FIC: KHR! - Airwaves
Title: Airwaves
Fandom: Katekyo Hitman Reborn
Pairing: TYL80/TYL59
Genre: PWP
Rating: NC-17
Word count: ~ 3,590
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters mentioned herein. Mainly, because my flat is too small to keep them all locked up. No money made.
Beta: kentucka has, again, kindly accepted the mission to read over this. She shoots errors with a shotgun. Any escapees are mine and will be blown up on sight.
Summary: A late-night call from Yamamoto brings Gokudera's efforts to clean up their financial records to an abrupt end.
Warnings: possibly awkward phone sex, masturbation, tiny bits of angst
A/N: This has been sitting beta'd, cleaned and polished up on my HD for months now. First, I didn't want to post it, then I did and kind of chickened out at the last moment. Then I wanted to post it for Gokudera's birthday and didn't because I am made of fail. And I have irrational fears. That's why Gokudera is my imaginary brother in spirit. We can always set up a support group together.
Well, long story short, this was sort of a challenge to myself to see if I could pull off dirty talk. In case I succeeded, please enjoy :)
---
Airwaves
It's 3:50 AM and the numbers on the pages are blurring together, the sums don't add up and Gokudera is still awake and trying to manipulate data so that everything will seem spotless for the tax authorities. Going down in flames is at least honourable - but being brought down by a bunch of numbers? Not so much.
So, Gokudera moves accounts and figures, calculates, makes up bills for equipment they've never bought, writes memos to a dozen book keepers who have no idea that they're not the only ones the Vongola are doing business with and tries to remember when he has last slept. Or when he's been out to actually blow shit up. He'd like to do that. Even if it's just a pile of papers that ends up in smoke.
He's just about to redirect a couple of payments to an offshore account when the ringing of his cell phone makes the numbers in his head crumble.
"Hey," Yamamoto says, his voice a little obscured by the distance. It must be evening in Italy, where the Rain Guardian is supposed to pursue a bunch of miserable thieves who thought it a good idea to steal money from the Vongola. He's obviously not doing a lot of pursuing.
"Hey," Gokudera answers, pretending to still be looking at the spreadsheets before him.
"I knew you'd still be up."
Gokudera hears the baseball idiot laugh and at almost 4 AM in the morning he doesn't even care that it's not annoying the hell out of him.
"In case your little vacation in sunny Italy has melted your brain - we're having a federal tax review over here and I'm kinda busy making your piggy bank look a little less conspicuous," it comes out a bit harsher than he's intended but he knows Yamamoto will just shrug it off - like he does with so many things.
"Ey, I'm not the one who opened three accounts for myself," Yamamoto laughs, "that was your idea."
"Because somebody's gotta take care of your income, moron," Gokudera means for it to sound scathing but even to his own ears it sounds awfully affectionate. He's so used to insulting the Rain Guardian that it's sometimes closer to a pet name than a flout. He's not even sure he can think of any other terms of endearment for the idiot other than, well, idiot.
He can just picture Yamamoto scratching the back of his head and smiling as he answers, "What would I do without you, Hayato."
"Be poor," Gokudera heaves a quiet sigh and decides that it's no use to keep pushing more numbers. He's been going over their expenses, account details and whatnot for the last two days straight. He deserves five minutes of down-time.
Gokudera listens to the fellow guardian shuffle at the other end of the line. Perhaps he's lying down on the hotel bed, enjoying the soft Italian breeze coming in through the open window. It's raining in Namimori and when Gokudera steps up to look out of the window behind his desk he can barely see anything.
"Hey," Yamamoto suddenly breaks the short silence, "I miss you."
Gokudera leans his forehead against the cool glass and keeps himself from asking 'Why?'. He doesn't understand the baseball idiot, who is by now far less 'baseball' and even less 'idiot' than Gokudera likes to admit - but that doesn't change the fact that he has the uncanny ability to make Gokudera panic with just a few simple words.
"Pussy," he says instead of all the things he should be saying.
Yamamoto's laugh is overshadowed by the occasional static. The newscast said something about a storm over Russia; maybe that's why the connection is so bad.
"I know you don't like me saying it but I do."
"You're such a girl," he smiles, despite his biting remark. But Yamamoto is like an umbrella - things just roll off him and underneath it's warm and comfortable and maddeningly welcoming.
"Last time I checked that was you," something in Yamamoto's voice changes and Gokudera hates that he even notices. On the other hand, it's not hard to guess what the swordsman is hinting at. It's been a week and Gokudera's knees are still slightly bruised. They should have done it on the carpet, really.
"Fuck you," he says but it's just this random curse he likes to throw at people when he's out of relevant things to say.
