Working on this at 00.00 and finished it at 00.31 to prove how broken my brain-to-fingers filter actually is. i don't even know what brought me to write this; one moment i was looking through quotes, next i found myself writing hibari/chrome, and then isex/i betwen hibari/chrome, like. what the fuck, right?
The sudden drop of temperature around the house, tangible due to the material of which said house is built of – mahogany, hard unbreakable woods, best quality he personally plucked himself out of the ground – should be a good enough sign, Hibari thinks.
Obviously a tell-tale of the upcoming rain, or storm, or what comes after. But, he's been far too preoccupied at the time. Gathering information using his usual stoicisms, the dangerous smirk that somehow allures his target's interest; a wine in his hand and a lighter he snatched from the woman's murdered brother on another.
(She had touched his arm, back then. Pressed her front flush to his back, her long sharp fingernails digging into the taut muscles of his shoulder, her lips on the crook of his neck – and Hibari thinks nothing of it, of the way he killed her by drowning instead of the usual strangulation M.O. the family is used to but does not approve.
Hibari is not theirs to begin with, he does not need to take mind of their disapproval so deeply, yet it does.)
After his fifth attempt to sleep that night, having finally lost the smell of sickening roses from his skin, the scratch of sharp fingernails against his scalp gone, Hibari is more than willing to create another beautiful, beautiful carnage out of the nearest Guardian's base – which is, at the moment, Gokudera Hayato – in order to scratch that itch on the back of his mind, refusing to budge even after he has patrolled around every corner of the house as thoroughly as possible.
He is not ashamed to admit that he's given up. Growing up, Hibari knows a lost cause that simply does not worth the effort, and so he ends up sitting outside his chamber, watching the silver light of the full moon bearing upon the pool of his Japanese garden, sipping the unacceptable Italian tea he'd rather throw than even touch.
Because, as Fate would have it, his fridge does not, in fact, miraculously restock itself even though he explicitly remembers shoving a box full of tea three days ago. The nagging feeling on the back of his mind, long after the storm has passed and the rain has passed, is still there, lurking around the corner like a calculating hunter waiting to strike.
It's unnerving, is what it is. Everything about tonight seems off, far too wrong, and it doesn't take a genius to figure out shit's about to go down. The cold metal of his tonfas brushing against the inner skin of his wrist doesn't offer him comfort like it should be. His kimono is wet from the place where he sits, the wooden surface practically soaking of cold water, he probably should change again before his mind is at rest enough to let him fucking sleep.
Fifty minutes later, though, Hibari cannot find it in himself any reason to move back into the comfort of his chambers. His mind consists of, well, mostly nothing. Soundless claps of some avis' wings above his head, the synchronized 'drip, drip' of water from the pool where the goldfish is currently jumping in and out of, just as restless as Hibari is, and it isn't until he realises, belatedly, that the fog does not dissipate and the constant noises of nature is far too controlled to not be an illusion, that Hibari finally understands.
The reason behind his uneasiness after a particularly disturbing mission he has no problem of doing, the constant pleasant buzz in his head that slowly shatters into the worst headache he's ever had, the false calmness yet without any sense of security around his house, as if he is being followed, being pierced from the inside without pain or his knowledge –
Hibari growls in displeasure. "Dokuro," he says, at large. "I know you're there. Come out or I'll cut your head off." The response he gets is nothing but silence. Overwhelming silence where the grass doesn't move along with the current of the wind, or that there is no wind at all.
Oxygen comes easier to him, seeing that he is far too used with this technique for far too long. The fog manipulates itself into a whirlwind of thick white mist, reminding him of a Festival's cotton candy or someone's skull after it's been stripped of flesh; his last job in a more premature part of the world that still leaves bitter taste in his mouth and a sour mood in his soul.
Not that he has one.
