouya is goal-oriented: he pulls you off him, his fingers in your hair and his cock gleaming slick with your saliva. Your cock twitches again as you recall yourself, feel how stretched open you are. His mouth curls when you kick your slacks down; he pushes your knees up and holds them wide as he lines himself up. The blunt thickness of him nudging your entrance makes you go taut with anticipation. He holds himself there, hovering over you and looking down at you, poised in the moment.

Then he pushes in and you arch against the relentless pressure of it, the ache as sharp as the satisfaction of having him inside you where you can carry it with you. It's something beyond pleasure and pain; you hook your arms around his shoulders and flex against him. And then he's off, pounding into you fast and hard, just the way you want it. He bares his teeth again, as fierce and focused in fucking as he is in fighting, and you can't help it, you love it both ways, you want to just sink into this and wrap it around you and keep it always. You have to close your eyes again just to shield yourself against the enormity of that—yourself or maybe him, or hell, maybe the both of you.

But you're pretty sure he knows anyway.

His hands stay steady on your legs as he fucks you, even when his thrusts turn short and fast and his breathing turns to sharp pants. You strain under him, pleasure wrapping around you, but you don't quite find it before his hips jerk against yours and he growls again, hoarse. You open your eyes to watch him, the tendons standing out in his throat where there's a thin red line marking his skin, his expression gone blank and open, until he sags again, tension running out of him like water. When you slide your fingers into his hair, it's damp, clinging fine and silky to your fingers. He permits that for a moment, and another, while his chest heaves. Then he shakes his head, dislodging your fingers as he pulls out of you, and oh, that leaves you feeling empty, aching with how hard he was pounding into you and raw with how much you still want.

Maybe he knows that, too. He glances at you, eyes sliding over your face, hot against the chill of his expression. Then he leans down, guides your cock into his mouth as he pushes his fingers back into you, and brings you off again like that, his fingers fucking you and his tongue gliding over your cock, soothing tender skin until you break open, damn near screaming as you do.

You lie there afterwards in ruins, Kyouya resting beside you, until he asks you what you hadn't been able to tell him before he'd lost what passes for his temper. How long, he wants to know.

You don't know, you tell him. Six months, maybe, if you're really lucky. Or a year. Or longer. You just don't know how long you'll have to be gone, be under and away from your Family. And the only thing you know for sure is that the Vongola hasn't had much luck with the Nagai-kai so far.

For a moment you wonder whether he's gong to lose his temper again. In the end he doesn't, though. Just turns and bites down on your throat again. You let him, let your skin sting and bruise under his teeth, because it's a mark, will last a few days at least, like your bruised ribs and loose molar will, the way your ass and thighs will ache before that fades, too, and you'll be on your own, undercover, and—

He sets his fingers in your collar, pulls it aside, and bites down where your neck becomes your shoulder, just sinks his teeth into the meaty place there. Bites hard and breaks the skin. When he raises his mouth from that, his lips are slick and red. You will remember where you belong, he instructs you. Forgetting that would not be fitting.

You agree, nearly giddy with relief or maybe something else. You won't forget, you tell him, you wouldn't dare.

See that you don't, he tells you.

You raise your fingers to the place where blood is welling out of your skin and are quite sure that you won't.

end

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