"I'm in Italy," the idiot chuckles, "a bit difficult to accomplish."
"Suck it up."
"I said 'difficult'," Yamamoto's voice is smooth like red wine, "not impossible. What are you wearing?"
Gokudera blinks and tries to come up with an explanation why his nether regions are suddenly more awake than the rest of him. It has to have something to do with that damned bastard's voice. He's got a phone sex voice and at times like this, Gokudera is sure the impertinent little jerk knows it.
"Are you kidding me?" Gokudera loosens his tie a bit and forces himself to believe it has nothing to do with the thought of Yamamoto talking to him during an orgasm while thousands of kilometres away.
"Nope," the Rain Guardian sounds terribly cheery, "the red shirt?"
Gokudera grinds his teeth and thinks of all the tiny little figures on all those stark white pages he still hasn't beaten into submission yet, "Yeah."
"With the black silk tie?"
"What else would I be wearing with that sh-"
"Hayato, you're ruining the mood," Yamamoto reprimands and any other day (or night) this would end in an overblown discussion about Gokudera's superior fashion sense and the baseball idiot's suspiciously exact knowledge of Gokudera's wardrobe.
But it's not any other day, "Okay, okay. Yes, the black silk tie. And the black suit, before you ask."
"You're doing it again."
Gokudera clenches his jaw to keep from adding onto his pile of frustration.
"See?" the idiot must be smiling, "That's better."
Gokudera shifts away from the window and draws the curtains - just for good measure. Not that anybody is likely to watch but you never know who might be feeling suicidal tonight.
"What are you wearing then," Gokudera leans back against his desk, "now that we've gone through my attire it's only fair that you tell me about yours."
"Well," he can hear the crackling of cloth, "not much actually. Just a bathrobe."
Gokudera swallows. Yamamoto, fresh out of the shower, sprawled on a bed with nothing on his damp skin but a bathrobe is an image Gokudera's mind is only too willing to provide.
"Then I'm gonna have to hurry up, won't I?" Gokudera teases but it sounds more confident than he is.
"Oh, allow me," Yamamoto breathes and if that isn't one hell of a sexy voice Gokudera doesn't know what is, "undo your tie. Slowly."
He obeys without a word, letting the fine material slip through his fingers.
"Good. Now unbutton your shirt. No need to hurry. Nice and slow."
That is easier said than done with one hand still holding the cell phone. He briefly considers putting Yamamoto on speaker but that would mean cranking up the volume and potentially delivering an x-rated radio play to the rest of the house. Besides, Gokudera has learned long ago how to take off a shirt with just one hand - either because his other one is busy somewhere further South or injured. The latter being the less favourable option, of course.
"What's on your desk?" Yamamoto suddenly asks. The question is so oddly off-topic that Gokudera stops in his tracks, shirt already out of his pants and half undone.
"It's full of papers and books. Why the fuck is that important?"
"Because you're gonna need it," Gokudera's knees may be growing a little weak at the husky tone in Yamamoto's voice. He eyes all the crumpled pages, books and assorted stationery spread out over the desk.
Well, fuck it.
He pushes millions of Dollars, Yen and Euros onto the floor in one fell swoop.
"Did you just empty your entire cabinet onto the carpet or what was that?"
"I told you I had a lot of work to do," Gokudera says, irritated. That last button is really giving him some trouble.
"I'm sorry, I didn't know you had that much-"
"Stop apologising, idiot, and get on with it," Gokudera hisses as the shirt is finally out of the way. He doesn't discard it altogether because he forgets it's still there when he runs his hands over his chest, picturing Yamamoto's fingers instead of his own.
Yamamoto gives a low laugh, a sound equivalent to the dark coffee Gokudera likes so much because it keeps him awake late at night, "Then I want you to do something for me. Don't touch yourself. Not yet."
Gokudera stills just as his fingertips are about to dip below the waistband of his pants, "Come on. You can't be serious."
"I am," the swordsman announces, "and if I find out that you're cheating I'm gonna hang up. Clear?"
"Fine," he makes it sound like another 'Fuck you' but obediently removes his hand, unsure of what to do now that his ultimate goal seems out of reach, "then what, Mister Well-Rested-And-Not-At-All-Tired?"
He's lucky because Yamamoto chooses to ignore his sarcasm, "Lie back."
Gokudera slides onto the gleaming surface of his desk, the wood unusually cool against his heated skin. Just a few minutes ago it was full of cold, precise numbers, threats on black and white and now there's only sweet promises and Yamamoto's voice whispering to him from too far away.
"You know what I'd like to do now?" Yamamoto asks alluringly, "Run my hands along your sides, touch that spot just above of your hip that always makes you moan and tremble. You look so amazing like that."