Breathing comes easier, now, once his mind is not convinced that the atmosphere is filled with carbon dioxide instead of proper air, that his body is not wrapped by poisonous thorns or metallic rod. Hibari watches, disinterestedly – and he is a liar, he thinks, he has been one, for a long, long time, yet when it comes to her, the Lying Liar who Lies as worse as her Master does; every single lie that spills out of his mouth sounds wrong to his own ears – as a figure clad in white steps out of the mist.
White short heels accompanied by white champagne dress, which is tight enough to look obscene but also covering enough skin to be considered decent. Classy, might even be the word to it, although, Hibari thinks, with some sort of begrudging acceptance, that he always has associated the word 'Classy' when it comes to her.
And it is very easy for him to look at the sweet, sweet curves of her hips. The long column of her neck exposed, shining and inviting under the moon light. The smooth flawless skin of her legs, long and slender beneath the dress, makes him want to lick and scratch and nip, and mark her with his teeth, or preferably with his everything.
So he might not be in a very good mood tonight. He never is after an information-gathering that involves woman and warm silky bed and the feel of someone's foreign touch on his skin. He will never be good at that.
Cocking his head to the side, Hibari watches her composing herself. Dusting her pretty, pretty dress with the flick of her wrist; her lips, pale and dusty pink, glisten as they curve into a slight smirk that sends him over the edge. Hibari clenches his fingers around his tonfas, tightly.
Dokuro approaches him with the grace of a panther, a hunter. Her steps are sure but calculated, the heels of her shoes barely clicking against the stone-steps as she walks. When he catches a glimpse of her trident, everything inside him blares in alarm. His nerve system poised for attack, body taut and wired attack, and from the upward tilt of her lips, Hibari knows that she's noticed too, and mocks him for it. It is a trait that she gets – from her Master, if not the Varia, and perhaps also Hibari himself.
Tilting her head and smiles, Dokuro nods her head in greeting. "Evening," she says, her voice honey-sweet, polite ever so in front of him. She doesn't wait for his permission as she takes a seat next to him, unbearably close and practically breaching his personal space. But Hibari is used to this – to people getting all personal with him, to the warmth of her body seeping through his Yukata – and he tries (and fails) to keep the anxiety to slam her against the nearest wall with the point of his tonfa at her neck at bay.
As always, Hibari closes his eyes, and breathes.
She doesn't have any perfume on her, today, which means it's one of the kill-without-question mission instead or protection instead of the negotiating ones. She always uses perfume during that, the subtle scent of lavender lingering on her skin, to which Hibari always, always wipes away the moment she's undressed and he's lapping at her skin, marking the soft skin near her collarbone, and pushing his fingers so deep inside she'd sob for release.
It's one of the, more, activities they both enjoy, on a mission. Especially since their boss is so eager to par them up together, innocent and unaware of what truly happens when they come back two weeks later instead of one, claiming it's 'harder than they'd thought', but successful, still.
Hibari erases any image of her immediately, when she shifts and peers at him through her lashes. The white-pearl necklace Mukuro bought for her is not there, Hibari observes, smugly, and he allows a small satisfied smirk on his face as he brings the cup to his lips and sips the disgusting travesty that is the expired Italian tea down his throat.
"Lussuria told me that you assassinated the wife of the Bretvillez family's head," she says, looking at him with the same assessing expression, her tone devoid of anything. It's hard to read her when she's like this, she has always been. Among others he knows, she is the one he keeps close to kill, yet also the one he keeps close to protect his back, when it really is necessary to do so.
Hibari keeps his face blank, carefully so, as he replies, "I did," and then, "What of it?" and Dokuro smiles.
"You don't kill animals and children, but you kill women when you don't have a choice. It's one thing I've learned from you, the past ten years we've been, ah, partnered together." There is not a chance that Hibari can miss the – something, in her voice, when she says 'partnered' – like she's thrilled, yet also disgusted all at once. It's hard to pinpoint, knowing her.
She continues, "So it either means that you were discovered, or you were extracting information from her. Torture is not exactly your preferred methods of extraction – doesn't mean that you never used it, I know – but since it's a woman, high chance, I'd say, eighty percent? That you had sex with her for information."
