Katekyo Hitman Reborn! Fan Fiction ❯ Freedom. ❯ One-Shot

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ADDITIONAL DISCLAIMER : I do not own Katekyou HITMAN REBORN!

Universe Title : The Long Way Home.
Story Title : Love Is…
Chapter Title : Freedom (1/1).
Chapter Rating : R18+.
Main Character(s) : Superbi Squalo.
Genre(s) : Angst, Drama, Family, Friendship, Romance, Smut.
Summary : Thirty different ways to love.
Warning(s) : M/M, Sex (Explicit), Swearing.
Word Count : +/- 6768.
Author's Note(s) : A series of drabbles and oneshots depicting thirty kinds of love.

Love Is…
Freedom.

So this is how it goes.

You're a guy.

A loud as fuck, sword-wielding, big-talking kind of guy.

You're all boundless energy and unbridled irascibility wrapped up in unending, unimpeachable pride.

So you like to show off a little - okay, a lot - but you sure as shit can back it up.

And maybe all that showing off is a cover for your weaknesses - y'know, those bouts of fear, uncertainty, confusion - all that wimpy shit you're not allowed to have.

And maybe you're kind of a hopeless romantic, like those cheesy as fuck movies - the ones you really love but pretend not to - say.

And maybe you're also secretly, insanely, irrevocably in love with another guy.

He's that kind of guy in the movies, too. The one who epitomizes strength and power and intelligence far surpassing that of a regular human being. He's all keen discernment and a unique brand of illogical logic which makes him just so fucking brilliant. He's the kind who protects you while still treating you like an equal, who puts your comfort and happiness before his own, who'd stop at nothing to make your life just that much easier.

The kind of guy who makes you feel pretty damn great about yourself on a bad day, who doesn't ever see anyone but you, who spoils you rotten at any random time just because.

The type who'd hold you close after making love, who'd calm you down when you're freaking out, who'd cook for you, and thread his fingers through your hair when you sleep.

Oh, he's also good-looking and wealthy as fuck and incredible in bed. Because, yeah, the superficial shit counts, too. Whoever said that inner beauty's all that really matters is probably an ugly ass loser looking to feel better about themselves.

Yeah, he's that guy.

And that's not a problem, right? Because one day, you'll work up the courage to tell him how you feel. He'll - surprise, surprise - feel the exact same way about you. And then he'll sweep you into his arms and kiss you stupid, fuck your brains out, and marry you. You'll live happily ever after, la-dee-fucking-da.

At least that's what the movies tell you.

But here's the deal. The real one, not the giant helping of steaming bullshit so often served up to you on a silver platter.

That guy doesn't exist.

Because this is real fucking life and it isn't a fucking movie.

It's more like bad medicine, really - the kind you get from your quack ass doctors at the neighborhood clinic - bitter as fuck and the shit never fucking cures you, anyway.

This is fucking reality and this is how it really goes.

--

You're a boy.

A six-year-old hellraiser running barefoot through filthy streets, fast as your skinny little legs can carry you.

You've never seen a movie, too damn poor to own a television or to buy a ticket to the theater in the nearby town. Doesn't matter, they wouldn't let you in anyway, dressed as you are in tattered rags you're certain were once a respectable pair of shirt and shorts.

Your name is Superbi. No last name, a kid like you isn't afforded that kind of privilege.

You were born to a mother who knows a whole helluva lot about selling her body, but absolutely nothing about raising a son. Your father is - wait a fucking minute, you don't have a fucking father. Bastard's one of your mother's clients, you know that much. Which one, you don't know - she doesn't, either - and guess what? You don't even fucking care. Wouldn't wanna be the son of someone who sleeps with whores, anyway.

You're growing up in a shitty village with even shittier prospects. The chances of making anything out of yourself if you're raised here is fucking zilch. No one ever makes it out of this trash heap. The ones who do come quickly slinking back to a life worse than mediocrity, or get fucking trampled trying to live in a world they clearly don't belong.

