After the last of the Arcobaleno fell, things began falling into place rapidly. Or began falling to pieces, to be more precise, which was much more to Mukuro’s taste. Many of the smaller Families were nothing but smoking ruins, and even the fact that the larger Families were reaching past ancient vendettas to ally against them couldn’t shake his good humor.

It was all only a matter of time, now.

Regrets? he purred to Xanxus, when Xanxus had dismissed his lieutenant and retired to his private rooms to rinse the blood from his hands.

Xanxus bared his teeth at the mirror; he seemed to like having another face to address, even though Mukuro had told him it wasn’t necessary. “Fuck, no. I always hated that fucking midget.”

Hate wasn’t precisely the right word for it, of course—Mukuro had tasted Xanxus’ longing for Reborn’s attention, and his resentment when Reborn had overlooked him. But Xanxus found it easier to couch such sentiments in hate. Mm, I suppose, he said, lightly enough, and stretched himself out, reaching for control of Xanxus, wanting a deeper taste.

Xanxus snarled and fought back against his grip, resisting the pressure of Mukuro’s will, the way he did every time. Mukuro laughed and closed his grip more tightly, and tasted the relief and desire as he overcame Xanxus’ resistance. Such a complicated spirit Xanxus had, with as many layers and contradictions as a fine wine. Held, now, Xanxus shuddered beneath his will. Such fineness in you, Mukuro murmured to him, tasting him, and pulled him closer.

Xanxus flexed beneath him, a shudder that tasted of denial; even now, he resisted such compliments strenuously.

Look, Mukuro told him, directing Xanxus’ gaze to the mirror that hung over the basin. Look, Xanxus. See. And Xanxus saw, because Mukuro would not let him look away, not as he moved Xanxus’ fingers to unbutton his shirt and let it fall, and then to his slacks, undoing them and sliding them down, until Xanxus was bare in the reflection.

Beneath his grip, Xanxus’ will was tinged with rage and embarrassment, and Mukuro huffed, tightening his grip until Xanxus, reminded, went pliant. Look at the strength of you, he murmured, sliding Xanxus’ hands over his chest and stomach, stroking over the solid muscles there. Xanxus’ will trembled under his. See the things that drew me to you in the first place.

Xanxus flexed under him, beginning to rouse, yearning and resisting all at once. Delicious, complicated Xanxus. Mukuro purred and lifted Xanxus’ fingers to his mouth, sucking on them. Xanxus writhed under his grasp, watching his reflection, tasting the traces of blood and gunpowder still on his fingers. So strong, Mukuro told him, savoring the way Xanxus flexed under him. So beautiful. So foolish of them, not to value you. He braced Xanxus against the wall, and stroked his hand down; Xanxus strained against him when he realized how Mukuro was directing his fingers.

Mukuro tightened his grasp on Xanxus, pinning him, and slid Xanxus’ fingers into him. Xanxus’ body arched and shuddered at the stretch, and Xanxus himself would have cried out at the foreign heat of it. I see you, he told Xanxus, fucking him on his own fingers, slow and deliberate. I see all of you, Xanxus. And you are brilliance itself. And you are mine.

Xanxus would have cried out again, at that, had Mukuro permitted it. Instead he went limp against Mukuro’s grip, staring at himself as his body shuddered and pleasure clamped down on him, complicated and layered.

There, my own, Mukuro whispered to him, stroking him slowly as Xanxus panted, quiescent under his touch. You see? he asked, gathering him closer, and purred as a ripple of acquiescence ran through Xanxus.

So delightfully intricate, his Xanxus. He couldn’t have found a better tool if he’d tried.

– end –