And Gokudera knows what the swordsman is talking about. His free hand traces a path down his torso, like Yamamoto's would. It's not quite the same, the touch is too familiar and too expected but it'll do. His eyes fall shut and without effort his mind presents him with flashes of Yamamoto above him, just touching, teasing, testing how far he can go until Gokudera breaks out the Italian and demands to be fucked.
He shivers when the tips of his fingers brush against that favourite spot of Yamamoto's and he curses inwardly at the idea of the damned idiot knowing something as intimate as this. But Yamamoto has always been good at observing.
He's good at talking too. His voice is like a leitmotif, offering rhythm and direction to Gokudera's movements, even to his thoughts.
"Yamamoto...," Gokudera pants, his back arching off the polished wood. This is going way too slow for his taste but he isn't sure how to bring the point across. Normally, he would just grab a fistful of dark hair and hiss the order to take this to the next level into Yamamoto's ear, but without physical contact the words seem stuck in Gokudera's throat. It would also mean interrupting Yamamoto and that would be like ripping holes in the Golden Fleece.
The Rain Guardian gives a low laugh. It's a little strained, sounds a bit too forced to come from an entirely unaffected man but it's like fuel to the fire.
"How about we move this further along?" Yamamoto asks, clearly with a smile on his face. Gokudera can picture it perfectly - the bathrobe undone, spread out around him, legs parted, his hand between his thighs, stroking deliberately, almost casually...
Gokudera nods and remembers that they're not face-to-face, "Either that or you take the next flight home and do it yourself."
The sound of Yamamoto's full-on laughter tingles in Gokudera's ears. The silent tendrils of its warmth rush down his spine and settle in his groin.
"Then take off your pants," and Gokudera is eager to do so. He works the black fabric off his legs and hauls them somewhere to the side, possibly onto some figures that could break their metaphorical necks but he can worry about that later. He uses the chair as support as he spreads his legs and sneaks his free hand towards his erection.
"Wait for it," Yamamoto warns and Gokudera groans in exasperation. His hand slips off his thigh and he lies on his desk, spread-eagled, breathing hard and waiting for the fucking moron to finally allow him to get off - which is ridiculous because since when does Gokudera listen to anything the baseball nut says?
Since now. Because Yamamoto's voice dips even lower on the gamut and is now the audible equivalent of sex.
"Slick your fingers," he says and Gokudera is already preparing to huff how the hell he's supposed to do that when the sly bastard continues, "top left drawer, behind the cigarettes and the set of screwdrivers. You know I've always been meaning to ask you why you've got a bunch of screwdr-"
"Shut up," Gokudera snarls and stretches to reach into the indicated drawer. He finds a small bottle with a note attached to it that says 'For emergencies. T.'.
"How thoughtful of you," Gokudera snorts as he tries to open the flask without dropping the cell phone.
"Can't have you forgetting about me, can I?"
Gokudera almost scoffs at the idiot that this isn't even possible but stops himself before he can make a fool of himself. He would probably get stuck after the first word anyway.
He finally puts the phone away as he pours some of the liquid onto his hand. He can't identify the smell but it makes him crave Pina Coladas, for some reason.
"Whenever you're ready," Yamamoto teases from the other end of the line.
"You wanna try doing this with one hand? Be my guest," Gokudera snaps and curses under his breath when the bottle lands on the floor and leaves a puddle of thick liquid on the carpet. So much for having enough lubricant.
"I am doing this with one hand, Hayato," the Rain Guardian's voice is heavy with restrained desire.
"You're also lying on a comfortable bed while I'm making do with a goddamned table and a chair over here."
"Alrigh, alright. I appreciate your efforts."
"You'd better," Gokudera settles back and tries not to marvel when all the bickering has become part of their foreplay, "now what?"
Yamamoto seems to get his head back in the game because his voice is all porn paradise again, "I want you to fuck yourself with your fingers."
Gokudera moans at the words. He seldom hears Yamamoto talk like this and he thinks it's a pity because with a voice like that he could easily make a fortune working for a sex hotline. But he only does it for Gokudera and that alone is incentive enough to go through with this.
It's a little awkward with only one free hand but if he scoots forward it works just fine, and when he traces one finger over his opening he can't prevent a gasp from slipping past his lips. He remembers Yamamoto doing this, how he likes to make Gokudera beg for it and even though it's not nearly as good as with the swordsman it is sufficient to cause his breath to hitch.
He bites his lip as he pushes the finger in, just as slowly and goddamned tantalisingly as Yamamoto would when he's pissed at something Gokudera's done or said. They're complete opposites in that regard and sometimes it's a miracle they're able to meet somewhere in the middle and still get the best out of it.
