Disclaimer: Reborn and Fon do not belong to me. They're Amano's. Had they been mine, we'll see more of them, together. -____-;

Prompt: I'll always be superior to you.

Kinks: bloodplay, bondage, gunfucking, a bit of dirty talking

Warnings: blood, smut, PWP, weirdness and a bit cruelty

A/n: This is another response to the KHR kink meme.

breaking what can't be shattered by nether yetzirah assiah

The man's touch is violent, and that light in his eyes is cruel. It disturbs him, that malevolent stare with its unearthly glimmer. That slanted gaze and the meaning behind it actually chill him, and such a realization is frightening.

It makes him shiver, makes him recoil, and he pulls back his hand, but his wrist is caught. Reborn has no intention of letting go. It takes great effort, since a storm will remain quite the merciless tempest, but all the same, with Fon dirty and battered on the ground beneath him--glaring, mind you, and not merely staring, with that frozen anger in his onyx eyes, the cuts and bruises are worth it.

"Release me," the Chinese Arcobaleno demands, his tone cold. The wind no longer carries the gentle verse of his words, the soft murmur of his voice, but only the biting frost is what that flighty messenger carries. Nonetheless, Reborn ignores the clear warning, the vivid threat, and he hovers, straddling the slender man's hips. He's careful not to let such a frail thing suffer his weight though, letting the other wallow in this mockery as the hitman smirks.

He tightens the binds that hold together the smaller man's wrists. They are beautiful things, and they reflect that infernal red light of the setting sun. Wires, they seem to be, but on the contrary, they are binds weaved from the strands of women's hair. They originate from some distant island, but they're powerful things, those thin threads. Expensive too, but again, they are worth it, and the curve of Reborn's lips widens when he leans even closer, his tongue darting out to lick the fresh beading blood from a stinging cut.

That is answer enough, and Fon does not thrash, but he struggles. That blow to his scalp earlier, courtesy of the butt of Reborn's gun, has left a nasty gash. Such a spiteful wound throbs, and though the martial artist's tolerance is great, he cannot will away the feel of blood trailing down his temple, his eye, his cheek and down his neck; the brilliant color unnoticeable on the fabric of his robes' collar. His teeth is gritted, his jaw tight, and he tugs his arms to him, but the threads merely cut deeper, and the binds grow even tighter, making the beautiful vermillion shade trickle from shining black, a violent red trail stark on the white of Fon's skin.

The resulting picture is beautiful, and Reborn says it so, "you're beautiful". His bigger, calloused hands caress Fon's sides, and the latter actually growls, infuriated. "You're sick," the martial artist admonishes in his native tongue, eyes narrowing. The hitman mocks a frown, as his lips hover against the other's, but he doesn't press their mouths together.

"You shouldn't say such things," he says instead, and his lips follow the trail of blood to Fon's temple, kissing the wound and watching the fire that smolders in his eyes.

Those eyes are beautiful: although lighted by this intensely burning flame, they are pure and clear like precious jewels. It is difficult to tell what color they are. Perhaps it is black or even brown, but they shine with this ominous light that almost takes Reborn's breath away.

He ponders this, when his hand roams lower, and the other undoes the clasps on Fon's collar. He appraises the pride and the indignation violently lurking in that dark abyss as he parts the smaller man's robe, revealing the smooth ivory of his skin.

Fon doesn't look away, even as this small sound escapes his lips. It's not a whimper, it's not a cry; it's just this insignificant sound that conveys his discomfort, his agitation when he feels Reborn's breath against his neck, his hand on his hip.

The Italian man hisses those incomprehensible taunts against naked flesh, and Fon merely gazes at him, features carefully neutral. He is tense, however, and Reborn can feel that; he revels in it as he slowly slides the martial artist's robes off his shoulder. He strips the other of his trousers as well, sensually dragging the silken white fabric down, uncovering pale, unblemished legs.

Reborn smiles when he caresses them, permitting himself a moment to admire the contour of Fon's slender body, usually hidden in the numerous folds of scarlet and white, linen and silk. His eyes immediately seek Fon's though, and he notes the darkened expression, aware of how the other's sight never leaves him, and it amuses him, it arouses him, and he leans over, pressing a kiss to the man's forehead almost lovingly.

