Katekyoushi Hitman Reborn © Amano Akira

Warnings: (highly improbable) mpreg, as in males reproducing with other males (while miraculously still keeping their masculine genitalia).


It was an unremarkable day for Sawada Tsunayoshi, feared throughout the world and on orbiting Russian space stations as Vongola Decimo. There were a handful of scattered explosions that, fortunately, decimated the backyard (Lambo), several bloodthirsty threats (Hibari), several bloody brawls (Hibari), fifteen walls ridden with bullets from a .45 Delta (Reborn), one charred training room (Gokudera), three broken six-inch thick, steel-hinged oak doors (Ryohei), and a smoky, malodorous kitchen (Gokudera and Bianchi, whom are never allowed in the kitchen at the same time as far as Tsuna is concerned – and he is very concerned). All in all, it was a very unremarkable and typical day.

So he resigned himself to his mountains of paperwork, ear buds lodged as far into his ear canal as they can go. Between stamping his approval on several reports and inking his disapproval on others (namely Mukuro's for his perverse and completely unrelated monologues and Hibari's because his reports were usually soaked in blood, thus illegible) Tsuna contemplates on purchasing a gas mask, preferably one with a highly efficient air filter. He is getting pretty sick of inhaling smoke. Also, the smell and burn of the charred air makes him cough until tears are practically leaking from his eyes, and when that happens Tsuna is usually on the receiving ends of many predatory leers – all of which he does not approve.

Just the thought of eyes piercing through him like X-ray vision makes Tsuna burst into goosebumps. He sighs, rubbing between his eyes. Maybe I should take a little break. Of course, just as he says this, he hears a loud crack and the sound of something shattering. Tsuna jumps then throws himself off his chair and runs towards the window, looking into the front yard and scanning for the source of the commotion. Easily his sharp eyes zoom in on a twinkle and he spots a metal baseball bat glistening in the afternoon sun. This is an omen, he thinks, a very very very bad sign.

His intuition, much to Tsuna's neverending frustration, is correct. He hears the clang of the bat, and a projectile zooms towards his face at an alarming speed. Tsuna barely had time to duck before the object crashes through the glass window, sailing past the shower of glass and embedding itself into the opposite wall. Tsuna lowers the protective shield of his arms, shaking off the shards of (bulletproof, he thinks, WTF) glass. He turns around and spots a baseball sitting in the middle of the expansive crater in the wall. He sighs – he really shouldn't be surprised. After all, he was the one that –in poor judgment – assigned Yamamoto to babysit. Note to self: Yamamoto plus kids equal bills and more ulcer medication.

"Ahahaha!" Familiar laughter rang out. Then, "You okay, Tsuna?"

A child's voice joins it, shouting, "Sorry Tou-chan! Are you alright?"

Both questions were said in light tones, as if almost getting hit with a baseball (one that can smash through bulletproof glass) was anything but traumatic and most likely fatal. Tsuna feels his left eye twitch and raises a hand to stop it – he really doesn't want to pay another visit to Shamal. Tsuna gets up from his crouch and very calmly exits his office, traipse down three flights of stairs, and strides through the front door to the yard. He doesn't get ten steps from the patio when a small blur collides into his legs and latches on fiercely. If he were a lesser man, or an inexperienced parent, he would've have toppled onto the grass like a tower of blocks. Instead, he knew to steel himself – physically and mentally.

He looks down.

Large amber eyes shine up to him, shining with (false) apologetic tears, and accompanied by small, guilty, pouting lips. Tsuna is not fooled at all. He stares down at his son with a coolness to his eyes that outmatches his Hyper Dying Will form. Knowing that he was caught, his son discards his mask and dons a genuine mischievous grin. It's the kind of grin that makes parents groan into their hand while reaching for something alcoholic with the other.

He amps up the disapproval, bringing out The Tone. "Erio…"

Father and son share a mental discussion. It goes something like this:

27: You did something wrong.

E: I know. :D

27: Don't you have something to say?

E: ... um… ah! I know! (makes a big show, speaks formally) Would you like to join us?

27: (twitch) Not… joking…

E: LOL. ;-P

27: (fights an already won battle) Aren't you the least bit ashamed?

E: ... (thinks it over seriously) Nope.

Tsuna sighs (again) into his hands, signaling the end of the conversation. Erio grins victoriously. Tsuna wonders, not for the first time – and definitely not the last – if raising his child as Mafia produced his son's lack of morals. He sets aside the thought; after all, since Erio is his son as well, he was bound to grow up somewhat deviant, if not morally lax. Where did my genes go?

The crunching of grass alerts the two to a visitor. They hear the signature laughter before Yamamoto appears from behind a nest of trees. The Rain Guardian is not alone. Using the metal bat resting on his broad shoulders as a makeshift monkey bar, two kids the size of 4-6 year olds dangle. Considering that Yamamoto is 6'3" tall, the fall would be rather painful. But the risk of falling is not the reason why Tsuna's eyes bug out from their sockets, his mouth practically unhinge, and his hand grips his heart as if he was suffering an imminent heart attack.

The twins, Kasumi Yamamoto and Kaito Gokudera, were each holding a stick of dynamite – a lit stick of dynamite. Each fuse had already snaked its way a fraction of a second away from the cap. Tsuna's intuition affirms the obvious: It's too late – you're fucked.

Tsuna wishes he just stayed holed up in his office with his paperwork and ulcer medication.