He can't reach as far as Yamamoto could and it's pure torture because it's not fucking enough. Stifling a whimper that's one part satisfaction and one part agonising frustration he adds a second finger but it never measures up to what the Rain Guardian is capable of.
"Screw this," Gokudera decides, "I know you've been jerking off the whole time and I don't see why I shouldn't be doing the same. So there."
He uses his greased-up hand to reach around and twine his fingers around his achingly stiff cock.
"You hanging up now?" he asks, half-dreading to hear a sad little click end the conversation.
Yamamoto answers with a soft chuckle, "To tell you the truth, if my phone was broken I'd get to a pay phone to finish this call."
Gokudera grins when he dares to imagine the swordsman dashing to a public phone with a record-breaking hard-on barely hidden by a bathrobe, "Then talk to me, idiot."
"About what?" comes the mocking reply in a tone of voice that should normally cost money to hear, "About how I would like to fuck you on that desk right now? Or maybe about how I think it's amazing to be inside of you, to feel you around me and have you quiver under my touch when you come?"
Gokudera agrees that these are all perfectly fine topics to talk about. He moans in response and tightens his grasp, wishing he hadn’t abandoned his earlier ministrations because now that Yamamoto's said it he's desperately longing for something to fuck himself with - seeing as how there's no Rain Guardian handy.
"Or would you like to know about the way I want to pleasure you with my mouth? With my lips on your skin, my tongue on your cock."
Gokudera nods frantically and squirms. He's faintly aware that they're not having a video conference so Yamamoto won't see him but he's sure his lack of objection will be counted as encouragement.
"I would push you down on that desk and taste you, suck you off until you beg me to take you."
God is his witness, Gokudera would beg right now, on his knees if necessary just to have the swordsman fuck him. But he swallows all the words, makes do with Yamamoto's voice and his own hand around his dick mimicking motions that are nothing compared to what is playing in his mind. He can almost taste the Italian evening air, smell the heavy scent of sex in the hotel room; his skin prickles where he imagines the Rain Guardian touching him.
"Would you beg me, Hayato? Would you?"
Gokudera wants to be snarky, wants to tell the darned idiot that he would never beg for anything but that would be a plain lie - off the top of his head, five times a lie. And so he sticks to the truth because it's the only thing he can come up with either way.
"Yes," he breathes and in his imagination Yamamoto smiles. Gokudera would bet that he does.
"Then beg me," it's not a demand, not a question, not anything, really. It's a fucking fact. And as much as Gokudera wants to deny it the bloody bastard can make him do just about anything with the least of efforts. It's pathetic.
But he begs. It's futile and shameless but he does it anyway.
"Please, Takeshi," Gokudera thrusts into his hand as if that alone could ever replace the frigging dork. He's past the point of noting how hard the exquisite wood is underneath him or how completely soaked with sweat the expensive shirt is. It's cool every time it brushes against the small of his back.
"Please," he repeats, not knowing why or how often. What counts is the strange feeling of surrender that he would never ever allow anyone else to elicit from him.
He doesn't even need to hear Yamamoto's answer. He would be hard pressed to get any, as a matter of fact. The only noise audible at the other end of the line is heavy breathing and something that might be the rustling of a hotel bathrobe requiring the extensive attention of the laundry service.
In the end it's the perfect combination of fucking into his fist and the thought of Yamamoto getting off on his pleas that sends the electrifying sensation of orgasm rushing through Gokudera's body.
He lets the phone drop onto the table and just lies there for a minute, panting, sticky and sweaty and in dire need of a cigarette.
"Hayato?" Yamamoto's voice is back to normal - thank God because Gokudera isn't sure he's up for another round of what he's just had, "You still there?"
He picks the phone back up, eyes still closed, "You forgot to put tissues in my drawer, stupid."
The baseball nut laughs and Gokudera wants to kiss him; almost more than he wants a smoke.
"Hey," Yamamoto says, a lot more serious all of a sudden, "I mean it, you know?"
"Mean what?" Gokudera slowly scrambles into a sitting position and eventually wipes his cum-covered hand on his already ruined shirt.
"That I miss you."
Gokudera stares at the carpet. He knows what he should be saying but he remains silent, hoping that Yamamoto will get it either way. The fellow guardian knows so much about him, so he might as well know that too.
"Well, uhm," the swordsman tries to cover the blank space that Gokudera failed to fill, "I guess I'd better take another shower then... I should be done over here by the end of the week, so... uh, see you then. And don't push yourself too hard, you hear?"
Yamamoto's laugh and then only recurring beeps.
"Miss you too," Gokudera murmurs quietly and wonders why it's so much easier to say it to the emptiness of a dead line than an actual living being.