"Don't you trust me?" He murmurs contemptuously with that smirk that makes everyone hate him, but Fon doesn't speak. He doesn't even bristle. He doesn't need to. Of course he doesn't, the silence says, as the Chinese Arcobaleno stares up at him with that disdainful, unimpressed calm.

For some reason, that only goads Reborn even more.

He leans down to lick the trail of blood just beneath the smaller man's eyes, and he stares into those pools of ebony, watching, waiting, for that tranquility to break.

He did not have to wait long. Reborn has never been very patient, especially when it concerns those things he wants.

Fon hears a click, a familiar click, and he visibly tenses, inching away from the other's touch, but Reborn doesn't allow it. He holds the smaller man close, pins him down as Reborn breathes in his hair, his scent. The other is so freakishly composed, eyes dark and intense, and he peers closely into the abyss of the other's own pair of eyes.

There is no fear in them, no intimidation, but there is shock. The evidence of actual emotion, genuine emotion apart from those mild expressions, makes Reborn smile as he watches Fon avert his gaze to the pistol in his hand, to the barrel against his thigh.

But there was a click. There was a click still, and Fon's gaze snaps up, returning to meet Reborn's once more with this frighteningly blank stare. The safety is off. The safety is off, and Reborn's finger is on the trigger, and he can feel it: the cylindrical, bulky barrel of the Beretta M92 positioned against his ass.

Reborn would like to think that at least that would have been a cause for anxiety, but Fon doesn't let anything show on his face; he allows not even a shred of uncertainty appear in his eyes after the initial shock. He knows that Fon could feel the trigger, and this sadistic grin forms as slowly, very slowly, he pushes the barrel inside the crevice, his finger slowly pulling the trigger—

--when the apprehension then appears on Fon's face, even if just a little, Reborn laughs.

He can feel it, and his thighs tremble from the awful intrusion. It is huge, and he knows it will not fit, he knows he will tear as Fon's chest heaves with his erratic breathing, and onyxes wide with the inevitable shock and anger and betrayal stare into the other's eyes.

The hitman holds that stare with regular ease, and violently, he forces half the barrel's length within that virginal —Reborn is sure of it now— entrance.

Fon arcs his back in response. The storm reacts just as the sun assumed he would, and the older man starts ramming it in with uneven, vicious thrusts, once, twice, thrice. Reborn's grin just widens, as he pulls out the bulk of the gun, sealing their mouths together.

It is their first kiss, and Fon's eyes widen even more with the realization of it, his brow disappearing into his hairline.

Reborn takes advantage of the surprise, and he forces his tongue into that warm, wet cavern, tasting him and consuming it. His kiss is violent and overwhelming, powerful with its fervor and desire. He deepens it, ascertaining that Fon can't pull away as he drops the Beretta to the ground, hands seizing the younger man's hips hard enough to bruise.

The smaller man bites him, but not even that dissuades the older Arcobaleno. Reborn merely pulls away, only briefly to lick his torn flesh before wanting to taste again, nipping on Fon's lower lip as he forcefully pries Fon's legs apart. But Fon doesn't let him, and while the scorn and indignation in his face is barely conveyed, it is still there, burning like embers as he stares at the other cruelly with faux nonchalance.

And that apathy remains, with only a small grunt to convey his displeasure, even when Fon is flipped to lie on his stomach. The scent of blood pervades his senses, and he hides a grimace as his black mane hides his face from view. His cheek lies against the earth, and even from beyond a silken black veil, his eyes burn and never leave Reborn's form.

It is an easy task to do: returning that relentless stare with one of his own, his lips curved into a smile so handsomely predatory. He hovers, leaning over as he keeps breathing in the younger man's scent, ghosts his lips over the long black tresses of his hair.

Fon doesn't shy away from him, but his resentment is potent in the air as Reborn forces him even further down, pulling him back and closer to him. Fon bows his head, masks his features with this brutal coldness as Reborn callously slams his cock inside from behind.

Fon sees it, and apart from the tremors that spasmed throughout his body and his hands balling into fists and clutching dirt, he gave no outward indication of it. He doesn't make a sound, and he doesn't show the other his face, but the murderous glare can easily be felt.