Your mother - fuck, you utterly despise calling her that - doesn't give a shit about anything that can't get her laid, drunk, or rich. Which is pretty much why she hates your guts. You're the reason she'd been out of commission for so damn long, cos who the hell wants to fuck a whore with a kid? Hell, those assholes pay her cos they need some respite from their own damn wives and kids.

So yeah, the woman who gave you birth? She hates your fucking guts. And if she's not beating the shit out of you, cussing at you and willing you out of existence for being the reason she's so damn fucked up, she's kicking you out onto the streets.

"I don't care what you do as long as you stay the fuck out of my hair."

Which is precisely why you find yourself here - running even though your legs are gonna break, and your lungs are about to give out - bony ass fingers leaving dents in that wedge of cheese you snatched off Gaspare's cart, holding onto it like it's some kind of fucking treasure.

And in a way, it fucking is, cos it's the only thing in the way of sustenance you've been able to get your hands on all week.

Your mother spends all that money she makes on booze and stupid little trinkets and perfume which makes you wanna throw up.

So this is how it often goes.

You crouch down in some moldy, abandoned lot and devour that wedge of cheese - licking your fingers clean till all the flavor's gone from your skin - entirely too cognizant of the fact that you may not eat for another week.

And then you curl into a ball, try to sleep on ground that fucks up your body something awful, always keeping one eye open and your senses alert cos it's the only way you know how to survive.

--

You're a fighter.

In a place like this, you don't have much of a choice.

At eight, you're still shorter and smaller than most of the other boys. Makes you an easy target.

Some days, you wonder if there's a sign that says "HIT ME" emblazoned on your forehead - the kind printed in bright, flashing neon letters like those signs at the strip joints. Hell, it's not like you mind all that much. You're pretty damn good at hitting right back, all teeth and fists and bad fucking temper.

A man's not a man if he doesn't stand and fight. That's just the way it is. And while you're not technically an adult, you don't have anymore time to waste on being a child.

The boys have their reasons, too. Stuff like your mother's the reason their fathers don't come home all that much. Or like they just can't stand your face. They hate you for being you. All that childish ass bullshit.

So they come at you with their fists swinging - sometimes sticks and bricks and all that crap - and they're always in groups, never alone, those yellow-bellied fucktards.

They call you names, too - shit like bastard son of a whore or good-for-nothing, thieving brat or slum mongrel or cocky little fucker - all that shit they learned from their parents.

And those parents, they're no damn different from their rotten kids. Treat you just the same, like you're the fucking pariah in their midst.

It makes you wanna yell at them, beat the stupidity out of their shitty little heads. "We're all pariahs here, everyone's a fucking mongrel, so get the fuck off your damn high horse."

But it's not fucking worth it cos you learned a long time ago, stupidity's incurable.

Which is why today finds you with your face buried in the dirt, bruises all over your skinny ass form.

The bastard who roughed you up was this fat fuck named Luigi. Yeah, they're always named Luigi and if this were a movie, he'd be some piece of shit hitman looking to do you in.

But it's not a fucking movie, is it?

Here, Luigi is this despicable chunker who runs the fruit stand on the corner of Third Street - the one near the dressmaker's.

And gods above, you fucking hate him.

So you pull yourself up to sit on your haunches, wiping your bloody nose on the sleeve of your ragged shirt and glaring at the green apple - the one you filched from the bastard's cart before you stupidly got caught - on the ground beside you.

It just sits there innocuously, staring right back at... well, nothing, because apples can't stare, can they? But you're still pretty damn sure it's mocking you.

So this is how it goes.

You're about to storm away in a fit of rage - find somewhere private to lick your wounds and plot revenge - when your stomach chooses that precise moment to demand, very fucking loudly, that you feed it right fucking now.

And you're about to reach for that filthy piece of fruit - dignity be damned, cos even shit starts to look fucking delectable when you're this fucking starved, and no one's even really looking anyway - when you hear this voice call out to you.

It's an unfamiliar voice - clear and mellifluous and bearing the weight of concern. "Are you alright? What happened to you?"

So you look up, and that's when you see her. She is, without a sliver of doubt, an angel; and if this were a movie, she'd be stepping out of blindingly bright light - golden halo over her head, powder-white wings on her back - with a dramatic as fuck church choir in the background and all.

