Reborn Drabbles (8059 challenge: Footsie and Wall)
Title: Footsie-fork, OW for the wall and OOH for the AC
Author: me, anza
Fandom: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Pairing: 8059
Rating: First one is sorta-gen. Second is NC-17. Warnings for uke!Yama.
Notes: written for the 8059 challenge, themes #102 (under the table at a family dinner; handjob/footsie) and #7 (the wall). Without further ado...I present these two sucky fics. I've been really busy lately, so they're rather uninspired, I thought. Yay for finishing this at 1 in the morning.
102. Under the table at a family dinner; handjob/footsie
To put it bluntly, Gokudera was very aware that he had a very different concept of personal space than most of the others. He could understand why he preferred to keep a good thirty centimeters between him and whoever he was speaking to: the Japanese idea of personal space was something sharply imagined and theoretical. Especially on the train, when he'd been squashed against the 10th and the stupid baseball nut and a seemingly endless stream of black-suited salarymen, he'd called upon his Asian half-bloodedness to give him the strength to imagine him in his own space even when pressed cheek-to-window and ready to puke.
This Japanese concept of imaginary privacy did not, however, explain for why there was a socked toe crawling up his ankle right now. Across the table Yamamoto continued to (politely) shovel pasta e fasoi down his throat as if it were his last meal; Gokudera took a second to reflect why they had chosen to sit across rather than next to each other. As much as he denied it the temptation was always just as great for the Storm Guardian as it was for his lover (just Yamamoto tended to throw subtlety to the winds and worry about the consequences later) to reach out and just take whenever the right mood and opportunity presented itself.
It wasn't that they weren't getting enough in private. Oh sure, there could be more, what with the constant paperwork and Gokudera throwing up his hands at all the rival families who had "no idea of the 10th's greatness!", Yamamoto getting shipped off every other day as Tsuna continued to lend him like the ultimate assassination trump card (highly sought and oft played). But that wasn't why they'd taken the extra mile and sat away from each other - that was just them being childish when they could be (and being around the rest of the family did tend to do that, bring up old memories of snowfights and fireworks) and possibly baring the daringly exhibitionist side of their relationship to the rest of the not-so-surprised private-public. Hibari knew all about it; Gokudera couldn't count on two pairs of hands AND feet how many times the guy had opened various school closet doors to find them shut inside, moans muffled and hands slippery as they blinked at the sudden light and Hibari's deadpan face.
Fun times. Bruises and all.
Either way, Gokudera didn't think the muttered "corncob-in-my-pants" excuse was going to work again. The 10th had done a nice impression of pursed-lips, stone-cold disapproval when the excuse tumbled out of his mouth the first time, though he admitted in private later that he did think it was pretty funny.
This, though, while expected was not welcome. Trying discreetly to back away - but then again they called Yamamoto "longshanks" for a reason, his legs really were long enough to reach across the table and prop themselves in Gokudera's lap - while trying not to draw any attention to him, he shot a glare at the other. Yamamoto met his eye, amusement apparent, before turning to his life mission of stealing the rest tortelli di zucca before anyone else could. The foot - shoeless, he imagined it was lying innocently under Yamamoto's chair, until Yamamoto and him both had to run to the bathroom at the same time again - socked in close-knit silk-and-rayon and slightly damp from the warmth of the room and wine, trailed up his loafers to meet his ankle. There it swirled around the round mound of bone there before crawling around the back of his leg. There it rubbed, first two toes squirming as the front of the other's foot pressed itself fully against his lower leg. Then it caught the edge of his pantleg between two toes and began to drag it up - Gokudera tsked into his soup, brow furrowed as if he'd just thought of something he'd forgotten to do, at least that was hopefully what everyone else was thinking - just high enough so that with one swift movement, it could yank Gokudera's own sock down to his ankle.