The master hitman leers, a sordid grin full of rapture on his face as he takes a moment to compose himself. Fon is unbearably tight, his tender muscles cramping Reborn's rigid cock, and when the Chinese man squeezes it unintentionally, it actually hardens, elongating to its full length, filling into its full width as Reborn promptly starts his rhythm, quickening his pace.

He doesn't give Fon a chance to breathe.

He doesn't bother with the other, and he maintains the ruthlessness in the swift way he takes advantage of the other. He's bending Fon down deeper into the ground, one large hand on his head, the other on his hip as they rock against each other. The Italian's vigor is wild, almost animalistic, but it carries with it this somber elegance, this ghastly grace like a dance Death performs to its victims.

But, although narcissistic he may be, Reborn takes little notice of these, and only showers his attentions on that passive face, that impeccable calm. The other is not amused, not aroused. He is like a limp doll in Reborn's arms; this little Chinese doll sprawled on the ground. Even though it lies there in tatters, it isn't broken, and there is this infuriating pride on that porcelain face.

It doesn't piss off Reborn. Quite the contrary, it excites him, and his gusto is renewed, Fon muffling a grunt against the folds of his robes. "Won't you let me hear your voice?" Reborn taunts in perfect Mandarin, the foreign words liquidly rolling from his tongue, "just let the wind carry the sweet verses of your words."

He bends over so that his chest presses firmly against Fon's pale, slender back, his lips on the other's temple, his breath warm against white skin. He smells the tang of blood, tastes it against his tongue, but he doesn't slide his eyes shut, even when his rigid organ is buried into the storm's warm, quibbling core. Reborn's voice is gruff, his tone husky as he breathes in the Chinese man's scent: sandalwood and licorice.

It makes Reborn smile.

"Or have you truly gone mute, mio procella?"

He harshly grabs the other's shoulder, forcing those onyx eyes to meet steadily with his, and not merely from a shadowy corner. He stares down at them, drowning in them, encumbered in its burning inferno.

Reborn couldn't help it, that he lets his eyes wander the outline of Fon's almost feminine features, and as though he wants to reconfirm its bittersweet taste or he merely developed an addiction to those soft lips, Reborn kisses them, kisses Fon with only a soft murmur as evidence to the affection lying underneath the brutality.

Long fingers roughly yank on black hair, but Reborn leans against the other, forcing the back of Fon's head to thump against the ground. Fon doesn't make a sound, makes no indication that he submits to that razing zeal.

It doesn't make Reborn pause, but it makes him wonder. It's easy, so very easy for him to cradle the younger man in his arms, hold him tenderly so he'll fit the sharp lines and angles of the hitman's body. Had Reborn believed in such things, he would describe it as fated: the way Fon molds into those perfect jigsaw pieces to complete the puzzle.

But he doesn't. He doesn't think of soul mates or beauty or bonds or even love of any sort. He thinks of how they should not be, when he mouths those odd verses against Fon's skin, tasting the salt of sweat and tang of blood. He thinks of how carefully constructed the conundrum is, the labyrinth and fortress that shields the Chinese man from everything.

Apathy can make anything look intimidating, seem intimidating. The display of mild emotions even strengthens the shields because they convey nothing at all, and not to mention, though Fon's voice is soft, his words are loud and imposing.

There is pride in those onyx eyes. There is so much pride from such a small man, an outsider, a foreigner. There is condescension in that imperturbable honor, an aloofness that is befitting of Fon, Reborn isn't hesitant to admit. The storm of the Arcobaleno is strong, and this is very true, but "I'll always be superior to you," Reborn whispers, his pace uninterrupted. I'll always be stronger, I'll always be better.

I can tear you apart, those darkly ominous eyes reveal as the sun stares down the storm, willing itself to rise on its highest throne. He pulls out, slowly, sensually, his rock hard cock slipping out that warm, almost unbearable and irresistible furnace, and he forces Fon to face him completely. And break you like precious China.

