Reborn Drabbles (8059 challenge: Under the Bed)
Title: Oh right, that's what we were doing here
Author: anza
Fandom: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Pairing: 8059
Warnings: UH. NC-17, I reckon.
Notes: Written for the 8059 challenge prompt 23. UNDER THE BED. Haven't written Reborn stuff in 3 weeks, I feel all twitchy and had to write this at work. Ha.
23. 8059 challenge: UNDER THE BED
The instant the door is shut they're reaching out for each other's shirts. The way they deal with them is different - Gokudera's fingers are shaking as he undoes each one with a look of concentration usually reserved only in glares. Yamamoto just unbuttons the bottom three and pulls the rest over Gokudera's head without warning, causing a mouthful of shirt the Storm Guardian splutters on for a moment before he does the same.
Then they're reaching for each other, finding only skin and more skin, mouths and teeth clashing like weapons. Gokudera involuntarily bites down on Yamamoto's lip when the other slides a hand down his backside and slipping further down into his pants. The look on his face is adorably aroused and confused, with only the slightest haze of resentment; Yamamoto likes that, despite his throbbing lip. He likes that he's the only one in the world to see it.
"Idiot," the other mumbles against his mouth, hips clashing, and Yamamoto thinks that maybe in five years they'll both be adults and more patient, but for now they're hurtling so fast towards an inevitable climax, it's almost painful. That's because it's been a week - a week without Gokudera's fingers clawing into his back as he throws his head back, blissful and slow-motion to Yamamoto's eyes, open-mouthed, arched against him - since they've been able to make time for each other. Not wasting time - they have two hours, he wants it fast and then he wants it slow, because he doesn't want to give Gokudera a chance to say anything.
He brings his hand around to the front - Gokudera's breath hitches against his shoulder where lips are nibbling away, silver bangs slithering cool contrast to his tanned skin - tugs the other out and takes a peek at Gokudera's face. Green eyes half-mast as he strokes, slowly, then when he goes faster those hangs scrabble for purchase against him as knees threaten to give way. Sometimes he heeds that warning; today he doesn't, he leans in for a kiss and thrusts his tongue in Gokudera's mouth, rhythm steady as waves.
Gokudera succumbs to the sensation: legs crumple and tangle in the mess of pants around ankles. Yamamoto follows, all pulled-down scuffed elbows and banged toes, follows the other's scent immediately from collarbone to bellybutton, leering unrestrainedly. Gokudera cries out, heels scraping hot friction across the hardwood floor as Yamamoto takes him in hand, in mouth.
He dips down and swirls again, following the tremors of hips under his splayed hands and the little helpless sounds Gokudera makes. Half-whine and half-growl, Yamamoto has no way to translate what that says, only knows that the general meaning: Don't stop, fuck don't stop, never his name but right now, that's alright.
Pausing to bite gently into a white thigh, Gokudera first keens and then promptly hits his head against the bottom of the bed. Yamamoto surveys their impossible position - Gokudera is halfway under the bed, legs sticking out where he's kneeling between them - and hears a real curse this time. "The fuck?!," the other snarls, the lust making his voice pulse with some hoarse, unattended need, Yamamoto just wants to get on with it and drink it all in, in, in, "What the hell am I doing under the bed?"
"You scooted there yourself," he answers, placing cheek against knee. It's a dangerous position; at any time Gokudera could half-turn and send him crashing into the bookcase. But he knows unless he says something really inappropriate right now Gokudera won't chase him away for all the world, not like this. And he proves that statement by taking the other by the hips again, dragging tongue down to swirl lazily around and around, and - yes, that's the sound he needs to hear, muffled behind hasty hands - before hands reach up and run ticklishly down his sides. Gokudera squirms, overwhelmed, green eyes glowing like a cat's in the dark as he cautiously looks up, careful not to hit his head -
- he hits it again when Yamamoto takes him all in as he watches, red face focused on one thing and one thing only, and damn if he didn't think it was sexy that he was concentrating on him right now. The pressure builds until his hips writhe under swordsman's firm hands, until Gokudera can't help but reach down and cup the side of that face, tangle sweaty fingers in black hair. And then he's thinking of gold eyes rounded like an inside joke, tanned hands against his own peerless pale, and he's arching uncontrollably into the other, white noise building in a crescendo of blinding bliss. He doesn't know if he says anything, if he's even capable of saying anything in those moments, but somewhere in that deep-down heart he knows if he did, it'd be the other's name.