And then he could feel it against his lower leg, one barrier of cloth gone, and Yamamoto's skin was that much closer. It was whiter under the socks than the rest of him, Gokudera had seen and he could imagine it in his mind with horrific detail. The other was smiling through the fifth course of the meal - he began to pray fervently that the 10th kept this one shorter than the twenty-or-so full-course banquets he sometimes planned for extended family (in other words, the Tomaso and Chiavarone families) -
He felt his face flush with the heat of the soup as the toes twitched up the inside of his slacks, all the way up to his knee. Then it circled around to the back of his knee - warm and slightly ticklish - now close enough to touch with his hand. All he had to do was reach out and capture -
- ah. The 10th was giving him a vaguely disapproving look. It would take a couple more of those before Gokudera would have to come up with some sort of nice, polite reason to excuse himself early from the table. He tried to concentrate on pretending he'd forgotten something in the office that he needed to do, glaring into his soup as if it could make the other stop, but of course Yamamoto never stopped until he got what he wanted.
Why did the other always do this to him?, he thought over his penne all'arrabbiata. Now the front of the foot was smoothing down the other side of his leg - Gokudera tried to wrench it, kick it away - but all he did instead was knock Lal Mirch's knee from where she was sitting next to him. She too gave him a motherly disapproving frown, though vague with disinterest (probably in favor of the only dish Haru cooked better than real Italians - bruschetta). At least, Gokudera hoped it was disinterest and not disgust for the "brats playing around". It could also be that her and Colonello's meeting-anniversary (since they never did get married) was coming up, the girls always went with her to take care of his still-fragile apple tree in the back garden they'd planted in memory of him.
Footsie-play forgotten, he reflected maybe it was time he took Ryohei's annual offer to go with him. As far as he could remember all he and Colonello had in common was smoking. Then again, a pack of cigarettes would be a nice diversion in Heaven.
Mood ruined, he kicked out again, catching the back of Yamamoto's lower thigh. The other looked up mildly, then looked at him more worriedly when Gokudera shuffled all the way to the back of his chair, food forgotten. The foot moved up and down the length of his thigh soothingly this time, comforting as much as distance would allow, before returning to his knee. Gokudera could even see it where he was, scooted as far back into the seat as possible, the foot in its black sock-sheath that so tempted him to take off the sock and rendezvous with the rest of his lover under the table with everyone watching. Instead, he found himself looking back and forth from the 10th sitting at the head of the table to the stupid foot in his lap, hidden only by his arms leaning on the table.
There was no way to cure idiocy, Gokudera had found. There was only temporary avoidance.
He took his fork in hand, spied a mushroom on his plate, and brought the utensil down on the foot instead. Everyone jumped when the table gave a thunk! as Yamamoto's foot instantly disappeared back to his own side, probably nursing a bruised knee and a tomato sauce-pricked foot.
Lal Mirch was looking at him strangely and yet knowingly. "Missed," he shrugged and returned to his meal.
So, one problem solved: he wouldn't need to give an early excuse because Yamamoto was driving him horny-mad up the wall (and the 10th looked relieved too). The problem was now, his lover had deserted him a little too late and there was now a slight problem (read: party) in his pants. Scooting forward again, he looked into the pasta and thought about warmth rushing down in that moment when Yamamoto moaned into the pillow and all the world went white -
- "Are you alright?," Ryohei broke into his thoughts from his right. "Your face is all red."
"Fine," he croaked, and bent over his food as he hoped the dinner would outlast him.
7. The wall
"What the hell were you thinking!," he raged as he shoved the other against another wall with a thunk!. There was one moment of cool AC air from the vent above them - before the next second they were biting and grinding hard against each other, feverishly and impossibly hot under the collar. Hands seized clothes for buttons and belts as both of them fought to control themselves long enough to get into the door - Gokudera fumbled with Yamamoto's keys, the little smiley-face keychain on the end was mocking him, he swore - and cursed when the key wouldn't jingle into the lock.
Yamamoto reached past him and twisted it to the side. The lock gave with a screech of dismay when Yamamoto released it broken past repair, then yanked the now-useless key out of the lock. "It's standard, right?," he muttered roughly, finding Gokudera's lips hard enough to bruise. "Shouldn't cost much."