The smaller man is sprawled on his back almost ungracefully, the soft fabrics of his robes pooling around him as is his hair and his drying blood. Reborn's actions force the bonds to cut skin, however, and fresh torrents flow, and Fon, almost, almost winces. But he doesn't, his features remaining coldly neutral, even as the hitman licks the flowing blood from his temple. The wound on his scalp has yet to close, and Fon is nauseated by the overwhelming scent of his blood, but he doesn't let it show on his face.

He allows not a single weakness to reveal itself.

And Reborn looks as though he understands when he pulls back, but that is a grin still on his face. It is unwavering, and it is terrifying with its unshaken ego. Carefully, almost tenderly, he slides the robes completely off Fon's shoulders, feasting on each breadth of white skin exposed. Fon is beautifully unscarred, unmarred, and the stark streaks of vermillion and the locks of his hair are like ink on a smooth piece of paper.

But Fon is not as easy to break as it is to crumple a piece of paper, and this relieves Reborn, because this couldn't be any more fun. Large hands ghost over the martial artist's sides, hovering over bruised thighs. Reborn can't help but admire the smooth span of the other's body, and he notes that Fon remains to be undisturbed, unbothered, even with the violation of his body, the mix of pain with pleasure and the wedlock of blood lust with carnal pleasure.

Fon still thinks of this whole thing with disgust, but his disdain is only conveyed through the narrowing of his eyes, the thinning of his lips as Reborn fans his hands over flesh, spreading his thighs and forcing them apart.

The storm is not like a limp doll; not this time, since he sees the actual liking Reborn has in his eyes. He resists because the passion is as sadistic as it is sensual, when the sun dotingly slides the head of his cock inside, insufferably slow.

He hides a grimace as Reborn amorously caresses his thighs, as though to comfort him with the intrusion and the new tears that rip, and Reborn just takes a moment, a brief moment to watch blood pool around the other, staining the white with this vivid red and again think of how small the other is when the older man gathers him in his arms.

When he is once more sheathed again so utterly in that warm cavern, the hitman's tenderness is proved false. And he delights in it, when he sees the walls around Fon beginning to crack.

"Cosí fan tutti," Reborn hisses, his breath warm against swollen lips. He crushes their mouths together in forcefully passionate kisses. Fon's bound hands are against his chest, pushing him away, but the Chinese man's thighs are straddling his hips, hugging the man tightly and closely like a wanton whore. This is how things should be. Not once does Reborn avert his gaze, the light in his eyes relentless as it tries to penetrate through that blackened clarity of the other's eyes.

He wants to shatter that pride, that surprisingly formidable glass, because he just wants to, because it's alien: the way that pride attracts him, tempts him, seduces him so. He wants to show the martial artist the line between them, the dominance Reborn has over him because he wants to, he has to since that barrier seems as though nonexistent with them.

And to prove his triumph, to prove that division is there, he wants to see Fon's befouled expression, feel the surrender and the submission, as he rocks Fon against him, forcing him to meet his languid thrusts. His pace is unhurried, almost gentle, almost loving, and he can almost see but only imagine the turmoil lurking there beyond the apathy of the other's gaze. The sight intrigues him, and he barely notices bloodied hands when they rise to his neck, to his chin, cupping his face and smudging a pale sheen of red on his skin.

He acknowledges the touch, however, when he feels Fon's ankles lock together against his lower back, pushing him closer and deeper and harder inside. The storm shudders, his breath warm against swollen lips, and his eyes do not close and their gazes do not shy away from each other's. Reborn hears the smaller man murmur against his mouth, as labored breathing forces them apart, and long, slender fingers paint his face a gorgeous crimson.

There are certain things that just don't end up the way they should be.

It can't be helped. Fon is just so warm, the burning sensation multiplied a hundredfold as Reborn groans, his fingers bruising the Chinese man's hip, his other hand forcefully grasping silken tresses, yanking on them when he tilts Fon downwards. The hitman's own breathing is becoming labored, but he does not succumb to violence, does not ruthlessly violate when he can give as much pleasure as he can take, give love as much as he gives hate.

The storm sees this, and he acknowledges this, onyx eyes so very dark and beautiful and evocative. He reciprocates it even, although his affection is spawned from the other's deviancy as his own cock remains flaccid, and he stays not aroused as he chooses to watch, to observe as he pleasures the older man with his body. He eventually, finally returns those kisses, deepens them as he spreads his legs even wider, raising his hips in rhythm with the older man's thrusts.

