Gokudera narrowed his eyes, his cigarette hanging from his lips as he glared at Hibari. He hated the Cloud Guardian. He always caused trouble for the Tenth. Way too much trouble than he was worth. They had a staring match for a couple minutes before Hibari spoke.
Gokudera was almost insulted. He growled and glared harder as if his mere gaze would turn the disciplinarian into a pile of ash. “I’d like to see you try.” he scoffed even though he knew very well that if Hibari really wanted to, he could probably turn Gokudera into a pile of meat. Gokudera really didn’t care.
With a cocky smirk, Hibari moves closer, flexing his finger as he casually approaches the bomber. As they stand nose to nose, he slowly quirks an eyebrow up, the same, confident look on his face. He knows that he’s more than enough to do as he wants with the other; no-one can match his strength, now, can they?
“Ha.. You think you stand a chance against me?”
Think again, brat; if there were anyway Gokudera stood a chance in hell of defeating the raven, Hibari would not be stupid enough to mutter the warning. He may seek bloodshed, but not indiscriminately, and fights are only fun when victory is narrowly assured.
“You will obey the rules, Gokudera Hayato, or you will get the fuck out of my town.”
Fuck me I suck at getting on ;3;
/starts replies nowww
hurricanebombhayato started following you
With a sneer, Hibari’s hands twitch, the familiar scent of tobacco and entirely too much gunpowder reaching his nostrils. Eyes sharpening, he glares at the silver haired brat and almost dares him to try something, to deploy more explosives and make even more of a mess than he usually does, but, alas, Hibari does not wish to put the safety of those around him at risk, simply for an excuse to beat the punk’s ass into the ground once and for all.
Stiffening into a corrected posture, he looks down his nose at the other in an entirely justified way, and remains silent, for a moment at least. He needs to choose his words correctly, non? After all, plebeians rarely understand the words of their masters.
“You,” he sneers, tone as condescending as ever. “Make a mess, or cause a disturbance, and I will skin you alive.”
With a sigh, annoyed over the petulance of his underdo-of his prefects. They had dared to plead the case of a student who had disobeyed his rules, claiming that the punishment was not fitting of the crime. He had soon silenced them too, of course, and now, as Kusakabe dealt with them, Hibari watched the school from a window in his office, Hibird fluttering around on the breeze outside as the head prefect closes his eyes, revelling in the day.
Taking in a slow breath, he leans back against the window frame, almost daring gravity to pull him downwards, towards the ground before. It would certainly liven this place up a bit; he had been left alone to rule for so long now, he had almost forgotten the comfort of conversation, the feeling of the idiot against hi-no. He is not lonely, he is merely bored, discomfortably so. If only there was work to do, but punishment amounted to many things, least of all taking care of their own problems.
Takeshi had heard the news from one of the Vongola subordinates working the case. He and a few others were investigating the disappearances of the people Tsuna and the other guardians had considered friends or even family. There were people who had the slightest connection to the Vongola, and were now missing. The Japanese man’s father was one of those missing people.
‘Mr. Yamamoto… Your father… One of the Black Spell… He— In regards of your father…’
The subordinate was nervous for being the bearer of bad news. He new how much this was going to hurt the swordsman, making his job to inform even harder. The Rain Guardian had a mix between a serious, concerned and dangerous look to his eye at the mentioning of his father as he sat at his desk.
“What about my father!? Is he okay!?”
‘Your father… Takeshi… Your father has been killed. Byakuran ordered one of the Black Spell to do it… I’m sorry…’
The man dropped eye contact, Yamamoto didn’t move a muscle, he just stared for a few moments. Dropping his own amber eyes to the ground, he spoke in a low, guarded voice.
“If that is all, you can leave. I’d like to be alone…”
The subordinate walked away to leave the raven be to let the news sink in. Just before leaving the man checked over his shoulder to look at Takeshi. After a few moments passed, finally the words sunk in. Tears began to build up in the swordsman’s eyes. He tried blinking them away, but they just kept building up.
The raven whispered to himself. He didn’t want to believe it. As a teen, Yamamoto had always viewed his dad as a superhero. Someone who was invincible. He’d never thought that he’d ever have to live in a world where his father wasn’t in it. The grown man collapsed to the ground staring, an incredulous look on his face as the tears finally started to stream down his face.
Why hadn’t I been strong enough to protect him? Why did it have to be Dad and not me? How did they find him? How did Dad lose to those guys?
Many thoughts like this streamed through the ex-baseball player’s head. He clenched his fists that had been laying limp by his sides.