But this isn't a movie, so instead, she's just this lady with inky black hair that elegantly frames her oval face and cascades over her slender shoulders, an immaculate peach complexion, and a warm smile; wrapped up in a ruffled, dark purple blouse and a black, knee-length skirt with matching black heels. Her frame is slim but very clearly strong, she has this aura of unshakeable confidence around her - this classy presence which speaks of alluring refinement and subtle intimidation at the same time.

There are three men a few feet behind her - they're all dressed the same in these really expensive looking suits - and you're pretty damn sure they're her bodyguards.

The lady helps you to your feet, then she kneels so she's at eye-level with you - right there in the dirt and all - and pulls out a handkerchief from her cerise handbag. She begins to wipe the blood from your face with it, smiling the entire time. "Let's get you cleaned up, shall we?"

Up close, you get a good look at her eyes. They're a deep, rich brown - the color of the earth - and there's infinite pools of wisdom and keen perception in them, underscored with concern.

Concern.

There's that emotion again - like the one in her voice, in her smile. It's not something you're used to, you've never had it directed at you before.

Her smile radiates kindness and empathy; it wraps around you like a soft, warm blanket, shrouding you from this disgusting, heartless world.

Her touch is tender, careful not to hurt you anymore than you already are. You suppose this is how a parent really ought to treat their child.

She's the most beautiful woman you've ever seen, and even without the wings or the halo, you're pretty damn certain she's an angel.

"I'm going to take you to a doctor. Get these wounds fixed up." The lady glances at the apple on the ground, looks back at you with those care-filled eyes. "You're hungry, aren't you?"

You open your mouth to answer but the loud rumble of your stomach beats you to it.

The dark-haired angel chuckles, but there's no ounce of cruelty in it; just affection. She stands up and grabs your hand - hers feels comforting and safe - leading you towards the sidewalk. Her grip is gentle, but firm, and she directs you to the bench just outside the local patisserie. "Wait here." Her tone is benevolent but authoritative - one that brooks no disobedience, the kind that sounds used to issuing orders on a regular basis.

So you nod - uncharacteristically docile - and sit yourself on that bench; watching her step into the little establishment, those three impeccably dressed men following her inside.

You patiently wait as best you can, glaring maliciously at anyone who stares at you, daring them to pick a fight.

Five minutes later, the lady and her men are out of the bakery. She hands you a large, white box. "Here you go."

Opening the box finds you stunned at the array of pastries inside - bear claws and buns and danishes - the mouth-watering ones you see so often in the display window, but have never had the good fortune to taste. It's more food than you ever get in a few months.

You stare at her, wide-eyed and uncertain, not quite sure how to react to this unexpected blessing.

She nods at you, smile never leaving her face. "They're all yours." She sits beside you on the wooden bench, digging into a box of her own and handing an apple danish each to her men, before claiming one for herself. "Let's eat, shall we?"

You're eight-years-old when you first meet her - the very embodiment of limitless compassion, unbending dignity, and uncompromising pride.

Her name is Lucia Squalo. You would eventually come to know her as Mama.

--

You are Superbi Squalo, boy of many talents.

Family brings with it a life steeped in education and culture. By the time you are ten, you effortlessly play both the piano and violin. You're fluent in Italian, English, Japanese, French, Mandarin, Spanish, and Cantonese; still struggling a little with Russian and German. You undergo ballroom dancing lessons which you utterly fucking suck at, and fencing lessons which you easily excel in.

Mama teaches you horseback riding and archery, how to cook and how to paint. She teaches you etiquette and poetry and how to win an argument while still maintaining diplomacy and self-respect.

Papa - whose name is Alberto Squalo, Ninth Boss of the Squalo Famiglia - teaches you how to use a sword and fire a gun. He tells you how to choose the best wine and cigars, how to tell when someone is lying, teaches you to threaten with carefully structured words instead of brute strength.

Your parents - big-hearted and loving and yours - educate you on the art of running a successful business, on carrying a conversation with charm in lieu of expletives, on masterfully hiding your emotions from your enemies (and sometimes, your friends).