~~~ Fin ~~~
Fandom: Katekyo Hitman Reborn
Pairing: TYL80/TYL59
Genre: PWP
Rating: NC-17
Word count: ~ 3,590
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters mentioned herein. Mainly, because my flat is too small to keep them all locked up. No money made.
Beta: kentucka has, again, kindly accepted the mission to read over this. She shoots errors with a shotgun. Any escapees are mine and will be blown up on sight.
Summary: A late-night call from Yamamoto brings Gokudera's efforts to clean up their financial records to an abrupt end.
Warnings: possibly awkward phone sex, masturbation, tiny bits of angst
A/N: This has been sitting beta'd, cleaned and polished up on my HD for months now. First, I didn't want to post it, then I did and kind of chickened out at the last moment. Then I wanted to post it for Gokudera's birthday and didn't because I am made of fail. And I have irrational fears. That's why Gokudera is my imaginary brother in spirit. We can always set up a support group together.
Well, long story short, this was sort of a challenge to myself to see if I could pull off dirty talk. In case I succeeded, please enjoy :)
---
Airwaves
It's 3:50 AM and the numbers on the pages are blurring together, the sums don't add up and Gokudera is still awake and trying to manipulate data so that everything will seem spotless for the tax authorities. Going down in flames is at least honourable - but being brought down by a bunch of numbers? Not so much.
So, Gokudera moves accounts and figures, calculates, makes up bills for equipment they've never bought, writes memos to a dozen book keepers who have no idea that they're not the only ones the Vongola are doing business with and tries to remember when he has last slept. Or when he's been out to actually blow shit up. He'd like to do that. Even if it's just a pile of papers that ends up in smoke.
He's just about to redirect a couple of payments to an offshore account when the ringing of his cell phone makes the numbers in his head crumble.
"Hey," Yamamoto says, his voice a little obscured by the distance. It must be evening in Italy, where the Rain Guardian is supposed to pursue a bunch of miserable thieves who thought it a good idea to steal money from the Vongola. He's obviously not doing a lot of pursuing.
"Hey," Gokudera answers, pretending to still be looking at the spreadsheets before him.
"I knew you'd still be up."
Gokudera hears the baseball idiot laugh and at almost 4 AM in the morning he doesn't even care that it's not annoying the hell out of him.
"In case your little vacation in sunny Italy has melted your brain - we're having a federal tax review over here and I'm kinda busy making your piggy bank look a little less conspicuous," it comes out a bit harsher than he's intended but he knows Yamamoto will just shrug it off - like he does with so many things.
"Ey, I'm not the one who opened three accounts for myself," Yamamoto laughs, "that was your idea."
"Because somebody's gotta take care of your income, moron," Gokudera means for it to sound scathing but even to his own ears it sounds awfully affectionate. He's so used to insulting the Rain Guardian that it's sometimes closer to a pet name than a flout. He's not even sure he can think of any other terms of endearment for the idiot other than, well, idiot.
He can just picture Yamamoto scratching the back of his head and smiling as he answers, "What would I do without you, Hayato."
"Be poor," Gokudera heaves a quiet sigh and decides that it's no use to keep pushing more numbers. He's been going over their expenses, account details and whatnot for the last two days straight. He deserves five minutes of down-time.
Gokudera listens to the fellow guardian shuffle at the other end of the line. Perhaps he's lying down on the hotel bed, enjoying the soft Italian breeze coming in through the open window. It's raining in Namimori and when Gokudera steps up to look out of the window behind his desk he can barely see anything.
"Hey," Yamamoto suddenly breaks the short silence, "I miss you."
Gokudera leans his forehead against the cool glass and keeps himself from asking 'Why?'. He doesn't understand the baseball idiot, who is by now far less 'baseball' and even less 'idiot' than Gokudera likes to admit - but that doesn't change the fact that he has the uncanny ability to make Gokudera panic with just a few simple words.
"Pussy," he says instead of all the things he should be saying.
Yamamoto's laugh is overshadowed by the occasional static. The newscast said something about a storm over Russia; maybe that's why the connection is so bad.
"I know you don't like me saying it but I do."
"You're such a girl," he smiles, despite his biting remark. But Yamamoto is like an umbrella - things just roll off him and underneath it's warm and comfortable and maddeningly welcoming.
"Last time I checked that was you," something in Yamamoto's voice changes and Gokudera hates that he even notices. On the other hand, it's not hard to guess what the swordsman is hinting at. It's been a week and Gokudera's knees are still slightly bruised. They should have done it on the carpet, really.
"Fuck you," he says but it's just this random curse he likes to throw at people when he's out of relevant things to say.
"I'm in Italy," the idiot chuckles, "a bit difficult to accomplish."