I have to find out who did this! They’ll pay for taking my Old Man away from me!
And with that the ex-baseball player made his resolve, to find out who was the man who was able to take out his father. He got up, grabbed his sword, his rings and his box weapons. Opening his office doors and moved to leave the Vongola’s Japanese Branch’s secret underground base.
His tonfas remain slick with blood as sharp grey eyes watch the remainders of what once resembled a face slide down the metal, slumping along with the fractured remains of what was, once upon a time, an ambush attempt upon his life. But to catch a man off guard, you must choose a victim who turns their back to no-one, and Hibari Kyouya is a man who has spent his life on the edge of attack, and his defence lays second to none, least of all black-clad cads who suspected they may have the advantage of sneaking up on him. A sneer tears his face apart; so many years, and so little challenge by the opposition.
The drips of blood down barely exercised metal serve as a reminder, a sharp remand to his senses. He may have won this fight, but losing his mind into the process of complete mental focus will do no good for his physical health, should another attempt follow on the heels of the bodies surrounding him. Stepping over, onto them as he goes, ignoring barely alive groans, Hibari moves with all the careless disregard of a king, moving precisely at the pace he always travels at, feathers barely ruffled by the best attempts of men who were, no doubt, a level above the usual cretins. It matters not, though; their lives are lost, or at the very least dripping away, and aside from the blood stains creeping through Hibari’s every step, he is untouched.
Approaching his home, unwatched from all sides, he can hear literal wings flutter through the air as Hibard sweeps in, landing upon his shoulder with a chirp of his name. Hushing the bird, for while home is in his sights, sound travels, he transfers the bird to a finger and holds him up to the sky for a moment, making sure no-one has thought to attack his feathered friend. Hibird has been his companion through the years, one constant he has never wished to change, and as his eyes close, he gives a soft hum of relief. Hibird ruffled himself, hopping to stare in another direction, and as Hibari chooses to observe what, his eyes move to the shadowed form of one he has not observed in a good while.
The words come out like worry, before he can stop them, for upon the chipper swordsman’s face lays a look Hibari knows well; grief is a mask worn well by those so open with their emotions, and Hibari can only theorize that he has lost a loved one. Approaching, swagger tamed to a mere walk for now, he stops the other in his tracks, gaze turning curious, hard-eyed and demanding answers before he speaks. A quick glance confirms what he has already expected; blood has been spilt, and Yamamoto seeks to spill more, a sorry state of existence if ever there was one.
“You are not to leave the hide-out alone.”
For herbivores remain weak alone; in a group, Yamamoto is less likely to kill himself as opposed to the men he seeks revenge upon. From last Hibari had heard, Gokudera remained alive, so the only suspect that remained upon the process of elimination was a family member. Yamamoto Tsuyoshi… Making a mental note to grieve later, for the elder Yamamoto was truly a good man, a pleasant member of Namimori’s community, he focuses on what seems like the impossible task of keeping the younger alive. He is worth so much more this way, and while Hibari is not a man who usually advises against violence in any situations, recklessness is not your ally in a fight.
“I thought you might be hesitant about the machine’s ability to work so I prepared a video for you.” Shouichi then pulled out a small machine from the pocket of his jacket. He pressed a switch on the side and the machine came to life, unfolding itself until there was a screen roughly the size of his hand. “I’ve composed a video of one of my subjects, a dog who was a puppy at the time, being hit with the 10 year bazooka.” He pointed to the screen which showed a small puppy being enveloped in a cloud of pink smoke. The camera changed to a shot of his laboratory where a very confused puppy ran around and nearly knocked over his camera. Shouichi appeared on the camera and hit a few buttons on a keyboard before hitting a large button protected by bullet proof glass. The puppy disappeared in a flash of light and the older dog took it’s place. The video was less than 4 minutes, showing his control over the 10 year bazooka.
“Are you satisfied with this? I also have more test cases with larger animals and even a few human ones. But it does show that the machine is completely safe and out of the control of the 10 year bazooka so the subject can stay longer than the 10 minute time limit.”
Oh god, why was he so nervous? His heart was beating rapidly in his chest and he could feel a bead of sweat running down his back. Or was he just imagining it? Hibari was right, he couldn’t predict what the man would do. “I can only hope that Byakuran-san trusts me completely but I can’t always be sure of what he is thinking so Tsuna-san thought of a way to prove my loyalty to him and still keep the plan on track.”
Hibari was going to kill him. He was going to die without completing his goal. “Sawada Tsunayoshi must die. But he won’t really die of course!” he hurried to explain.