They instruct you on the unbreakable Mafia laws, the importance of family and Family, the swiftest and least messy way to kill. They teach you self-assuredness and flair; courtesy, strength, and above all, pride.

They bring you to plays and concerts and formal parties, to church and school and business meetings.

And then, there's the movies.

The first one you ever see is one of Mama's favorites - a corny, saccharine, romantic drama called Someday Will Be Forever. The plot's cheesy as fuck - Boy meets Girl, Boy falls in love with Girl, Girl loves him right back, shit gets in their way, momentarily tearing them apart, but Boy is determined to overcome every obstacle to get his Girl back, so love conquers all in the end.

Yeah, it's lame and trite and really fucking stupid, and - guess the fuck what? - it draws you right in like a conniving dealer entices a brain-dead junkie with some newfangled drug.

You're indisputably insane and this is how it goes.

The end of the movie has the love-struck couple falling dramatically - exaggeratedly - into each other's arms, kissing each other stupid, and boldly proclaiming their mushy as fuck feelings with the most gag-worthy lines.

And somewhere between the gazillionth "I love you" and "I can't live without you", you decide that this is what you want - a guy like that, all charisma and sagaciousness, willing to fight the entire fucking world for you.

But here's the colossal fucking problem.

You're a boy.

And where you come from, there are rules for boys like you. Never run from a fight. Always stand up for what's yours. If someone gives you shit, you give them shit right back, tenfold. Don't cry. Don't whine. Never display weakness.

A boy in your world is always the protector, not the protected. The lover, not the loved. The comforter, not the comforted. He never asks for hugs, he gives them. He doesn't cry, even when it hurts so fucking bad, he'd rather be dead. But he never begs for death. He spits on his wounds and stands right back up, forgives no humiliation, uses his fists to reclaim his honor. Fuck with me and I'll fuck you over.

Boys like you are meant to live for fast-paced, hard-hitting action; never formulaic, tacky romance.

And a boy like you sure as fuck isn't allowed to like other boys.

But you can't help what you want and feel any more than the sky can help being blue, so this is how it goes.

You sneak out of bed in the middle of the night to watch that movie - and all the others Mama owns - over and over and over till you've got those cheesy ass lines tattooed on your brain. You tell no one about your newfound obsession or your fantasies because you're pretty fucking sure Mama and Papa would be disgusted and wouldn't want you anymore; they'd probably dump your pathetic ass right back into that craptastic village you came from.

So you hold fast to your secrets and continue to futilely dream, like some mushyfuck schoolgirl instead of the hard as nails Mafioso you're supposed to be.

That is, until the day Mama catches you in the living room at three a.m., eyes glued to the ostentatious wedding scene on the TV screen.

Upon sensing her presence, you instantly freeze - not daring to look at her - completely terrified of seeing the revulsion, disappointment, and rejection you're pretty sure are rapidly coloring her irises.

You valiantly brace yourself for the harsh castigation which - surprisingly - never comes.

Instead, Mama sits beside you on the couch and grabs your chin between her finely manicured fingers, turning you to face her. There is a knowing twinkle in her chocolate eyes and a reassuring smile breaking across her graceful countenance. "You should never be ashamed of being yourself."

And in that moment, you learn two things - nothing ever gets past your Mama, and the true meaning of your first name.

--

You're a Varja.

...or so you're told by the first person you would ever come to acknowledge as a friend, and this is how it goes.

Your parents decide you've been home schooled long enough, so you're promptly enrolled into a private academy catering exclusively to Mafia children.

The first day of school finds you sitting in the back of the expansive lecture hall - wearing an intimidating scowl and a malevolent don't fuck with me aura - when your aforementioned friend (although you didn't know he would be at the time) falls, quite literally, into your life.

He's this kid - all shaggy blond hair and a winsome smile - enthusiastically bounding up the steps to his chosen seat.

And it happens really fucking quickly, too - blink and you'll miss it sort of deal - when he trips over some invisible wire and lands in this ungainly sprawl right there on those steps, books and stationery and shit flying everywhere.

And the entire class - Mafiosi progeny or not, kids are kids just the same - instantly erupts into raucous hoots and whistles and applause.

