Rodoku Mukuro was not a saint, nor did he claim to be. He did not hide his demonic nature behind an illusion of purity, fake smiles, or flattery. He did not see a need to hide.

Mukuro was vain; a true professional in aesthetics. Perhaps it came with be an illusionist of his caliber. His images were always to the utmost perfection, made to please the eye and deceive the mind. His image was no exception, nor was his true appearance. Italian leather boots always looked flawless, even when soaked in the blood of a broken enemy, he claimed when questioned about his somewhat outlandish attire. Not a hair on his head was ever out of place. His pride lies not only in his skill, but in his beauty.

His vanity was what had guided him into his current situation. Pinned beneath him, jerking around ruthlessly looking for escape, was Hibari Kyouya, dressed in an ebony silk yukata and arm stained crimson from a weeping slit across the length of his arm. The sight was beautiful, Mukuro acknowledged. One silken sleeve had slid down the older man's shoulder, milky skin untainted by blood revealed. Mukuro's leather-clad fingertips dipped into the pooling blood on Kyouya's forearm before he painted the straightest of lines across the unmarked skin.

He envied the curve of Kyouya's face shadowed by a head of dark hair, the way his perfectly shaped eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. He lusted after him, to have this embodiment of beauty nearly beautiful enough to compare with his own aesthetics as his own. Perhaps it was greedy of him, to want to keep this skylark all to himself, away from the eyes of others. His fingertips, still red with blood, traced the indifferent cloud's facial features, mindful of the pearly teeth waiting to snatch onto the touching hand and tear it to shreds.

A flicker of wrath moved in a set of heterochromatic eyes. Why did that useless boss of theirs have this man's attention? How dare Sawada Tsunayoshi steal his pretty bird away from him. He vowed vengeance, adding this offense to a long list of reasons why Sawada's body would one day become another of Mukuro's masquerades, his dolls that did his bidding. He did not deserve this man Mukuro was holding against the bamboo mats.

His display of gluttony was later that evening, when he took his fellow guardian over and over again, until both of them were spent and more than satisfied. Endorphins spiked a lovely high, Mukuro mused as he reached out to touch the cheek of his newly claimed, exhausted lover. He could get used to this, feasting on this man's body until neither of them could move. He doubt they would be able to in the morning, too, but even if they could, Mukuro wasn't planning on letting himself or Kyouya get anything productive done. Tomorrow would be one of the many days of laziness, a day devoted to sloth.

Kyouya was the first to comment about Mukuro's fiendish ways, despite his hair being matted down with sweat and his legs paralyzed from exhaustion. He called Mukuro a devil in the bluntest of terms before his eyes closed and his breathing steadied. The words were as sweet as chocolate to the illusionist's ears.

"Indulge with me, Kyouya, in the seven deadly sins, and I will keep you by my side for the rest of eternity." A silken voice laced with amusement muttered before his piercing eyes closed as well, slipping off to a world of dreamless sleep for the demon of the mafia world.