"Suck it up."
"I said 'difficult'," Yamamoto's voice is smooth like red wine, "not impossible. What are you wearing?"
Gokudera blinks and tries to come up with an explanation why his nether regions are suddenly more awake than the rest of him. It has to have something to do with that damned bastard's voice. He's got a phone sex voice and at times like this, Gokudera is sure the impertinent little jerk knows it.
"Are you kidding me?" Gokudera loosens his tie a bit and forces himself to believe it has nothing to do with the thought of Yamamoto talking to him during an orgasm while thousands of kilometres away.
"Nope," the Rain Guardian sounds terribly cheery, "the red shirt?"
Gokudera grinds his teeth and thinks of all the tiny little figures on all those stark white pages he still hasn't beaten into submission yet, "Yeah."
"With the black silk tie?"
"What else would I be wearing with that sh-"
"Hayato, you're ruining the mood," Yamamoto reprimands and any other day (or night) this would end in an overblown discussion about Gokudera's superior fashion sense and the baseball idiot's suspiciously exact knowledge of Gokudera's wardrobe.
But it's not any other day, "Okay, okay. Yes, the black silk tie. And the black suit, before you ask."
"You're doing it again."
Gokudera clenches his jaw to keep from adding onto his pile of frustration.
"See?" the idiot must be smiling, "That's better."
Gokudera shifts away from the window and draws the curtains - just for good measure. Not that anybody is likely to watch but you never know who might be feeling suicidal tonight.
"What are you wearing then," Gokudera leans back against his desk, "now that we've gone through my attire it's only fair that you tell me about yours."
"Well," he can hear the crackling of cloth, "not much actually. Just a bathrobe."
Gokudera swallows. Yamamoto, fresh out of the shower, sprawled on a bed with nothing on his damp skin but a bathrobe is an image Gokudera's mind is only too willing to provide.
"Then I'm gonna have to hurry up, won't I?" Gokudera teases but it sounds more confident than he is.
"Oh, allow me," Yamamoto breathes and if that isn't one hell of a sexy voice Gokudera doesn't know what is, "undo your tie. Slowly."
He obeys without a word, letting the fine material slip through his fingers.
"Good. Now unbutton your shirt. No need to hurry. Nice and slow."
That is easier said than done with one hand still holding the cell phone. He briefly considers putting Yamamoto on speaker but that would mean cranking up the volume and potentially delivering an x-rated radio play to the rest of the house. Besides, Gokudera has learned long ago how to take off a shirt with just one hand - either because his other one is busy somewhere further South or injured. The latter being the less favourable option, of course.
"What's on your desk?" Yamamoto suddenly asks. The question is so oddly off-topic that Gokudera stops in his tracks, shirt already out of his pants and half undone.
"It's full of papers and books. Why the fuck is that important?"
"Because you're gonna need it," Gokudera's knees may be growing a little weak at the husky tone in Yamamoto's voice. He eyes all the crumpled pages, books and assorted stationery spread out over the desk.
Well, fuck it.
He pushes millions of Dollars, Yen and Euros onto the floor in one fell swoop.
"Did you just empty your entire cabinet onto the carpet or what was that?"
"I told you I had a lot of work to do," Gokudera says, irritated. That last button is really giving him some trouble.
"I'm sorry, I didn't know you had that much-"
"Stop apologising, idiot, and get on with it," Gokudera hisses as the shirt is finally out of the way. He doesn't discard it altogether because he forgets it's still there when he runs his hands over his chest, picturing Yamamoto's fingers instead of his own.
Yamamoto gives a low laugh, a sound equivalent to the dark coffee Gokudera likes so much because it keeps him awake late at night, "Then I want you to do something for me. Don't touch yourself. Not yet."
Gokudera stills just as his fingertips are about to dip below the waistband of his pants, "Come on. You can't be serious."
"I am," the swordsman announces, "and if I find out that you're cheating I'm gonna hang up. Clear?"
"Fine," he makes it sound like another 'Fuck you' but obediently removes his hand, unsure of what to do now that his ultimate goal seems out of reach, "then what, Mister Well-Rested-And-Not-At-All-Tired?"
He's lucky because Yamamoto chooses to ignore his sarcasm, "Lie back."
Gokudera slides onto the gleaming surface of his desk, the wood unusually cool against his heated skin. Just a few minutes ago it was full of cold, precise numbers, threats on black and white and now there's only sweet promises and Yamamoto's voice whispering to him from too far away.
"You know what I'd like to do now?" Yamamoto asks alluringly, "Run my hands along your sides, touch that spot just above of your hip that always makes you moan and tremble. You look so amazing like that."