You don't understand what's so fucking funny, you just think he's being an idiot.

Said idiot doesn't seem embarrassed, though. He just picks himself up, chuckles, and gives this silly little bow - like he's the star of some really lame comedy routine - before gathering his things and scanning the room.

And this is when you decide that God must really hate you, cos the moron's gaze lands right on yours.

Then, for some reason you just can't figure out - maybe cos you're the only one not laughing, maybe cos he's some spoiled as fuck brat looking to stir up trouble - he's bounding up those cement steps again, pointedly ignoring those millions of seats much closer to where he was originally standing, and plops himself down in the chair right beside yours, announcing, "Chiavarone Famiglia's Dino," in a way that indicates he expects you to be impressed.

You're not. The icy death glare you're giving him says just as much.

It kinda makes his smile falter a little. "Uh, that's my name."

If this were a movie, Dino would be the archetypal Nice Guy. That cheery, easygoing boy next door - kind of a goofball, but with a sincere heart - who's the first to befriend you when you feel like a fucking freak in a new town you sure as shit didn't wanna move to.

He's the ever reliable Best Friend, the one who lets you drag him into every one of your harebrained schemes, who takes the rap for you when shit hits the fan. He's the guy who cheers you up when you feel like crap, the one who patiently listens to your inane rambles about your stupid new crush of the week, who'll laugh with you about every bad date, who helps you get over every disastrous breakup.

Dino would be the guy who's always watching from the sidelines - seeing you through all those failed relationships with an endless string of losers - while he's secretly in love with you.

But you can't see that - too damn busy chasing the resident Bad Boy who's all dangerous and cool and shit - and Nice Guys always get relegated to the Friend Zone.

Yeah, Dino would be that guy - the one who's constantly sweet and dependable and unfailingly loyal, but never boyfriend material.

That is, until the Bad Boy shatters your fragile little heart like the callous son of a bitch he is, and - BAM!!! - sure as you've been hit by a two ton truck, Nice Guy's right there in your face just as you knew he'd be.

Only this time, he's standing before a backdrop of pink roses and blinding sparkles which you swear weren't there before; just like some overrated hero out of a shoddy shoujo manga.

And that's when you realize he's The One.

If this were a movie, Dino would be the classic rom com cliche.

But this isn't some tooth-achingly sweet chick flick, and in your eyes, Chiavarone Famiglia's Dino sure as fuck isn't The One. Nobody finds true love when they're ten-years-old, and he's gotta be straight anyway; if all those not-so-subtle glances he's been shooting Angelina de Luca are any indication.

So you bare your teeth in what you hope is a terrifying, badass snarl and - in a decibel no human vocal cord should ever be able to reach - go, "VOOII!!! I don't fucking care!!!"

And if this really were a movie, he'd leave you the fuck alone.

But Dino - you would, much sooner than you'd like, come to learn - is an intransigent little fucker.

So you're the new kid in a new school and this is how it goes.

He all but glues himself to your side, following you around like a lost puppy for the rest of the semester, never dissuaded by your caustic glares and violent punches and wrathful orders to just go die in a fucking fire.

And god fucking damn it, you utterly resent the fact that it gets harder and harder to loathe him with each passing day.

But you should hate him. Should, because Dino is everything you're not - everything you've always vehemently detested.

He's clumsy where you are deft, softhearted where you are unforgiving, compassionate where you are aggressive. And he's so. fucking. weak.

He drives you fucking crazy; but for some bizarre reason, you find yourself actually enjoying his company.

And then, this is how it goes.

You're thirteen when you finally ask him - after grudgingly accepting his irrefutable place in your life - why he's never understood the concept of giving up.

Dino grins at you and the look in his golden-brown eyes suggest he's seen this question coming since the day he met you, three years ago. "You're a Varja," he states simply - matter-of-factly - as if the answer should have been glaringly obvious.

The vein in your eyebrow twitches threateningly. "VOOII!!! What the fuck does that even mean?!?"

