khr | cuisine
Katekyo Hitman Reborn | Yamamoto/Gokudera | 1000 words | beta'd by kokanshu and raihu.
Worst time ever to be messing about online, but if I read one more historical source about the Zionist movement someone will die. Instead, senseless porn! One day I'll write something which will surpass the 2000 word count and feature things which aren't exclusively, you know, phallicisms. Honest.
Thanks to kokanshu and raihu for not shooting me in the head over the metaphors, and doing a spectacular job improving them. Check tags for warnings (although I must note, the food in this story is entirely metaphorical).
Cuisine
Their aperitivo is light, easy going down, more to arouse the appetite than whet it. Gokudera's hands settle on his hips, rings clicking like castanets, and Yamamoto's smile curves up as they wander lower, hooking on his belt loops. It's a small course, but savoury, and Gokudera's jacket hitting the floor is like the clink of glasses after the wine bottle is uncorked. The first taste is always the most intoxicating.
Antipasto, in this case, is the rest of the outfit following in short order, along with Yamamoto's suit and tie, which seem too heavy for the appetizer. Gokudera unhooks his explosives at a slower pace, dismantling belts and drawing out dynamite with audible clicks and clacks. Yamamoto, more easily divested, is already out of his pants and fully naked by the time Gokudera neutralizes his artillery.
They make their way to the bed, Gokudera still tugging off the odd sock, strangely bereft without the opportunity for demolition following his every step.
Yamamoto climbs up first, letting himself be pinned down, rubbing a hand against the front of Gokudera's pants, which are always entirely too tight and too much of a bother to be taken off beforehand. He loves this imbalance, even makes a point of undressing quickly, so by the time Gokudera's unarmed he's already tugging him towards the bed, half-dressed but naked in all the ways that count.
That is his primo-Gokudera's trousers bunched around his thighs in tight black folds, just enough to hamper any impromptu kicks as Yamamoto slips a hand down, quick and sure as a thief. They press together instinctively, and when Gokudera begins panting, letting out small, breathy moans against his neck, Yamamoto allows himself to sink down in person.
The path from Gokudera's mouth to his thighs is an art form in and of itself. His smell is intoxicating, complex and mixed with touches of spice. Yamamoto's mouth is always hot, perpetually smiling, but when Gokudera grabs his head and thrusts he segues neatly into solemnity, throat working in time with Gokudera's hips, dead serious.
It's an uneven composition, messily arrayed, but Gokudera's eyes are focused only on Yamamoto's short-cut hair, too busy enjoying the work of his mouth to take note of aesthetics.
They never finish completely because Gokudera is impatient to continue, rubbing his leg against Yamamoto's erection until he hears a choked-off groan, muffled against the dip of his skin. Then Yamamoto's clambering upwards again, chin wet and lips shiny with saliva, with a look in his eyes Gokudera has learned to call secondo. Second glass of wine, and a new pair of knives. Their kisses are more like brawls; pointy elbows and bitten lips and angry red marks which never heal.
Even sprawled across the mattress, legs tangled and thrusting uselessly into thin air, Gokudera pushes Yamamoto around with unrepentant bossiness: do this, go there, faster, harder, yes, like that. Yamamoto acts purely by response, feeding off Gokudera's actions-the insistent bite on his fingers and demanding gasp released into the pillow, a familiar strain of aggravation inlaid in every sound. It's the trademark tone he adopts around Yamamoto-do this my way, don't even think of disobeying-and Yamamoto really doesn't, even if Gokudera is notoriously picky, in this as in all things.
They're going head-to-head, Gokudera squirming and thrashing like a fish, but Yamamoto hangs on and pins him down, moving out and in, deep, and Gokudera makes this sound like someone eating a really fantastic tiramisu and gives a boneless shudder into the sheets. Suddenly he loosens up and they're moving together, synchronized breathing and panting and deep throat-scraping groans when Yamamoto's fingers brush against Gokudera's pubic hair and Gokudera grinds back against him like a millstone.
It's fantastic and dizzying and right, rocking against each other, slick to the touch. Yamamoto wants to take a moment to point out the value of teamwork and how they operate really well together, but his mouth is full of Gokudera's hair and he hasn't the presence of mind to close it properly.