The smaller man cannot wrap his arms around the other, and the thought that he actually wants to dawns on him, but he isn't bothered by it. Not right now, when he wants to do nothing more than kiss the older man, feel his lips against his, feel his warm body curled against his own, and see. He wants to see how the master hitman would react to his consent, to indulgence and not submission, to a truce and not surrender.

The thoughts are disturbing, especially since it involves sullying his purity, degrading his person, but Fon doesn't realize them as such, because this scorching fire he sees in the sun's eyes is so different from the lust he knows, that it encumbers him so utterly he can't even breathe despite how painstakingly slow, how excruciatingly sensual and loving Reborn's ministrations are.

But Fon will never admit it those attentions actually spur him, actually disturb him. He'll never reveal it either, subconsciously or otherwise, even as he drowns in the black ocean within the Italian man's eyes. He becomes pliant, becomes slightly docile and complacent when they kiss again, and heavens above forbid, it is because the touch is almost sweet. It is practically loving.

Fon wonders if that tenderness is still false. Reborn absently wonders it too.

Because the touches are gentle, and it's so foreign to them both, but still, Reborn's pace doesn't get frantic, even when his own breathing goes erratic, his moans almost audible, but muffled against Fon's heated skin.

The Chinese man doesn't make a sound, but he throws his head back in a sharp intake of breath, and his gaze, while it nears blurriness, does not leave those dark, dark eyes. He is troubled, and it is oddly enticing, this warmth when he opens his mouth in silent moans, his body shuddering with tremors in response to those tender caresses.

Fon is losing himself. His muscles tense, when Reborn gently rocks against him. He feels the urgency beneath the taller man's skin, the veiled desperation hidden in those thrusts and kisses.

They remain unhurried despite Reborn's obvious impatience, obvious desire for release and Fon's warped definition of calm, although, in truth, Fon wants it to end as well. This gentility is turning out to be worse than the earlier brutality, but he can't find his voice to speak.

It overwhelms him—these sudden feelings of warmth and contentment, engulfed in the throes of unbridled passions, soiled fabrics and their own perspiration. The longer they stay like this, the more potent the sun's lust becomes, and it intoxicates him. The longer they stay like this, his grip on himself loosens even more, and so, Fon's gaze turns to provocation, turns to glaring with that seductive challenge, and the darkness lurking there beckons to Reborn, and for that brief moment, Reborn forgets himself.

He crushes his mouth against Fon's as they stare each other down, hands roaming almost harshly, but the touch, the caress is affectionate as he fucks the smaller man; his pace, while leisurely done, is quick and steady. It's maddening, this control, but Reborn doesn't stop. He can't. He's too proud; fiercely growling beneath that mask of calm, he won't lose himself like a primitive beast with the way those onyxes tempt him to.

And the prolonged compassion in Reborn's exploits makes Fon hiss; he doesn't bother hiding it, this sudden anger, this indignation, this violation. With each loving caress and tender thrust, Fon feels like he's breaking, and he doesn't like it.

He bares his nails like claws, scratching at Reborn's neck. He is bothered, and he wants it done, wants Reborn to lay waste his body. He impatiently waits, impatiently cajoles the older man into his contentment, snapping his hips up, tightening the grip of his thighs.

Reborn leans his forehead against the lithe martial artist's own, their eyes staring into each other's. His breathing is harsh, but so is Fon's, but neither notice the abnormalities in their present haze as the sun Arcobaleno hisses, and the storm arcs his back, his mouth open in a soundless cry.

The taller man comes at that one moment, reaching his release and satisfaction as his semen splatters in torrents inside Fon's aching body, porcelain white thighs streaked with blood and excrements.

Reborn hovers over him, as the younger man falls back with a thud, his momentum abruptly halted. His chest heaves, and his breathing is uneven in harsh wheezes, his legs trembling from exertion and his hands clenching together, balling into fists. He feels the man's sperm pool around him, his blood mixing with the man's foul essences, and Fon shivers, muffling soft sounds at the thoughts of how oddly enticing its warmth is.