When Hibari doesn't reply, stubbornly staring at the horizon, she simply sighs. Not in exasperation, or sadness, or anything, really. What they have, their so called relationship, for the lack of better word, does not reach that stage yet, not yet. Even after five years.
"Did she leave any marks?" Dokuro asks, and – Hibari knows that move, the one where she leans back, aiming for casual and subtle, when everything about her screams 'attack!' – he can't find it in himself to mind, not when he can't sleep even when she's already here, when he finally finds the thing that's been bothering him ever since he arrived.
He can't find it in himself to care, what she has in mind, what she is planning to do to him – with him, at him – so he says nothing. Watches her purse her lips in agitation, watches the way her shoulders raise, her bright violet eye darkens, nearly as dark as the colour of her eye patch. It sends a thrill right through him, a pleasant one, he thinks, feeling his cock stir beneath the black-silk Yukata. Nothing is fair when he is dealing with her.
In a second, Dokuro straddles his lap. Her thighs, long and slender, lithe with barely-visible muscles, wrap around his waist, and Hibari unconsciously hikes the hem of her dress up to her waist. Not exactly surprised to find her without underwear, looking by the way her dress is personally designed to drive him crazy with want, straight out of his fucking – honest to god – dreams.
Hibari is, despite what his loyal minions say, still human. He appreciates the attractive factor Dokuro has, not just her pretty face alone, or the lithe body he cannot stop touching; but the way she sees the world differently after ten years, how she is bolder and merciless yet still maintain the air of innocence, the perfect material for espionage.
Once again, Dokuro lifts his chin up, for his eyes to meet hers, and Hibari is surprised, if not a little bit more aroused, at the dark promises he finds there. Got you, Hibari thinks, and presses her flush against his crotch, his palms firm around the globes of her arse.
Dokuro barely blinks. "Did she mark you?" she repeats. Hibari smirks, sharp and suggestive, teeth latching on the column of her throat, and Dokuro thrust hard against his hips.
Rough fingers digging into his flesh as she practically rips the Yukata off his body, listening to the sharp hitch of his breath when she rolls her hips once, twice – the tip of his cock slipping between the folds of her entrance. The heat engulfs him there is distracting at best and mind-blowing at worst, and Hibari savages her collarbone with his tongue and teeth until she moans and writhes on his lap. Her head thrown back and beautiful, her appearance dishevelled step by step under his hands.
Eventually, this is what they are going back to, he thinks. As she pushes him down on his back, forces him with surprising strength against the hard surface and slams down on to his cock so deep he sees white, Hibari reaches a hand down to work around her clit. Teasing and stroking until she bats his hand away, because she'll come faster if he keeps up, and he sees the opportunity to flip their position around.
Hibari fucks her like that, hard and vicious and out of control, his hips snapping against her harder than he's ever been with any women, with any men, and Dokuro gives as good as she takes. Clawing at his skin until he bleeds, biting – never sucking, unless she's blowing him, and even then she uses a lot of teeth on purpose, she is never so kind – red angry marks around his untouched mark-less neck. The ball of her heels digging into his ass, forcing him to fuck her deeper, faster, harder, under the light of the moon on the front porch of his chamber with abandon.
This is what he will always come back to, eventually, he thinks. Not just any woman or any man who has gained his respect, but also gained his fear and his trust – and Hibari doesn't let go even long after they're finished, and he takes her again, this time in his chambers, until she groans and moans, and slips her fingers, wet from her come, past the ring of muscles of his ass, and he comes harder than he's ever had with anyone other than her.
Kusakabe finds them in the morning, sort of like that.
(Except Dokuro is wearing one of his black shirts, too large but perfect around her figure, and she's riding his cock like she'd die if she doesn't, and Kusakabe is –
Positively traumatised for life, he thinks, but doesn't find it in his heart to care.)