When he opens his eyes again the noise is subsiding and the space under the steel-striped bottom of Yamamoto's bed is cool and dark. Yamamoto crawls carefully over him, back pressed to the bottom of the frame. "Hey," he begins, and Gokudera just stares up at him as if he can't be distracted from his happy drug right now, "are you alright?"
That question manages to perk a muddled frown back to Gokudera's face. "Stupid question. From a stupid idiot." It comes out muttered and unclear; still something in Gokudera aches, yearns, softens when Yamamoto's face breaks out into a smile above him.
"Good, had me worried for a second."
Idiot. "Don't need it." Gokudera lifts a finger from the floor next to him. "What do you know, it's actually clean under here."
"Dad's too busy with the shop, so I'm the one who cleans every week."
Good to know, if I ever need a cleaning slave. "Of all the places you chose to have your birthday fuck, you choose under the bed. Weird, you are."
It never fails to make him wonder how so many people have fallen for that guileless smile and suspected nothing of the perverted machinations that go on under it. "I didn't choose it, you did," Yamamoto grins.
"You could have chosen someplace else - it's your day, I wouldn't've complained."
And that's when he knows something sappy and semi-serious is coming, because the carefree act lifts away and there's a real thoughtfulness that muses about the other's face: "Any place you choose is good enough for me, Gokudera," comes the answer. In post-coital haze, he doesn't recognize or register the desperation those words entail, nor does he understand what the weight of the ring hanging from Yamamoto's neck really means to him. All he knows is, when he's tango-ing tongues with the swordsman like this, he really wants to wrap his hands around his neck and never let him go.
Hmm, was Yamamoto too pushy, I wonder? Well, it's all sex so it doesn't really matter anyway, but still...
Author: anza
Fandom: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Pairing: 8059
Warnings: UH. NC-17, I reckon.
Notes: Written for the 8059 challenge prompt 23. UNDER THE BED. Haven't written Reborn stuff in 3 weeks, I feel all twitchy and had to write this at work. Ha.
23. 8059 challenge: UNDER THE BED
The instant the door is shut they're reaching out for each other's shirts. The way they deal with them is different - Gokudera's fingers are shaking as he undoes each one with a look of concentration usually reserved only in glares. Yamamoto just unbuttons the bottom three and pulls the rest over Gokudera's head without warning, causing a mouthful of shirt the Storm Guardian splutters on for a moment before he does the same.
Then they're reaching for each other, finding only skin and more skin, mouths and teeth clashing like weapons. Gokudera involuntarily bites down on Yamamoto's lip when the other slides a hand down his backside and slipping further down into his pants. The look on his face is adorably aroused and confused, with only the slightest haze of resentment; Yamamoto likes that, despite his throbbing lip. He likes that he's the only one in the world to see it.
"Idiot," the other mumbles against his mouth, hips clashing, and Yamamoto thinks that maybe in five years they'll both be adults and more patient, but for now they're hurtling so fast towards an inevitable climax, it's almost painful. That's because it's been a week - a week without Gokudera's fingers clawing into his back as he throws his head back, blissful and slow-motion to Yamamoto's eyes, open-mouthed, arched against him - since they've been able to make time for each other. Not wasting time - they have two hours, he wants it fast and then he wants it slow, because he doesn't want to give Gokudera a chance to say anything.
He brings his hand around to the front - Gokudera's breath hitches against his shoulder where lips are nibbling away, silver bangs slithering cool contrast to his tanned skin - tugs the other out and takes a peek at Gokudera's face. Green eyes half-mast as he strokes, slowly, then when he goes faster those hangs scrabble for purchase against him as knees threaten to give way. Sometimes he heeds that warning; today he doesn't, he leans in for a kiss and thrusts his tongue in Gokudera's mouth, rhythm steady as waves.