"The problem is that you did it at all," Gokudera returned snappishly when they broke for air. With the door shut and the world outside now demoted to status of supremely insignificant, the two of them dragged tucked shirts out of slacks and made short work of all shoes and socks. Then they clashed again like waves, hands clenching flesh, moans rising up together as they alternately gasped for air before burrowing back into the scent of each other again. Places and names faded into the distance; there was only the recognition that it was the other, that they were together now, and no matter how they got here, this was a play rolling towards an inevitable end.
"The problem is that you're setting a bad example for the - ahh - newcomers." His fingers were shaking so hard they couldn't get the rest of Yamamoto's buttons open. The swordsman finished untying the silk knots at their throats (hands shaking somewhat less), tossing them somewhere in the vicinity of the desk chair (heroically missing their mark in favor of the coffee table). With a frustrated jerk Gokudera finally just tore the rest open - buttons pinged against the cabinet that housed Yamamoto's old photos and priceless baseball card collection - before latching gratefully on one nipple. He felt Yamamoto rise like the ocean up to meet him, hips straining against his, legs wildly entangled, and it occurred to him that this was really the best feeling in the world.
The other was usually so effortlessly strong. It was only in moments like this - private, gasping his name, looking helplessly at him for salvation, for forgiveness in whatever moral trespasses he'd accumulated - that the mask and veils could be discarded for younger, truer feelings. Having this kind of blessing was, in many ways, awesome; it never failed to elicit a spark of possessiveness in him. He never wanted anyone else to see this side but him.
"So?," Yamamoto breathed as he shucked off the remains of his shirt, "Didn't peg you to care about the new recruits. Took me a damn long time to get you to care, if you re..." And there he trailed off, just looking at him.
"Don't care about them. Just thought you did, wanting to train them personally and all," Gokudera dropped to his knees, fumbling with button and buckle, finally tearing away the fine pants. Yamamoto stepped out of them quickly, hands ready to bring Gokudera up - but the Storm Guardian remained there, wrapping a hand around the damp mound in his underwear. The swordsman quickly backed into the wall again, arching instinctively against the touch, hands struggling for purchase against the white expanse behind him. Gokudera took the hem of Yamamoto's boxer-briefs in his teeth and pulled down, eyes never leaving the other's face, flushed pink with desire, whole body trembling with the contrasting effects of the cool room and the passion that roared like a full brazier from within. The two Guardians breathed for a moment, letting the moment sink in: the chill of the wall behind, the faint rumble of the AC in the corner, sweat evaporating on trembling limbs. The bomber leaned his cheek briefly against the other's thigh and came away slightly sticky. He sighed impatiently then, and in response Yamamoto leaned down and pulled him up so they were face-to-face.
The Storm Guardian was confused. "You don't want me to...?," he ran long-fingered hands down Yamamoto's sides, looking to bring their bodies together again. The other didn't waver, though, when he caught one hand and put the little container of lube squarely in his palm.
He gave a double-take at that. But Yamamoto, while breathing a little easier now but was no less red, didn't look away from him. He really DOES mean it, Gokudera thought with something like relief and anticipation. He really trusts me to take care of him.
That thought alone made him move a little gentler (though no less slower), massaging his way in, scissoring them carefully. He watched the other carefully as he strained against his hand, pushing back down on his fingers hesitantly, then gradually more eagerly. They kissed. Even after all these years Yamamoto still said he tasted like the addictive aftertaste of cigarettes; he'd always thought Yamamoto tasted like cool mint toothpaste left for too long in the sun. Something warm but also oldly spiced. He didn't know how to describe it, just like he could never figure out how the hell the bastard got so far under his skin.
Finally Yamamoto was ready - panting hard, painting white pre-lines of hunger across Gokudera's stomach - and they shifted into position. There was always a moment right before that Gokudera wondered if he was really going to do it - Yamamoto always took without asking, apologizing only later, thankfully he'd never crossed too many of his danger lines - before he positioned himself and pushed in. In idle teenage fancy he'd always imagined sex to be something messy but somehow sweet; he knew the proportions now, it was definitely more passion than sweetness. And it was love that made it really messy.