The next course comes up unexpectedly, but the formaggio is more like a stepping-stone than anything concrete; it's just the first one of them to shudder full-body, this time being Gokudera. "Yamamoto, ah-" he goes, and then again, louder "ah-ahhh-!" and presses his face down, hips thrusting into the mattress. He always speeds up at this point, and Yamamoto is thrown out of sync again, but by now it doesn't matter anymore and Gokudera lets out a low, trailing nnghh as he comes, teeth gritted, staining the sheets.
Just before he melts completely there's this moment when he tenses up, every muscle in his body furling like a steel wire, and that moment of tension is enough to do away with Yamamoto. He tries to anchor himself, clinging to Gokudera's skinny hips and burying his face in the crook of his shoulder. All breath hitches eternally in that moment, held trapped in his throat as he shudders, breathless and flushed-then it's over and he slumps forward, boneless, exhaling in a great gust.
Dolce.
There is a moment of stillness, wherein eyes crack open and heartbeats regain their normal pace. Gokudera's hands, digging furrows in the pillow, slowly ease their hold. Yamamoto is always careful not to leave marks on Gokudera's torso, and always fails. He compensates by clambering up and fetching Gokudera his cigarettes, although he probably would've done so anyway, given the situation.
Gokudera lights one with a grunt, inhaling deeply. This is his caffè: a post-meal addendum to recollect his dignity and drag his composure out from under the bed. Yamamoto doesn't have any such thing. Privately, Gokudera reasons that this is because he has no dignity. He never tells Yamamoto as much; the bastard would only laugh.
The last course is the digestive, the one to wash things down. Gokudera blows a cloud of smoke into Yamamoto's face, zips up his ruined pants, and dons again his dynamite. Then he leaves, scarf covering the hickey at the base of his neck, and Yamamoto is left with a bracelet of Gokudera's ring-shaped bruises on his wrists and a curiously unsated feeling that he knows has nothing to do with the cuisine.
Bon apetito.
All characters © their respective owners; I claim no right nor profit.
Worst time ever to be messing about online, but if I read one more historical source about the Zionist movement someone will die. Instead, senseless porn! One day I'll write something which will surpass the 2000 word count and feature things which aren't exclusively, you know, phallicisms. Honest.
Thanks to kokanshu and raihu for not shooting me in the head over the metaphors, and doing a spectacular job improving them. Check tags for warnings (although I must note, the food in this story is entirely metaphorical).
Cuisine
Their aperitivo is light, easy going down, more to arouse the appetite than whet it. Gokudera's hands settle on his hips, rings clicking like castanets, and Yamamoto's smile curves up as they wander lower, hooking on his belt loops. It's a small course, but savoury, and Gokudera's jacket hitting the floor is like the clink of glasses after the wine bottle is uncorked. The first taste is always the most intoxicating.
Antipasto, in this case, is the rest of the outfit following in short order, along with Yamamoto's suit and tie, which seem too heavy for the appetizer. Gokudera unhooks his explosives at a slower pace, dismantling belts and drawing out dynamite with audible clicks and clacks. Yamamoto, more easily divested, is already out of his pants and fully naked by the time Gokudera neutralizes his artillery.
They make their way to the bed, Gokudera still tugging off the odd sock, strangely bereft without the opportunity for demolition following his every step.
Yamamoto climbs up first, letting himself be pinned down, rubbing a hand against the front of Gokudera's pants, which are always entirely too tight and too much of a bother to be taken off beforehand. He loves this imbalance, even makes a point of undressing quickly, so by the time Gokudera's unarmed he's already tugging him towards the bed, half-dressed but naked in all the ways that count.
That is his primo-Gokudera's trousers bunched around his thighs in tight black folds, just enough to hamper any impromptu kicks as Yamamoto slips a hand down, quick and sure as a thief. They press together instinctively, and when Gokudera begins panting, letting out small, breathy moans against his neck, Yamamoto allows himself to sink down in person.