“The only way I could really prove my loyalty to Byakuran-san would be in an extreme way. He knows I’m his ‘friend’ and loyal to him as a friend. I can’t show the obsessive type of loyalty that Genkishi shows because he knows that’s not like me. Tsuna-san was the one who thought of this. I really didn’t want to.” His hands moved towards the fabric covering his stomach as he held it gently.
“Tsuna-san said that there were some special bullets he could get his hands on that can put the one shot in a death-like state. Byakuran would see this, he would see the death of the Vongola boss. We also thought about utilizing Rokudo Mukuro and Chrome Dokuro’s mist flame to create the most solid illusion possible during the funeral while the real Tsuna-san would be hidden. But to prove my loyalty, I have to be the one who ‘kills’ him.”
Now the only thing he could do was wait for his death. Hibari was going to kill him for sure.
The contents of the video are nothing less than impressive, yes, Hibari concedes to that; any individual who can claim to truly master the effect of time and aging deserves the respect that comes with it. Slowly, also, the cloud guardian is starting to respect the man before him, finally understanding why Sawada has places his trust within him. He has given up his own stability for the good of the world, and a man who is willing to protect something important to him should always be feared, respected in equal measures. Respect is the overwhelming factor right now, though; Shoichi Irie looks about as harmful as a leaf.
The death aspect, though, requires a lot more than a nervous truth from the red-head; while Hibari and Sawada are more acquaintances than friends, the brunette is useful to Hibari, and he’d very much dislike anything to happen. He’ll need to discuss the bullets with Sawada, and round up some test subjects of his own, willing or not, from Foundation and certain other sources he shall never speak of in terms of business. But really now, five thousands leaves a few to spare, no?
His problem lays with the illusionists; remaining silent for a little longer, he is carefully thinking through the aspects he can, not wanting to be too biased in a plan that could potentially save them all, but unable to let sleeping dogs lay. While the issue of his humiliation at Rokudo’s hands has, he begrudgingly supposes, been laid to rest by the sands of time, tensions always run high when volatile elements inhale the same brand of oxygen.
“…Is there a possibility we could insert a mole into the Millifiore?”
Inside information from a source other than Irie could help confirm their plans of action, as well as, possibly, deter attention from the scientist. Although frankly, he’s surprised Byakuran hasn’t noticed the nervous tension the other seems to carry around with him, though, again, Hibari has to admit that, considering this is their first meeting, he doesn’t know how the scientist acts within his natural habitat. Maybe he is always nervous, but he really should stop such an irritating trait. It only enhances the urge to maim a little.
“…Do you require more refreshments?”
Why on Earth is he clutching his stomach in such a way? Hibari refuses to continue, if the other is on the verge of starving himself, or some other idiotic behavioural pattern. They both need to be in their peak condition for this plan to have any hope of working, isn’t that obvious? Irie has finally managed to convince him that this is the right course of action. It would be a shame for the limited trust to be shattered by something as simple as the scientist’s inability to take good care of himself.
“We very well may be here for a while. This isn’t something we can sort out immediately; when must you return to your base of actions?”
Clearing his throat, he awaits Kusakabe’s return. His right hand man is a dab hand in the kitchen, luckily.
And of course, it began to rain.. He had only noticed it when his clothes became drenched, for the most part, leaving his core with a sharp chill. His jacket did little protection as it was also soaked, how miserable.. He smirked, thinking about why he was even out here in the first place… To get some fresh air? That was his excuse anyway… Looking for an escape was a better way to put it, though he’d never admit to it. He did need some sort of break after all, some form of relief. The illusionist was after all, human.
He continued walking, mind wandering through past memories, the experiments, the screams. He’d never forget the screams. He could almost hear them whistling through the wind. I must be mad~ The illusionist smiled for a brief moment before closing his eyes. He let out a long sigh before shaking the memory from his mind and turning it into something new, the day he killed them all… This was much more pleasant. When he opened his eyes, they fixated on the droplets forming on the tips of his hair, then falling, as if it were in slow motion.
However, as he was watching this, he noticed a swift movement in the blurred background of his vision. When he looked up though, all he saw was a flash of metal before a sudden blunt pain spread throughout his jaw and cheek. The illusionist’s eyes went wide as the hit pulled him back to reality and knocked him back a few steps. His vision went black for a moment but he was quick to react, summoning his trident from the mist and holding it out in a defensive stance. When he regained his vision, and saw his attacker, he wasn’t sure weather to be pleased or annoyed. It had been the skylark who had hit him, of course it was. Mukuro stared at the other male a moment, wondering if he would throw a barrage of attacks his way, but when he didn’t, he cracked a small smile.