Dino pushes the bangs from his face, doesn't stop smiling infuriatingly. "You're kinda like an untamed tiger let loose on civilization. Or what you thought was the missing piece of your puzzle, only to realize the sharp edges don't make it really fit. The mythical beast whose lustrous coat everybody longs to feel under their fingertips. That bewitching chimera which makes you wanna reach out and touch, even if you know you're more than likely to get your hand bitten off." He shrugs, leaning back against his elbows. "I find your ferocity fascinating."

That day marks the first time Dino ever succeeds stunning you into speechlessness.

And when you're offered a place in the Varia, you demand a fight with the Sword Emperor; Dino's words ringing in your head the entire time.

--

You're a warrior.

A dangerous, bloodthirsty, lethal as fuck warrior when you meet the man you would follow till death takes you from him.

If this were a movie, they'd call it love at first sight. Heart rate speeding up, palms sweating, breath getting short, mouth going dry, butterflies in your tummy kind of shit. Fuck, why do all of those sound like symptoms of some fucking ailment?

Anyway, it's the usual shtick. Eyes meeting across the dance floor. Time standing still. Fireworks going off in the background. Two hearts beating as one. Pick your cliche.

But you're not a kid anymore. And you've long been broken out of those delusions - the ones offered up in those movies you used to sneak out of bed to watch - so you no longer buy into that crock of shit.

Love at first sight. Soul mates. True love's kiss. Happily ever after. They don't fucking exist.

Everything the movies tell you - it's all prettily packaged bullshit, fastidiously constructed to help everyone ignore how spectacularly fucked up this world really is.

Stupidity's contagious - you know, you've been infected, too - and the universe is fucking rank with it.

Because here's the cold, hard truth.

Love isn't all candy hearts and mushy poems. It's barbed wire biting into your flesh and bricks against your glass heart. Hell, that shit they sell you in movies? They're about as tangible as a rainbow-shitting unicorn.

So yeah, sure as your left hand isn't gonna grow itself back, this isn't love at first sight.

But this is how it goes.

You're fourteen and disenchanted when you learn what failure tastes like.

They tell you he's Vongola Nono's son. His name is Xanxus; and he's spiked, midnight hair and tanned skin, broad shoulders and long legs. His eyes are sharp, crimson blades - cold like frost on a windowpane and bearing a look that's enough to melt the flesh from your bones. His gait is purposeful - all sleek gracefulness, like a panther - and radiating confidence that's impossible to mar. He emits strength, power, ambition; there isn't a speck of vulnerability in his self-assured demeanor, no sliver of doubt in his equanimous countenance.

A man who knows exactly what he wants, and his rightful place in the world.

This is the man you were born to serve.

Xanxus is unfaltering pride and indomitable will, raw magnetism and unflinching rage carved out of black ice.

You watch him - drink every bit of him in, fucking drown in him - and think that Dino was so, so wrong, because the true Varja's right here in front of you.

And when you make that vow - all ebullient candor and unslakeable devotion - you know that this is the one thing you're absolutely certain of, that this is the decision you'll never regret for as long as you live.

Only, six months later finds you on the floor of a cold, lifeless room; feet tucked uncomfortably under you, face pressed against the algid, unforgiving prison which so impudently binds your master.

There's blood smeared against the ice from where you've smashed your forehead against it repeatedly; cankerous guilt and shame hellbent on consuming whatever's left of your already broken spirit.

And this failure - this humiliation - feels like roughened rocks viciously lodged in the back of your throat, like sandpaper against your skin. It fucking hurts - fucking burns like acid behind your eyelids - like a rusty knife stabbing relentlessly at your splintered soul.

You press your fingers against the gelid surface - despair coiling itself like a vine around your entire being - and the sheer ignominy of it all drags a deafening, anguished cry from your lungs like it's trying to extract the skeleton from your very flesh.

You don't have to know love to understand what heartbreak feels like.

--

You're alive.

There's an indescribable thrill surging through your veins; a kind of gradual, mounting excitement that rides you like a wave. It spreads this ridiculously wide grin over your visage - manic and dark and fucking triumphant - because you know you've fucking won the moment you witness that impenetrable ice prison melting off your master's frame.

You're twenty-two-years-old - renewed hope and gleeful anticipation rapidly burgeoning within that cavity in your chest you suppose a heart ought to be - when Xanxus fucks you for the first time.