Gokudera succumbs to the sensation: legs crumple and tangle in the mess of pants around ankles. Yamamoto follows, all pulled-down scuffed elbows and banged toes, follows the other's scent immediately from collarbone to bellybutton, leering unrestrainedly. Gokudera cries out, heels scraping hot friction across the hardwood floor as Yamamoto takes him in hand, in mouth.
He dips down and swirls again, following the tremors of hips under his splayed hands and the little helpless sounds Gokudera makes. Half-whine and half-growl, Yamamoto has no way to translate what that says, only knows that the general meaning: Don't stop, fuck don't stop, never his name but right now, that's alright.
Pausing to bite gently into a white thigh, Gokudera first keens and then promptly hits his head against the bottom of the bed. Yamamoto surveys their impossible position - Gokudera is halfway under the bed, legs sticking out where he's kneeling between them - and hears a real curse this time. "The fuck?!," the other snarls, the lust making his voice pulse with some hoarse, unattended need, Yamamoto just wants to get on with it and drink it all in, in, in, "What the hell am I doing under the bed?"
"You scooted there yourself," he answers, placing cheek against knee. It's a dangerous position; at any time Gokudera could half-turn and send him crashing into the bookcase. But he knows unless he says something really inappropriate right now Gokudera won't chase him away for all the world, not like this. And he proves that statement by taking the other by the hips again, dragging tongue down to swirl lazily around and around, and - yes, that's the sound he needs to hear, muffled behind hasty hands - before hands reach up and run ticklishly down his sides. Gokudera squirms, overwhelmed, green eyes glowing like a cat's in the dark as he cautiously looks up, careful not to hit his head -
- he hits it again when Yamamoto takes him all in as he watches, red face focused on one thing and one thing only, and damn if he didn't think it was sexy that he was concentrating on him right now. The pressure builds until his hips writhe under swordsman's firm hands, until Gokudera can't help but reach down and cup the side of that face, tangle sweaty fingers in black hair. And then he's thinking of gold eyes rounded like an inside joke, tanned hands against his own peerless pale, and he's arching uncontrollably into the other, white noise building in a crescendo of blinding bliss. He doesn't know if he says anything, if he's even capable of saying anything in those moments, but somewhere in that deep-down heart he knows if he did, it'd be the other's name.
When he opens his eyes again the noise is subsiding and the space under the steel-striped bottom of Yamamoto's bed is cool and dark. Yamamoto crawls carefully over him, back pressed to the bottom of the frame. "Hey," he begins, and Gokudera just stares up at him as if he can't be distracted from his happy drug right now, "are you alright?"
That question manages to perk a muddled frown back to Gokudera's face. "Stupid question. From a stupid idiot." It comes out muttered and unclear; still something in Gokudera aches, yearns, softens when Yamamoto's face breaks out into a smile above him.
"Good, had me worried for a second."
Idiot. "Don't need it." Gokudera lifts a finger from the floor next to him. "What do you know, it's actually clean under here."
"Dad's too busy with the shop, so I'm the one who cleans every week."
Good to know, if I ever need a cleaning slave. "Of all the places you chose to have your birthday fuck, you choose under the bed. Weird, you are."
It never fails to make him wonder how so many people have fallen for that guileless smile and suspected nothing of the perverted machinations that go on under it. "I didn't choose it, you did," Yamamoto grins.
"You could have chosen someplace else - it's your day, I wouldn't've complained."
And that's when he knows something sappy and semi-serious is coming, because the carefree act lifts away and there's a real thoughtfulness that muses about the other's face: "Any place you choose is good enough for me, Gokudera," comes the answer. In post-coital haze, he doesn't recognize or register the desperation those words entail, nor does he understand what the weight of the ring hanging from Yamamoto's neck really means to him. All he knows is, when he's tango-ing tongues with the swordsman like this, he really wants to wrap his hands around his neck and never let him go.
Hmm, was Yamamoto too pushy, I wonder? Well, it's all sex so it doesn't really matter anyway, but still...