The path from Gokudera's mouth to his thighs is an art form in and of itself. His smell is intoxicating, complex and mixed with touches of spice. Yamamoto's mouth is always hot, perpetually smiling, but when Gokudera grabs his head and thrusts he segues neatly into solemnity, throat working in time with Gokudera's hips, dead serious.
It's an uneven composition, messily arrayed, but Gokudera's eyes are focused only on Yamamoto's short-cut hair, too busy enjoying the work of his mouth to take note of aesthetics.
They never finish completely because Gokudera is impatient to continue, rubbing his leg against Yamamoto's erection until he hears a choked-off groan, muffled against the dip of his skin. Then Yamamoto's clambering upwards again, chin wet and lips shiny with saliva, with a look in his eyes Gokudera has learned to call secondo. Second glass of wine, and a new pair of knives. Their kisses are more like brawls; pointy elbows and bitten lips and angry red marks which never heal.
Even sprawled across the mattress, legs tangled and thrusting uselessly into thin air, Gokudera pushes Yamamoto around with unrepentant bossiness: do this, go there, faster, harder, yes, like that. Yamamoto acts purely by response, feeding off Gokudera's actions-the insistent bite on his fingers and demanding gasp released into the pillow, a familiar strain of aggravation inlaid in every sound. It's the trademark tone he adopts around Yamamoto-do this my way, don't even think of disobeying-and Yamamoto really doesn't, even if Gokudera is notoriously picky, in this as in all things.
They're going head-to-head, Gokudera squirming and thrashing like a fish, but Yamamoto hangs on and pins him down, moving out and in, deep, and Gokudera makes this sound like someone eating a really fantastic tiramisu and gives a boneless shudder into the sheets. Suddenly he loosens up and they're moving together, synchronized breathing and panting and deep throat-scraping groans when Yamamoto's fingers brush against Gokudera's pubic hair and Gokudera grinds back against him like a millstone.
It's fantastic and dizzying and right, rocking against each other, slick to the touch. Yamamoto wants to take a moment to point out the value of teamwork and how they operate really well together, but his mouth is full of Gokudera's hair and he hasn't the presence of mind to close it properly.
The next course comes up unexpectedly, but the formaggio is more like a stepping-stone than anything concrete; it's just the first one of them to shudder full-body, this time being Gokudera. "Yamamoto, ah-" he goes, and then again, louder "ah-ahhh-!" and presses his face down, hips thrusting into the mattress. He always speeds up at this point, and Yamamoto is thrown out of sync again, but by now it doesn't matter anymore and Gokudera lets out a low, trailing nnghh as he comes, teeth gritted, staining the sheets.
Just before he melts completely there's this moment when he tenses up, every muscle in his body furling like a steel wire, and that moment of tension is enough to do away with Yamamoto. He tries to anchor himself, clinging to Gokudera's skinny hips and burying his face in the crook of his shoulder. All breath hitches eternally in that moment, held trapped in his throat as he shudders, breathless and flushed-then it's over and he slumps forward, boneless, exhaling in a great gust.
Dolce.
There is a moment of stillness, wherein eyes crack open and heartbeats regain their normal pace. Gokudera's hands, digging furrows in the pillow, slowly ease their hold. Yamamoto is always careful not to leave marks on Gokudera's torso, and always fails. He compensates by clambering up and fetching Gokudera his cigarettes, although he probably would've done so anyway, given the situation.
Gokudera lights one with a grunt, inhaling deeply. This is his caffè: a post-meal addendum to recollect his dignity and drag his composure out from under the bed. Yamamoto doesn't have any such thing. Privately, Gokudera reasons that this is because he has no dignity. He never tells Yamamoto as much; the bastard would only laugh.
The last course is the digestive, the one to wash things down. Gokudera blows a cloud of smoke into Yamamoto's face, zips up his ruined pants, and dons again his dynamite. Then he leaves, scarf covering the hickey at the base of his neck, and Yamamoto is left with a bracelet of Gokudera's ring-shaped bruises on his wrists and a curiously unsated feeling that he knows has nothing to do with the cuisine.
Bon apetito.
All characters © their respective owners; I claim no right nor profit.