And this is precisely how it goes.

If this were a movie, there'd be hundreds of rose petals - ruby red mingled with delicate pink - scattered atop satin sheets; bottle of champagne in an ice bucket with two glasses half-filled on the nightstand.

It would be tender lovemaking in a candlelit room, the seductive throb of slow jazz somewhere in the background.

It would be sweet nothings whispered into each other's ears, delicate touches which don't bruise or draw blood.

This isn't a fucking movie.

In reality, it's the drink - tequila, not champagne - and its glass in your hair; Xanxus's hand tangled into your too-long mane, fingers clawing unkindly into your scalp.

It's your back slamming brutally against the finely burnished rosewood desk in his office, your legs wrapped possessively around your Boss's waist - heels digging unsympathetically into his lower back - as if you're afraid to let him go.

It's sharp, white teeth closing around that particularly sensitive spot between your neck and collarbone, biting down hard enough to break skin.

It's the tip of a tongue - warm and rough and moist - that quickly darts out to taste the blood upon your flesh, that follows the sanguine trail from your clavicle to your chest that's rapidly rising and caving with every quickened breath, only to flatten itself against the peak of a swiftly hardening nipple.

Xanxus laves your aching, peaked nub in a deliberately slowed motion, craftily executed to make your entire body shudder from the exquisite torment.

It makes you hate him - just a little, cos you know you could never really hate your Boss - when his ministrations successfully draw a salacious cry from your already parted lips; when it sends bullets firing up and down your spinal column that makes your cock jump and your toes curl.

A subtle graze is all the warning you get before he takes your erect nipple between his teeth and bites.

The action makes you hiss, makes your metal fingers tighten around the edge of the desk he's so determined to fuck you through, nearly breaking it off.

And that hand - the one that's sneaking itself between your sweat-slicked bodies and insinuating itself between your trembling thighs - enclosing around your madly leaking cock; jacking you off in hard, fast strokes.

Sex with Xanxus is a tumultuous fight and an insatiable hunger.

It's not in any way gentle or affectionate, and it sure as fuck isn't about lower bodies fusing, undulating together at a languorous pace.

It's vicious bites and tempestuous scratches, a whole world of fuck me now and fuck me harder and I'll fucking murder you if you dare fucking stop. It's two people and a frantic, maddening rhythm; hurrying to get themselves off.

It's those kisses - savage and forceful - like he's trying to take a bite out of you, and teethteethteeth under your jaw, all over your neck, shoulders, chest.

It's fingernails raking over your ribs and your thighs, marking out a meandering path that's bound to leave goosebumps and angry, red welts in their wake - just like the map of burnt skin decorating the canvas of his enticing, Adonic frame.

It's the deep, crimson lakes of his eyes - darkened and disfigured with unadulterated lust and intoxicating pleasure - boring deep into your own, carrying a look that's enough to scorch your silver hair.

It's the fingers of your right hand, embedding themselves into the cap of his shoulder and denting his beautiful, scarred flesh. It's you tight around him, writhing under him, arching off the now ruined paperwork atop his desk and into his touch; meeting his gaze challengingly - full of arrogance, yes, but never defiance.

Because to Xanxus, you would give anything - everything - for as long as he chooses to take.

And there's the heat - rising and curdling and stifling around you till it's almost a physical thing - stealing into your bones and settling itself deep inside your gut, like the fire he stokes within you; caressing you from inside out, with every agile snap of his hips, with every thrust against your over sensitized prostate.

Xanxus smells of lemon and cedar, of dominance and will and rage.

It makes you clench tighter around him - extracting a growl from his sensuous lips - earning yourself a ferocious bite so high up on your neck, you know the collar of your uniform won't be able to hide it.

His hand tightens its grip around your throbbing length; his thumb massaging your underside in time to the blunt nail of his index finger running over the weeping head of your tumid erection. It sends millions of tiny teeth gnawing at your temples and the base of your cranium, threatening to splinter your spine.

Xanxus fucks you, and he's not at all kind about it.