And Gokudera knows what the swordsman is talking about. His free hand traces a path down his torso, like Yamamoto's would. It's not quite the same, the touch is too familiar and too expected but it'll do. His eyes fall shut and without effort his mind presents him with flashes of Yamamoto above him, just touching, teasing, testing how far he can go until Gokudera breaks out the Italian and demands to be fucked.
He shivers when the tips of his fingers brush against that favourite spot of Yamamoto's and he curses inwardly at the idea of the damned idiot knowing something as intimate as this. But Yamamoto has always been good at observing.
He's good at talking too. His voice is like a leitmotif, offering rhythm and direction to Gokudera's movements, even to his thoughts.
"Yamamoto...," Gokudera pants, his back arching off the polished wood. This is going way too slow for his taste but he isn't sure how to bring the point across. Normally, he would just grab a fistful of dark hair and hiss the order to take this to the next level into Yamamoto's ear, but without physical contact the words seem stuck in Gokudera's throat. It would also mean interrupting Yamamoto and that would be like ripping holes in the Golden Fleece.
The Rain Guardian gives a low laugh. It's a little strained, sounds a bit too forced to come from an entirely unaffected man but it's like fuel to the fire.
"How about we move this further along?" Yamamoto asks, clearly with a smile on his face. Gokudera can picture it perfectly - the bathrobe undone, spread out around him, legs parted, his hand between his thighs, stroking deliberately, almost casually...
Gokudera nods and remembers that they're not face-to-face, "Either that or you take the next flight home and do it yourself."
The sound of Yamamoto's full-on laughter tingles in Gokudera's ears. The silent tendrils of its warmth rush down his spine and settle in his groin.
"Then take off your pants," and Gokudera is eager to do so. He works the black fabric off his legs and hauls them somewhere to the side, possibly onto some figures that could break their metaphorical necks but he can worry about that later. He uses the chair as support as he spreads his legs and sneaks his free hand towards his erection.
"Wait for it," Yamamoto warns and Gokudera groans in exasperation. His hand slips off his thigh and he lies on his desk, spread-eagled, breathing hard and waiting for the fucking moron to finally allow him to get off - which is ridiculous because since when does Gokudera listen to anything the baseball nut says?
Since now. Because Yamamoto's voice dips even lower on the gamut and is now the audible equivalent of sex.
"Slick your fingers," he says and Gokudera is already preparing to huff how the hell he's supposed to do that when the sly bastard continues, "top left drawer, behind the cigarettes and the set of screwdrivers. You know I've always been meaning to ask you why you've got a bunch of screwdr-"
"Shut up," Gokudera snarls and stretches to reach into the indicated drawer. He finds a small bottle with a note attached to it that says 'For emergencies. T.'.
"How thoughtful of you," Gokudera snorts as he tries to open the flask without dropping the cell phone.
"Can't have you forgetting about me, can I?"
Gokudera almost scoffs at the idiot that this isn't even possible but stops himself before he can make a fool of himself. He would probably get stuck after the first word anyway.
He finally puts the phone away as he pours some of the liquid onto his hand. He can't identify the smell but it makes him crave Pina Coladas, for some reason.
"Whenever you're ready," Yamamoto teases from the other end of the line.
"You wanna try doing this with one hand? Be my guest," Gokudera snaps and curses under his breath when the bottle lands on the floor and leaves a puddle of thick liquid on the carpet. So much for having enough lubricant.
"I am doing this with one hand, Hayato," the Rain Guardian's voice is heavy with restrained desire.
"You're also lying on a comfortable bed while I'm making do with a goddamned table and a chair over here."
"Alrigh, alright. I appreciate your efforts."
"You'd better," Gokudera settles back and tries not to marvel when all the bickering has become part of their foreplay, "now what?"
Yamamoto seems to get his head back in the game because his voice is all porn paradise again, "I want you to fuck yourself with your fingers."
Gokudera moans at the words. He seldom hears Yamamoto talk like this and he thinks it's a pity because with a voice like that he could easily make a fortune working for a sex hotline. But he only does it for Gokudera and that alone is incentive enough to go through with this.
It's a little awkward with only one free hand but if he scoots forward it works just fine, and when he traces one finger over his opening he can't prevent a gasp from slipping past his lips. He remembers Yamamoto doing this, how he likes to make Gokudera beg for it and even though it's not nearly as good as with the swordsman it is sufficient to cause his breath to hitch.
He bites his lip as he pushes the finger in, just as slowly and goddamned tantalisingly as Yamamoto would when he's pissed at something Gokudera's done or said. They're complete opposites in that regard and sometimes it's a miracle they're able to meet somewhere in the middle and still get the best out of it.