But for moments like now, he wouldn't ever take it back. Ever.
Because when Yamamoto was sheathed around him, feet dangling to each side and his face closed as he couldn't believe it any more than Gokudera could, there couldn't possibly be any better feeling than this. He remembered doing it and denying what he felt in the past - how much it had hurt for him, how much more it had hurt the other - but now it was different. Now he didn't hold back when Yamamoto leaned forward to close the distance between their faces, tongue lapping at the roof of his mouth, hands clenched tight around his neck. Gokudera moved forward, grinding into the swordsman, teeth gritted - and the other responded with a low moan that rang with the dull sound of the bomber's knees bumping against the wall as they built up a rhythm together.
Yamamoto threw back his head; Gokudera kissed his neck, sucked on his collarbone. The hands around his neck grew heavy, but neither of them let go, though they were moving faster now. The swordsman murmured his name into his hair, a stream of something that fluctuated between languages, tumbling unstoppably from red-kissed lips. He muttered in return into Yamamoto's clavicle, curses turned sweetly foreign, except Yamamoto could understand them now.
He could feel it gathering behind his eyelids, roiling like storm clouds, the huge mix of emotional baggage and embarrassing experiences and grudging endearment that composed the body of his thoughts on Yamamoto. He felt like this sometimes outside of sex, when Yamamoto was far away or even on the other side of the room, speaking to someone with that soft look he reserved for family on his face. It was that heart-wrenching softness Gokudera had sworn he'd never subscribe to, but in the end had chased him down and bitten him in the ass, somewhat literally. Really, it wasn't as much 'bit' as 'denied until Gokudera admitted he did feel something', but that was -
- he wasn't thinking about it anymore, because Yamamoto had started that squeezing thing that told Gokudera he was going to come soon. He thrust into that tightness, feeling hot tears prickle behind his eyelids, wishing they would go away when he felt Yamamoto so defenseless under his hands, giving him all he had selflessly and lovingly. He buried his face into the other's neck, clutching tight when the other raised his voice to the ceiling, to the heavens, clearly calling his name.
And then the sparks crashed around him and he was answering that call, voice muffled into the other's skin, gasping the obvious from such close quarters. He couldn't deny it, could he, that Yamamoto was more than nothing to him. The thought had always made me fearful, but now it made the goosebumps raise on his arms, because he really was addicted with no cure out. It was dangerous, this feeling - in his unguarded moments it made him think sometimes that he might even put him before the family.
He trusted Yamamoto to keep him in order when - if - that ever happened.
They collapsed hard onto the floor, together, legs finally unable to hold them up. Slowly they untangled: arms first, then legs, lips last. The only point of outside warmth Gokudera could feel was from the tips of his fingers; Yamamoto's own crossed over there, barely touching his. He sucked in a deep breath, eyes scanning the room for his pants that had his cigarettes, when the swordsman clasped their hands firmly together. Something hot and jittery trickled up his arm; Gokudera could feel the heat rising from his face.
"You shouldn't have broken that doorknob," he muttered finally.
"It was mine. And I'll pay for damage expenses."
"You'd better. Ah, forget it, it'll just come out of housing expenses. Squalo claimed an insane amount on the last Varia mansion bill; said he cleaned house."
"I won't destroy that much. Heard it was an entire wing that collapsed between him and Lussuria over 'comparing sizes'."
"You'd better not. I might actually have to dock your pay if that happens." And then: "Your foot smelled at the dinner table."
Yamamoto just laughed.
Gokudera would never dock Yamamoto's pay. That's because after all these years, Yamamoto generally knows what kinds of things Gokudera likes, and gets them often. He's so whipped.
[EDIT: WTF is up with these titles? This is what I get for writing this at 2 in the morning. And after reading over them for the fifth time and still catching dumb mistakes, I still think these are the sucky. Dammit.]