He presses his snarl against your bloodied lips - wickedly talented tongue running over the roof of your mouth before it leaves to curl around the heated shell of your ear. "Fucking trash."

Another fierce snap of his hips, another drag of his finger against your slit, and you find yourself screaming - feel your world falling apart at the edges before swiftly righting itself again.

And then, Xanxus is spasming inside you - all low growls and hot breath - raw want swirling unconstrained in his blood red irises and nails scraping the flesh from your scalp.

You feel all of him - every pulse, every thrust, and the warm, sticky slickness that fills you so thoroughly - and feel yourself shatter over and over again.

And then he's pulling out and flinging you off his desk onto the cold, marble floor.

You lie there in a tangled heap of sweaty limbs and blood-crusted hair - so damn sated and laughing breathlessly - relishing the invigorating high and electrifying ecstasy ensconced within the depths of your reconstructed soul, glad as fuck that your life isn't some tacky, bathetic movie.

--

And in the end, this is how it really goes.

You're a guy.

A still loud, melodramatic, devoted as fuck kind of guy.

Thirty-three-years-old and you've finally found your place in this maddeningly complicated world.

So maybe it's taken you a fucking lifetime to get here. Maybe you've encountered more bumps and potholes and stray fucking animals along your road than the average person should.

But, hell, at least you've fucking arrived - you've fucking found it.

Most folks just keep going - forty, fifty, fucking seventy - and never find their destination, cos nobody knows what they fucking want, who the fuck they are these days.

This life, y'know, it's not fucking perfect.

But you're the undying pride of your parents.

And your friends - they're few in number, but they're genuine; and that's what really matters.

You're the second Sword Emperor and the Varia's Rain.

And the guy you ended up with... well, he doesn't buy you flowers on Valentine's Day or send you mushyfuck love notes and a giant fucking teddy bear like those guys do in the movies.

But there's things - stuff that maybe, in his own Xanxus way, could possibly be a form of romance.

Like the fact he remembers everything you say - pays attention to you when you have no idea he's actually watching - even the shit you don't remember saying, and the way he sees right through your bullshit.

Like those times he makes you fight him cos you could never really stop getting stronger, and that he thinks you're fucking beautiful with blood on your face.

Or your workload that's automatically delegated to others whenever you require time off to train with Yamamoto Takeshi, only to double or triple upon your return.

It's the blanket which mysteriously finds its way over your body every time you pass out atop the covers - or on the floor, or in the hallway, or wherever the fuck you are - from sheer exhaustion.

And those glasses of warm milk spiced with cinnamon and honey in place of the cigarettes you can't seem to stay away from when you're stressed out.

It's the proposal which isn't so much a request as it is an order, and the white gold band on the ring finger of your right hand - tradition be damned, you'd like to feel that piece of jewelry, thankyouverymuch - serving as irrefutable proof that this is real and holy fuck, you actually did it.

Or like the cross around your neck which he claims is for your protection, despite the fact that Xanxus isn't one to believe in the power of lucky charms.

Or the book you find at the bottom of his desk drawer, hidden beneath piles of documents and other shit - the one filled with multiple colored tabs and post-its and notes marking out the places you visited on your honeymoon.

There's a million different things, really.

Like his hand on the crown of your head whenever you're frustrated, his reassuring voice telling you, "I'm here."

The calloused pad of his thumb running against the corner of your mouth after he kisses you.

Those quiet moments of good music and good books - just the two of you in the den you refuse to share with anyone else.

It's his fingers lacing through your hair - tucking stray tendrils behind your ear before he bites down fucking hard on your neck - and the smiles he never lets anyone but you see.

Xanxus still never touches you in full view of anyone; but maybe it's better this way, cos it makes those treasured moments exclusively yours.

And here's the real damn deal, not the bullshit you've been fed for most of your life.

You're content.

Because you're here - flaws and fuckery and all - and you know, with unfaltering certainty, that you're exactly where you're supposed to be.

"You should never be ashamed of being yourself."

Hell, you think when another morning finds you waking to Xanxus's arm around your waist and his nose buried in your hair, maybe the movies aren't totally fucking bullshit, after all.

~ The End.~