He can't reach as far as Yamamoto could and it's pure torture because it's not fucking enough. Stifling a whimper that's one part satisfaction and one part agonising frustration he adds a second finger but it never measures up to what the Rain Guardian is capable of.
"Screw this," Gokudera decides, "I know you've been jerking off the whole time and I don't see why I shouldn't be doing the same. So there."
He uses his greased-up hand to reach around and twine his fingers around his achingly stiff cock.
"You hanging up now?" he asks, half-dreading to hear a sad little click end the conversation.
Yamamoto answers with a soft chuckle, "To tell you the truth, if my phone was broken I'd get to a pay phone to finish this call."
Gokudera grins when he dares to imagine the swordsman dashing to a public phone with a record-breaking hard-on barely hidden by a bathrobe, "Then talk to me, idiot."
"About what?" comes the mocking reply in a tone of voice that should normally cost money to hear, "About how I would like to fuck you on that desk right now? Or maybe about how I think it's amazing to be inside of you, to feel you around me and have you quiver under my touch when you come?"
Gokudera agrees that these are all perfectly fine topics to talk about. He moans in response and tightens his grasp, wishing he hadn’t abandoned his earlier ministrations because now that Yamamoto's said it he's desperately longing for something to fuck himself with - seeing as how there's no Rain Guardian handy.
"Or would you like to know about the way I want to pleasure you with my mouth? With my lips on your skin, my tongue on your cock."
Gokudera nods frantically and squirms. He's faintly aware that they're not having a video conference so Yamamoto won't see him but he's sure his lack of objection will be counted as encouragement.
"I would push you down on that desk and taste you, suck you off until you beg me to take you."
God is his witness, Gokudera would beg right now, on his knees if necessary just to have the swordsman fuck him. But he swallows all the words, makes do with Yamamoto's voice and his own hand around his dick mimicking motions that are nothing compared to what is playing in his mind. He can almost taste the Italian evening air, smell the heavy scent of sex in the hotel room; his skin prickles where he imagines the Rain Guardian touching him.
"Would you beg me, Hayato? Would you?"
Gokudera wants to be snarky, wants to tell the darned idiot that he would never beg for anything but that would be a plain lie - off the top of his head, five times a lie. And so he sticks to the truth because it's the only thing he can come up with either way.
"Yes," he breathes and in his imagination Yamamoto smiles. Gokudera would bet that he does.
"Then beg me," it's not a demand, not a question, not anything, really. It's a fucking fact. And as much as Gokudera wants to deny it the bloody bastard can make him do just about anything with the least of efforts. It's pathetic.
But he begs. It's futile and shameless but he does it anyway.
"Please, Takeshi," Gokudera thrusts into his hand as if that alone could ever replace the frigging dork. He's past the point of noting how hard the exquisite wood is underneath him or how completely soaked with sweat the expensive shirt is. It's cool every time it brushes against the small of his back.
"Please," he repeats, not knowing why or how often. What counts is the strange feeling of surrender that he would never ever allow anyone else to elicit from him.
He doesn't even need to hear Yamamoto's answer. He would be hard pressed to get any, as a matter of fact. The only noise audible at the other end of the line is heavy breathing and something that might be the rustling of a hotel bathrobe requiring the extensive attention of the laundry service.
In the end it's the perfect combination of fucking into his fist and the thought of Yamamoto getting off on his pleas that sends the electrifying sensation of orgasm rushing through Gokudera's body.
He lets the phone drop onto the table and just lies there for a minute, panting, sticky and sweaty and in dire need of a cigarette.
"Hayato?" Yamamoto's voice is back to normal - thank God because Gokudera isn't sure he's up for another round of what he's just had, "You still there?"
He picks the phone back up, eyes still closed, "You forgot to put tissues in my drawer, stupid."
The baseball nut laughs and Gokudera wants to kiss him; almost more than he wants a smoke.
"Hey," Yamamoto says, a lot more serious all of a sudden, "I mean it, you know?"
"Mean what?" Gokudera slowly scrambles into a sitting position and eventually wipes his cum-covered hand on his already ruined shirt.
"That I miss you."
Gokudera stares at the carpet. He knows what he should be saying but he remains silent, hoping that Yamamoto will get it either way. The fellow guardian knows so much about him, so he might as well know that too.
"Well, uhm," the swordsman tries to cover the blank space that Gokudera failed to fill, "I guess I'd better take another shower then... I should be done over here by the end of the week, so... uh, see you then. And don't push yourself too hard, you hear?"
Yamamoto's laugh and then only recurring beeps.
"Miss you too," Gokudera murmurs quietly and wonders why it's so much easier to say it to the emptiness of a dead line than an actual living being.
~~~ Fin ~~~