It doesn't escape Reborn's notice. Even as his adrenaline comes crashing down, the hitman grins, admiring what a beautiful picture Fon makes: limbs limp, body trembling, defiled in his own schemes of red and white and black.

Only the torn and stained remains of his robes provide him modest cover as he lies there on the soil, his hair loose and fanning around him like black silk, a gorgeous vermillion smeared all over the white canvas that is Fon's body. Reborn doesn't move away; he stays close to him, his hands flat against the ground, caging the storm Arcobaleno in the circle of his arms.

His breathing is shallow, and it is labored, but there is still a smile on his lips. He leans close, kissing the softness of Fon's cheek as he murmurs those sweet nothings, his eyes dark with egocentricity and pride. Fon doesn't react, doesn't even bat an eye. The sun Arcobaleno can sense the other's gaze on him. Even when it is veiled by ebony locks, Reborn can clearly see how onyx eyes smolder with a tempestuous fire.

The hitman then chooses to lie beside him, arm over the other's waist, pulling the Chinese assassin close. He doesn't know why he does this, and Fon is confused by the sudden unexpected act, but neither of them speak, neither of them display any of their emotions. Fon hums lightly, entranced, when Reborn gently tucks him into his strong hold.

The gentleness seems so sincere.

It is mesmerizing, that ominous light in those eyes that Fon cannot read. It is beautiful, that raging fire in those eyes that Reborn cannot extinguish.

Things are not the way they should be, the Italian thinks as he places kisses on the other's temple, on his cheek, on the corner of his mouth, on his lips. He tastes blood, and his arms curve, fingers clutching the smaller body as it looks like he devours the other, and Fon lets him, his own small hands clenching his fingers on the breast of Reborn's suit. Because this is just the way things are, Reborn hisses softly against the other, and Fon begins to relax completely in his hold. His eyes are overtaken by this odd misty glaze, and it deceives him in rapture, chains him in carnal pleasure, and Fon realizes too late that there is no escape, and by then, the hitman's lips has already curved into a voracious smile.

But that doesn't mean I can't pretend.

Reborn's hands wander, and eventually, one reaches the back of Fon's thigh, teasingly caressing the soft skin and tugging him even closer to this scalding heat, this burning passion. They can't stop kissing, as if the taste of the other covered in blood is this irresistible drug. The Asian paws at him almost frantically, muffling soft protests when those wanderings go lower, the feel of their warm touch lingering on his skin.

He gasps when Reborn takes hold of him, when he tugs on his flaccid erection, and Fon shudders, his body wracked with small tremors. He can't escape now, even as he places his scarlet hands against that broad chest, pushing the older man away and pulling his smaller form out of that vice-like hold.

Because Reborn won't let go, and the man keeps kissing him, keeps touching him. His other hand wanders too, and it caresses every breadth of skin, worshipping it as though it is a piece of art sculpted by the deities. The sun Arcobaleno mouths words of Italian poetry and curses, knowing that the other is as fluent to the language as he is in Mandarin, and Fon drowns in them, in their spell as lustful lips trail down his face, tasting blood, tasting the tang of mortality.

He wonders if he can at last break Fon like this; Fon, who lies in his arms, practically helpless. He has this urge, this irrepressible urge to completely paint the other the color of that vivid red, break him like the porcelain doll he so resembles.

The storm denies him the sight, however, as he thrashes, that frail silhouette trembling. He fights back, not wanting this, not wanting any of this, and Reborn soothes him with those same bittersweet verses, comforts him with the kisses of a deceitful lover.

But even those cannot dampen the fire in Fon's onyx eyes. There is murder and antipathy—there is still that pride that even Reborn cannot tear down. A mass fortress of walls is built around the phoenix's precious spirit, protecting the smaller man's vulnerability, and that very reason makes Reborn want to see each one of those walls crumble, and then he will be free to take that spirit for himself, consume it, and things will be as they should be.

He tugs and pulls, his mouth greedily kissing the smaller man in lewd and selfish vigor. He feels warm skin; he is enthralled by the incinerating ardor of lust and hate and devotion, and the wedlock of the orthodox with the naught is just heavenly with how the storm shies away from him and how the younger man melts against him.

It is beautiful, and it entices him. He wants more, and so he takes more, feeding off the brutality he imparts and the fierceness with which Fon protests.