Author: me, anza
Fandom: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Pairing: 8059
Rating: First one is sorta-gen. Second is NC-17. Warnings for uke!Yama.
Notes: written for the 8059 challenge, themes #102 (under the table at a family dinner; handjob/footsie) and #7 (the wall). Without further ado...I present these two sucky fics. I've been really busy lately, so they're rather uninspired, I thought. Yay for finishing this at 1 in the morning.
102. Under the table at a family dinner; handjob/footsie
To put it bluntly, Gokudera was very aware that he had a very different concept of personal space than most of the others. He could understand why he preferred to keep a good thirty centimeters between him and whoever he was speaking to: the Japanese idea of personal space was something sharply imagined and theoretical. Especially on the train, when he'd been squashed against the 10th and the stupid baseball nut and a seemingly endless stream of black-suited salarymen, he'd called upon his Asian half-bloodedness to give him the strength to imagine him in his own space even when pressed cheek-to-window and ready to puke.
This Japanese concept of imaginary privacy did not, however, explain for why there was a socked toe crawling up his ankle right now. Across the table Yamamoto continued to (politely) shovel pasta e fasoi down his throat as if it were his last meal; Gokudera took a second to reflect why they had chosen to sit across rather than next to each other. As much as he denied it the temptation was always just as great for the Storm Guardian as it was for his lover (just Yamamoto tended to throw subtlety to the winds and worry about the consequences later) to reach out and just take whenever the right mood and opportunity presented itself.
It wasn't that they weren't getting enough in private. Oh sure, there could be more, what with the constant paperwork and Gokudera throwing up his hands at all the rival families who had "no idea of the 10th's greatness!", Yamamoto getting shipped off every other day as Tsuna continued to lend him like the ultimate assassination trump card (highly sought and oft played). But that wasn't why they'd taken the extra mile and sat away from each other - that was just them being childish when they could be (and being around the rest of the family did tend to do that, bring up old memories of snowfights and fireworks) and possibly baring the daringly exhibitionist side of their relationship to the rest of the not-so-surprised private-public. Hibari knew all about it; Gokudera couldn't count on two pairs of hands AND feet how many times the guy had opened various school closet doors to find them shut inside, moans muffled and hands slippery as they blinked at the sudden light and Hibari's deadpan face.
Fun times. Bruises and all.
Either way, Gokudera didn't think the muttered "corncob-in-my-pants" excuse was going to work again. The 10th had done a nice impression of pursed-lips, stone-cold disapproval when the excuse tumbled out of his mouth the first time, though he admitted in private later that he did think it was pretty funny.
This, though, while expected was not welcome. Trying discreetly to back away - but then again they called Yamamoto "longshanks" for a reason, his legs really were long enough to reach across the table and prop themselves in Gokudera's lap - while trying not to draw any attention to him, he shot a glare at the other. Yamamoto met his eye, amusement apparent, before turning to his life mission of stealing the rest tortelli di zucca before anyone else could. The foot - shoeless, he imagined it was lying innocently under Yamamoto's chair, until Yamamoto and him both had to run to the bathroom at the same time again - socked in close-knit silk-and-rayon and slightly damp from the warmth of the room and wine, trailed up his loafers to meet his ankle. There it swirled around the round mound of bone there before crawling around the back of his leg. There it rubbed, first two toes squirming as the front of the other's foot pressed itself fully against his lower leg. Then it caught the edge of his pantleg between two toes and began to drag it up - Gokudera tsked into his soup, brow furrowed as if he'd just thought of something he'd forgotten to do, at least that was hopefully what everyone else was thinking - just high enough so that with one swift movement, it could yank Gokudera's own sock down to his ankle.