“Oya oya, Hibari-Kun. Weren’t you ever told it’s unwise to go looking for a fight…?” He mused, but his voice didn’t sound the same, and he noticed. It was bland and a bit monotone at that. He shrugged it off internally and lowered his trident slightly. “Though, as much as I’d love to put you in your place, I am busy today, and not up to the, challenge. So please, move.” His eyes stayed locked on to the ravens, ensuring that he wouldn’t launch another attack. Then it dawned on him that he had said please. Kufufu, I really must be mad. The thought rang in his head once more. If it had been any other day however, the illusionist would have jumped at the chance to fight this man. He was a worthy opponent, compared to most that is. But today was Mukuro’s off day, he wasn’t in the right mindset, if there even was a right mindset in his brain.
Never has a successful blow felt so fucking good; grinning, he stands, towering in terms of ego, tonfas in a defensive pose but the urge to use them lessened somehow by a simple victory. He has caught Rokudo Mukuro off guard, and he doubts success over anyone else will ever taste so sweet against his tongue as when he lifts the tonfa to his mouth, rewarding the metal for a job well done.
“Oh? Put me in my place?”
A sneer would suffice here, but he can’t keep the grin, feral and enjoying this just so fucking much, off his face. Mukuro doesn’t want a fight? Too bad; every time was the time for a fight, and if you are idiotic enough to humiliate a man like Hibari Kyouya and expect no retribution, then you deserve every hit you get, unarmed, unprepared or not. For now, thought, the tonfas stay otherwise still as sharp grey eyes observe the man. The word ‘please’ will not bear any fruitful effect upon a man driven by bloodlust, surely Mukuro knows by now? Yet there is something in the illusionist’s tone that signifies any fight held today will not be a satisfying one. Yes, Hibari would like to cut the pineapple into dessert, but he wants an opponent fired up enough to put on a show as his defeat becomes inevitable.
“This is my town, Rokudo Mukuro. If anyone should move, it shall be you.”
Ah, at last, the sneer appears; hooking his tonfa around the other’s jaw, he jerks Mukuro forward, weary of the trident the other wields but not quite enough to stop this reaction from occurring. As they stand, toe-to-toe, the smirk reappears in full force, cold metal shifting the Italian’s head upwards, side to side, up, down, and repeat in a power play.
“Or better yet, learn to kneel before your king.”
Even stray dogs worship some thing, whether mythological beings or the great beyond, and so it becomes Hibari’s new goal in life to make Mukuro beg for redemption. Hibari is not a kind man, but he is just; should the other repay his crimes well enough, perhaps he will leave this encounter with his life still intact. Hair sticking to his face, as messy as ever despite the usual calming effect rain may have on locks, the weapon presses into Mukuro’s throat, ready to constrict his windpipe and block his breath, once and for all, should a satisfactory answer not be provided.
“I’m waiting for your answer, young one, and you should be aware of one thing about your new master; time bows to my presence also.”
So make your decision quickly, brat, for the tonfa twitches with the urge to maim, and vengeance lights up the gaze formerly full of amusement in the face of a weakened foe.
Kyouya is, as expected, furious.
The boy is hissing and spitting like an angry cat underneath him, and Dino’s lips purse in a futile attempt to stem the flow of laughter that bubbles in his throat. He coughs to try and cover the chuckle that escapes, then opens his mouth, intending to offer an insincere apology, when Kyouya does something that he did not expect.
Well, the threat was expected, certainly, but not the way the boy leans up and scrapes his teeth along Dino’s throat.
He knows that Kyouya won’t actually tear out his jugular, so he isn’t quite sure why his breath catches and he stills even the slightest movement of his body, if not in fear. The only thing that remains in motion is his heart, which seems to be trying to beat a hole through his ribcage. He wonders if Kyouya can feel it against the hand that clutches the front of his shirt in a vice grip.
He’s pushed back before he can get his bearings, and so he sits in top of Kyouya, bringing one hand up and touching it to the skin on his neck that he can still feel the other’s teeth against. He sits, blinking slowly in his confusion and this other strange feeling that he can’t—or doesn’t want— to put a name to.
Kyouya flops back to the ground underneath him, and Dino shakes his head and pushes his own odd reaction to the back of his mind for future analysis.
Or maybe never analysis, because he’s pretty sure he knows, even as he tries so hard to play dumb to himself.