Reborn has never taken no for an answer, and cruelly, he squeezes a buttock, firmly pressing his lips against Fon's snarling mouth, and he shoves his fingers inside the crack of his ass as his other hand violently tugs and caresses the other's hard cock.

Fon whines soundlessly, ripping his mouth away and throwing his head back, but Reborn insists, chasing after it and ruthlessly consuming the other's taste when they meet again. Both their breathings are labored, and the light in Fon's eyes is frantic even though his expression is dark with abhorrence. Such a look matters little to the Italian man, however, as what takes his attention is that endearing blush on the other's pale cheeks, the quivers of those frowning lips, and the glaze clouding the clarity of those beauteous onyxes.

He will win.

He will bring this man pleasure, make him fall. He will clip this phoenix's wings, and he will teach its carcass humility. He will shatter this porcelain doll, and he will take great pleasure in doing so.

He admits all of this, in the abyss of his eyes as he stares Fon down, as he overwhelms the other with the friction of his tugging, his thrusting and the force of his kisses. He denies nothing of it. What is there to attain from denying a delight? After all, this task has been gratifying—one he has thoroughly enjoyed, and it is intensely satisfying for Reborn to see such a beautiful storm finally clear for the rise of the sun.

And there it is: his victory, and Reborn grins, triumphant when Fon finally, finally cries out.

It is a strangled sound—almost a moan, a breathless moan. His eyes are wide and dazed, as his hands desperately clutch at Reborn. He trembles, and he shudders a breath, a whimper escaping his lips as he comes, his scream coming to an abrupt halt as it fades into an echo of pained whimpers and wheezing breaths. He splatters semen on Reborn's hand, on his robes and on his skin, and he lets out something so similar to a sob, going limp against the other, but the hitman doesn't let him fall.

The smaller man is locked in his embrace, shaking as he realizes the extent of the dishonor he has brought upon himself; a dishonor greater than whatever shame the Italian man can defile him with. He stills his tremors, but they are as violent as that tempest obscuring his thoughts, his breath coming out in wheezes and pants, and the tilt of his voice hurt and the emotion behind it violated.

He looks up, those smoldering eyes burning with something akin to rage and agony when Reborn continues to kiss him, his bigger hands keep caressing him as though to mock this desecration, and Fon's gaze is steady, unhesitant with all its accusations.

But, "it is better this way,"Reborn tells him, amused and cruel, lingering in his eyes still is that infernal light, "when you pretend the light of the sun cannot pierce through the shadows of a storm." And I can pretend I can break you even if you just can't be shattered.

He leans over, his lips mockingly gentle as is his tone against Fon's ear. "I'll always be superior to you." And even if that is a lie. But he won't admit that. He looks the other in the eye, his dark gaze intense as it reveals absolutely nothing. Fon returns that look with a dark one of his own. There is no smile on his face, but Reborn can distinguish the beginnings of a sordid amusement from the furious indignation.

Although his legs are still curled to him in an almost fetal position, Fon rises, reopening cuts and making fresh trails of crimson trickle down his pale and bloodied arms. He moves closer, almost crawling, unmindful of the blood and semen and dirt on his robes or Reborn's scent on his body as he presses their mouths together once more in a languorous kiss. It is mild, very sweet, and they do not part.

They stay like this, Fon's bound wrists hindering his pawing hands as he mouths insults and endearments, devotion and hate and threats against heated skin, Reborn returning the enthusiasm twofold with the birth of something new, something infinitely beautiful with its ardor and bliss and calamity and destruction. They cannot deny how different things are from the way they should be, Reborn most of all, but it's a compromise.

Fon hisses, burrowing himself deep in the hitman's embrace. There is no longer an escape from that web of lust and amusement and pride. There are cracks on Fon's walls, but there are cracks on Reborn's as well, even if the older man doesn't realize it. It makes Fon smile, and it is a cruel smile; one that is thin with its razor-like sharpness. The storms eyes may have dimmed, but its clarity isn't shattered. It can never be, no matter what Reborn does.

He is a proud man, and even if his person is desecrated, he will remain as such.

You won't destroy me.

Reborn smiles.

But I can break you.

FIN