And then he could feel it against his lower leg, one barrier of cloth gone, and Yamamoto's skin was that much closer. It was whiter under the socks than the rest of him, Gokudera had seen and he could imagine it in his mind with horrific detail. The other was smiling through the fifth course of the meal - he began to pray fervently that the 10th kept this one shorter than the twenty-or-so full-course banquets he sometimes planned for extended family (in other words, the Tomaso and Chiavarone families) -
He felt his face flush with the heat of the soup as the toes twitched up the inside of his slacks, all the way up to his knee. Then it circled around to the back of his knee - warm and slightly ticklish - now close enough to touch with his hand. All he had to do was reach out and capture -
- ah. The 10th was giving him a vaguely disapproving look. It would take a couple more of those before Gokudera would have to come up with some sort of nice, polite reason to excuse himself early from the table. He tried to concentrate on pretending he'd forgotten something in the office that he needed to do, glaring into his soup as if it could make the other stop, but of course Yamamoto never stopped until he got what he wanted.
Why did the other always do this to him?, he thought over his penne all'arrabbiata. Now the front of the foot was smoothing down the other side of his leg - Gokudera tried to wrench it, kick it away - but all he did instead was knock Lal Mirch's knee from where she was sitting next to him. She too gave him a motherly disapproving frown, though vague with disinterest (probably in favor of the only dish Haru cooked better than real Italians - bruschetta). At least, Gokudera hoped it was disinterest and not disgust for the "brats playing around". It could also be that her and Colonello's meeting-anniversary (since they never did get married) was coming up, the girls always went with her to take care of his still-fragile apple tree in the back garden they'd planted in memory of him.
Footsie-play forgotten, he reflected maybe it was time he took Ryohei's annual offer to go with him. As far as he could remember all he and Colonello had in common was smoking. Then again, a pack of cigarettes would be a nice diversion in Heaven.
Mood ruined, he kicked out again, catching the back of Yamamoto's lower thigh. The other looked up mildly, then looked at him more worriedly when Gokudera shuffled all the way to the back of his chair, food forgotten. The foot moved up and down the length of his thigh soothingly this time, comforting as much as distance would allow, before returning to his knee. Gokudera could even see it where he was, scooted as far back into the seat as possible, the foot in its black sock-sheath that so tempted him to take off the sock and rendezvous with the rest of his lover under the table with everyone watching. Instead, he found himself looking back and forth from the 10th sitting at the head of the table to the stupid foot in his lap, hidden only by his arms leaning on the table.
There was no way to cure idiocy, Gokudera had found. There was only temporary avoidance.
He took his fork in hand, spied a mushroom on his plate, and brought the utensil down on the foot instead. Everyone jumped when the table gave a thunk! as Yamamoto's foot instantly disappeared back to his own side, probably nursing a bruised knee and a tomato sauce-pricked foot.
Lal Mirch was looking at him strangely and yet knowingly. "Missed," he shrugged and returned to his meal.
So, one problem solved: he wouldn't need to give an early excuse because Yamamoto was driving him horny-mad up the wall (and the 10th looked relieved too). The problem was now, his lover had deserted him a little too late and there was now a slight problem (read: party) in his pants. Scooting forward again, he looked into the pasta and thought about warmth rushing down in that moment when Yamamoto moaned into the pillow and all the world went white -
- "Are you alright?," Ryohei broke into his thoughts from his right. "Your face is all red."
"Fine," he croaked, and bent over his food as he hoped the dinner would outlast him.
7. The wall
"What the hell were you thinking!," he raged as he shoved the other against another wall with a thunk!. There was one moment of cool AC air from the vent above them - before the next second they were biting and grinding hard against each other, feverishly and impossibly hot under the collar. Hands seized clothes for buttons and belts as both of them fought to control themselves long enough to get into the door - Gokudera fumbled with Yamamoto's keys, the little smiley-face keychain on the end was mocking him, he swore - and cursed when the key wouldn't jingle into the lock.
Yamamoto reached past him and twisted it to the side. The lock gave with a screech of dismay when Yamamoto released it broken past repair, then yanked the now-useless key out of the lock. "It's standard, right?," he muttered roughly, finding Gokudera's lips hard enough to bruise. "Shouldn't cost much."