His eyes flick down to Kyouya’s face. The boy’s sharp eyes are glaring death up at him, but Dino’s almost certain that he can see a little something else in there, too. Maybe it’s wishful thinking that Kyouya feels something for him other than hatred or grudging tolerance, but Dino can’t help but hope. The last few years spent tutoring him has nurtured a soft spot in his heart, a gentle kind of affection that he hasn’t yet felt the need to categorize.
Until now. He’s assumed thus far that his regard for the boy is platonic in nature, but the way the skin of his throat tingles at the memory of Kyouya’s teeth leads him, however reluctantly, to believe otherwise.
Nonetheless, he plants his hands on the ground on either side of Kyouya’s head and leans down a little for a closer inspection of the narrowed eyes glaring up at him.
After only a moment of staring, brown eyes narrowed in a look of exaggerated concentration, Dino realizes that he has no idea how to read what he sees. Tilting his head and exhaling a long-suffering sigh, he makes himself more comfortable on top of his student-and-maybe-something-deeper.
“You need to learn to have more fun, Kyouya,” he says, smirking to cover his distress. “Fun that doesn’t involve tearing out throats, I mean.”
He removes his clean hand from the ground, sliding his index finger through the icing on Kyouya’s cheek and tapping it against the boy’s down-turned lips.
He’s decided to think about new feelings and sharp teeth and secretive eyes later. Now is for making Kyouya happy, as impossible a task as it seems.
Dino appears to be stuck in a state of disbelief and oh, what a wonderful state it is; his eyes are wide, honey reflecting the sun as shock, disorientation sets in and he attempts to think. Futile, of course it is, for if Hibari cannot determine the reason behind his own actions, how can the horse be expected to? They may have spent the previous years in the dance of tutor, student, perhaps something more, but knowledge of another is never fully obtained, and certainly not without consent. Hibari would have his last breath, drawn ragged and entirely taken from him over, above intimacy shared with the blonde.
Intimacy is the refuge of the weak; it is where cowards hide, burying their fears among bosoms and biceps, drawn taunt with strain. Hibari Kyouya has no need for intimacy, no Hibari needs intimacy to rule the world. They need fear, controlling puppet nooses held tight around throats. They certainly do not need Italian Dons resting their hands either sides of their heads, giving a sigh, an indication that this is all so natural to the both of them rather than rugged, malformed, wrong. As though they aren’t stumbling fools playing confident in a game of lovers.
At the thought, his own head snaps from side to side, eyes widened ever so slightly. They aren’t lovers, they are barely even acquaintances, but something about this position lends entirely the wrong idea to the casual observer and, it seems, his own eyes. They aren’t lovers, he repeats internally, summoning as much self loathing as he can, and he will not crave such a thing. Not now, never, despite the flutter through his veins at the flash of teeth, the lump that gathers at the base of his throat in timing with the words. The desperate urge to open his mouth, taste the warm fingers pressed against his lips.
The temptation overrides all others, smashes through the conscience developed to prevent exactly this sort of thing happening; pinned, defenceless and happy to be so, Hibari opens his mouth and tastes the sugary icing on the other’s fingers. His eyes manage to stay open, fixes firmly on Dino’s hand and tongue moving over, between fingers and nothing else until, far too soon, he tastes skin in place of sugar, snapping his mind back on track and forcing his teeth down, hard enough that he tastes blood.
Almost spluttering, he wrenches the fingers from his mouth and moves swiftly backwards, on full defence, as though the blood on his lips and the confusion misting his mind, head, heart is entirely Dino’s fault instead of his own weaknesses. Already, they have become too intimate, too close; crossing tonfa and whip, trading blows in place of sweet nothings. Too fucking intimate, he snarls, turning on his feet and demanding nothing that isn’t being left alone to think this through, an order quickly abandoned by his own mind as his feet scream to be used, faster. Breaking into a run, he leaves the cake where it is, slams the rooftop door shut and just runs.
Hibari has never run from a fight before, something he has always held in high regard, but the one shining star in an otherwise clouded sky of achievements has been torn down in the name of Cavallone. In times of distress, Hibari retreats to rooftops, watches the sky, reminds himself that even when he is gone, even when the problems he faces at any given time or space are gone, the sky will remain. Nature, the natural order, rules will remain. Now, though, when his eyes travel to the sky, he sees only him, bright and shining, and he hates it. There is nowhere to go, no-one to run to, and though he can’t quite remember a time there ever has been the thought brings a fresh pang of fuck you, Cavallone.