"The problem is that you did it at all," Gokudera returned snappishly when they broke for air. With the door shut and the world outside now demoted to status of supremely insignificant, the two of them dragged tucked shirts out of slacks and made short work of all shoes and socks. Then they clashed again like waves, hands clenching flesh, moans rising up together as they alternately gasped for air before burrowing back into the scent of each other again. Places and names faded into the distance; there was only the recognition that it was the other, that they were together now, and no matter how they got here, this was a play rolling towards an inevitable end.
"The problem is that you're setting a bad example for the - ahh - newcomers." His fingers were shaking so hard they couldn't get the rest of Yamamoto's buttons open. The swordsman finished untying the silk knots at their throats (hands shaking somewhat less), tossing them somewhere in the vicinity of the desk chair (heroically missing their mark in favor of the coffee table). With a frustrated jerk Gokudera finally just tore the rest open - buttons pinged against the cabinet that housed Yamamoto's old photos and priceless baseball card collection - before latching gratefully on one nipple. He felt Yamamoto rise like the ocean up to meet him, hips straining against his, legs wildly entangled, and it occurred to him that this was really the best feeling in the world.
The other was usually so effortlessly strong. It was only in moments like this - private, gasping his name, looking helplessly at him for salvation, for forgiveness in whatever moral trespasses he'd accumulated - that the mask and veils could be discarded for younger, truer feelings. Having this kind of blessing was, in many ways, awesome; it never failed to elicit a spark of possessiveness in him. He never wanted anyone else to see this side but him.
"So?," Yamamoto breathed as he shucked off the remains of his shirt, "Didn't peg you to care about the new recruits. Took me a damn long time to get you to care, if you re..." And there he trailed off, just looking at him.
"Don't care about them. Just thought you did, wanting to train them personally and all," Gokudera dropped to his knees, fumbling with button and buckle, finally tearing away the fine pants. Yamamoto stepped out of them quickly, hands ready to bring Gokudera up - but the Storm Guardian remained there, wrapping a hand around the damp mound in his underwear. The swordsman quickly backed into the wall again, arching instinctively against the touch, hands struggling for purchase against the white expanse behind him. Gokudera took the hem of Yamamoto's boxer-briefs in his teeth and pulled down, eyes never leaving the other's face, flushed pink with desire, whole body trembling with the contrasting effects of the cool room and the passion that roared like a full brazier from within. The two Guardians breathed for a moment, letting the moment sink in: the chill of the wall behind, the faint rumble of the AC in the corner, sweat evaporating on trembling limbs. The bomber leaned his cheek briefly against the other's thigh and came away slightly sticky. He sighed impatiently then, and in response Yamamoto leaned down and pulled him up so they were face-to-face.
The Storm Guardian was confused. "You don't want me to...?," he ran long-fingered hands down Yamamoto's sides, looking to bring their bodies together again. The other didn't waver, though, when he caught one hand and put the little container of lube squarely in his palm.
He gave a double-take at that. But Yamamoto, while breathing a little easier now but was no less red, didn't look away from him. He really DOES mean it, Gokudera thought with something like relief and anticipation. He really trusts me to take care of him.
That thought alone made him move a little gentler (though no less slower), massaging his way in, scissoring them carefully. He watched the other carefully as he strained against his hand, pushing back down on his fingers hesitantly, then gradually more eagerly. They kissed. Even after all these years Yamamoto still said he tasted like the addictive aftertaste of cigarettes; he'd always thought Yamamoto tasted like cool mint toothpaste left for too long in the sun. Something warm but also oldly spiced. He didn't know how to describe it, just like he could never figure out how the hell the bastard got so far under his skin.
Finally Yamamoto was ready - panting hard, painting white pre-lines of hunger across Gokudera's stomach - and they shifted into position. There was always a moment right before that Gokudera wondered if he was really going to do it - Yamamoto always took without asking, apologizing only later, thankfully he'd never crossed too many of his danger lines - before he positioned himself and pushed in. In idle teenage fancy he'd always imagined sex to be something messy but somehow sweet; he knew the proportions now, it was definitely more passion than sweetness. And it was love that made it really messy.
But for moments like now, he wouldn't ever take it back. Ever.
Because when Yamamoto was sheathed around him, feet dangling to each side and his face closed as he couldn't believe it any more than Gokudera could, there couldn't possibly be any better feeling than this. He remembered doing it and denying what he felt in the past - how much it had hurt for him, how much more it had hurt the other - but now it was different. Now he didn't hold back when Yamamoto leaned forward to close the distance between their faces, tongue lapping at the roof of his mouth, hands clenched tight around his neck. Gokudera moved forward, grinding into the swordsman, teeth gritted - and the other responded with a low moan that rang with the dull sound of the bomber's knees bumping against the wall as they built up a rhythm together.
Yamamoto threw back his head; Gokudera kissed his neck, sucked on his collarbone. The hands around his neck grew heavy, but neither of them let go, though they were moving faster now. The swordsman murmured his name into his hair, a stream of something that fluctuated between languages, tumbling unstoppably from red-kissed lips. He muttered in return into Yamamoto's clavicle, curses turned sweetly foreign, except Yamamoto could understand them now.
He could feel it gathering behind his eyelids, roiling like storm clouds, the huge mix of emotional baggage and embarrassing experiences and grudging endearment that composed the body of his thoughts on Yamamoto. He felt like this sometimes outside of sex, when Yamamoto was far away or even on the other side of the room, speaking to someone with that soft look he reserved for family on his face. It was that heart-wrenching softness Gokudera had sworn he'd never subscribe to, but in the end had chased him down and bitten him in the ass, somewhat literally. Really, it wasn't as much 'bit' as 'denied until Gokudera admitted he did feel something', but that was -
- he wasn't thinking about it anymore, because Yamamoto had started that squeezing thing that told Gokudera he was going to come soon. He thrust into that tightness, feeling hot tears prickle behind his eyelids, wishing they would go away when he felt Yamamoto so defenseless under his hands, giving him all he had selflessly and lovingly. He buried his face into the other's neck, clutching tight when the other raised his voice to the ceiling, to the heavens, clearly calling his name.
And then the sparks crashed around him and he was answering that call, voice muffled into the other's skin, gasping the obvious from such close quarters. He couldn't deny it, could he, that Yamamoto was more than nothing to him. The thought had always made me fearful, but now it made the goosebumps raise on his arms, because he really was addicted with no cure out. It was dangerous, this feeling - in his unguarded moments it made him think sometimes that he might even put him before the family.
He trusted Yamamoto to keep him in order when - if - that ever happened.
They collapsed hard onto the floor, together, legs finally unable to hold them up. Slowly they untangled: arms first, then legs, lips last. The only point of outside warmth Gokudera could feel was from the tips of his fingers; Yamamoto's own crossed over there, barely touching his. He sucked in a deep breath, eyes scanning the room for his pants that had his cigarettes, when the swordsman clasped their hands firmly together. Something hot and jittery trickled up his arm; Gokudera could feel the heat rising from his face.
"You shouldn't have broken that doorknob," he muttered finally.
"It was mine. And I'll pay for damage expenses."
"You'd better. Ah, forget it, it'll just come out of housing expenses. Squalo claimed an insane amount on the last Varia mansion bill; said he cleaned house."
"I won't destroy that much. Heard it was an entire wing that collapsed between him and Lussuria over 'comparing sizes'."
"You'd better not. I might actually have to dock your pay if that happens." And then: "Your foot smelled at the dinner table."
Yamamoto just laughed.
Gokudera would never dock Yamamoto's pay. That's because after all these years, Yamamoto generally knows what kinds of things Gokudera likes, and gets them often. He's so whipped.
[EDIT: WTF is up with these titles? This is what I get for writing this at 2 in the morning. And after reading over them for the fifth time and still catching dumb mistakes, I still think these are the sucky. Dammit.]