[Katekyou Hitman Reborn!]: "The Devil [...]" (Shamal/Gokudera (!!!))
I am actually...so unbelievably nervous about posting this. Because it's so off-color as a whole. But it makes me LOL, so, well, there you all have it. Also, the full title for this fic is "The Devil in the Shape of a Woman", but because it wouldn't fit in the subject header, I lose.
Anyway, the sole reason this was written was for an anonymous who requested it on the Reborn! kink meme, with the prompt being 'cross-dressing'. (It would have never left my head, otherwise.) NOW YOU KNOW WHO I AM, ANONYMOUS. *ruins the fun* You, however, may still comment anonymously on this fic if you would like.
As a matter of fact, for fun, I INSIST that everyone who comments on this does so anonymously. >D I've never done anything like this, so let yourselves loose! I'll be looking forward to the results. Kufufufu...amidoingitrite?
Warning: the one cross-dressing is probably not the one that you think. (Or hope for. WILL YOU STILL PLOW FORTH?)
[EDIT]: Oh BALLZ, because slow!Lori is SLOOOOOW, somebody else already went ahead and answered this prompt. Oh well, by then this was halfway done so I sure as fuck wasn't scrapping it then. Though I apologize for inflicting any more pain on anyone than what was originally needed. Also, because someone else left a prompt on that meme that made me laugh, I threw a couple lines of it in this fic for kicks. If you happen to notice it, I hope you don't mind, Second Anonymous?
Title: The Devil in the Shape of a Woman
Author: Carol Karlsen Lorelei DiAngelo
Rating: God help me, NC-17. *shakes fist at anon weakly*
Pairing: Shamal/Gokudera. And here you thought only the Japanese were brave enough to tackle this pairing... Still, the fact that this pairing was only requested twice on that meme kind of made me sad. I mean, if there's stuff like Ryohei/THE BEARS on that meme, than Shamal/Gokkun isn't really THAT weird, in hindsight.
Summary: In which Gokudera recovers in the school infirmary from Bianchi-related trauma, only to be faced with another, more pressing, trauma.
For: Anonymous. You are everyone and no one. Also, coincidentally, rather insane. :D But I love you anyway.
Notes: ...
Word Count: 7,062. I regret doing a word count for this. ;_____;
There were three things in this world that Gokudera Hayato was absolutely loathe to see (yet unfortunately unable to avoid, due to various circumstances or another). The first of which was the suffering or humiliation of the Vongola Tenth Boss, and he bled shame at the fact that some manner of the former or latter had at least once been attributed to him.
The second was Yamamoto, who was about as omnipresent as the eyes of the mountain god, and equally as unwanted. (Gokudera said a silent prayer.)
And the last of which was, unfortunately, parked right around his eye-level at this very moment, in the form of long, hairy legs clad poorly in the loose, knee-high socks of high-school white.
"Shit!" he cursed, bolting upright in the infirmary bed; an absolute understatement if there ever was one; "Holy fucking shit!" he reiterated, which was perhaps a little closer to the truth. Gokudera, in his haste to get the hell away, tangled his legs in the bedsheets and almost went toppling to the floor. "W-W-W-W-Why - "
"...are you dressed like a woman?!" he screamed, pointing disbelievingly at the spectacle that lay before him.
"Well, why are youuuu," Shamal drawled, accusingly, dressed in a tight-fitting blazer that looked ready to rip across his shoulders at any second, and a decidingly indecent-lengthed pleated skirt (as well as quite obviously drunk), "taking up all this space in my office, ehhh?"
Gokudera, in his desperation to flee, only wound up tangling himself in the bedsheets even more, and he sputtered, eschewing every known curse in every known language available. "I think your priorities are messed up, you shit doctor," he clarified, for he was only in the infirmary as a result of an unfortunate meeting with his sister at lunchtime; "why the hell are you dressed as a woman?!"
Not even a good-looking one, at that. A genius assassin, for sure, but Shamal was no master of disguise. And was that lipstick? Gokudera felt an urge to vomit approach that had nothing to do with poison cooking.
"How was I supposed to know that they'd get angry at me for mingling with them in the locker room?" Shamal whined, looking quite sorry for himself, and plunked himself down on the stool next to the infirmary cot, legs spread hideously wide. Gokudera tried not to stare, for it was undoubtedly akin to staring directly into the sun. (He had bad enough eyesight as it was; he had no particular urge to make it worse.)
"Why the hell wouldn't they?" the youth parroted in disbelief, eyes bulging in the absolute refusal to believe that there was someone in this world who could possibly be more idiotic or more single-minded than Yamamoto Takeshi. "Don't tell me you honestly thought that they'd be fooled by that disguise, you ridiculous piece of shit." He still found himself staring at those long, spread legs, regardless. What was he, some kind of fucking masochist? Gokudera shook his head to clear himself of the thought. (After all, a couple of cars was nothing, really, compared to the joy he got from seeing the Tenth. Never minding the angry, mammoth god of the mountain, either. There were some obstacles that simply had to be overcome, in order to experience true bliss.)
"It is a superb disguise," Shamal ennunciated, slowly, in the way that drunk people do when they are desperately trying to prove that they are not drunk; "you've got no sense of subtlety, Hayato."
"Because I have common sense," the pale-haired boy retorted, reaching over to the table next to the cot where he'd slung his school jacket, desperate for a smoke, "which is a far better thing to have, honestly." He waved the stench of alcohol out of his face, and frowned heavily when the pocket of his school blazer turned up empty. "What the hell? Where's my...?"
Shamal held up the pack of L&Ms as though dangling something above a dog on a leash. "Your bustling sex drive thanks me in advance, Hayatoooo." He crushed the cardboard in his fist.
Gokudera gawked. "You... You son of a bitch! I have to have those things fucking imported, you know, costs me a goddamned fortune - !" He swung a blind, angry fist, but Shamal, even drunk, managed to dodge it quite easily. The younger man attempted to calm his fury when he nearly overbalanced into the doctor's lap, but it was hard. He was so goddamned tired of people putting a stomp on his smoking habit - for Christ's sake! He lived in a small, second-story apartment with a bunch of Japanese guys who were convinced that he was planning on marrying one of them to obtain his visa; smoking was one of the few comforts that he had left, god damn it! He chomped down on his lower lip and let out a growl.
"Oh, come onnnn, don't pull that face, Hayato," Shamal crooned, reaching over and ruffling his hair; Gokudera snarled, and would have bit him, if he was certain he wouldn't catch some sort of veneral disease. He jerked out of harm's way, regardless. "Smoking stifles your sexual appetite, you know."
"Can't stifle what doesn't exist," Gokudera clarified, slapping away the hand that was inching towards his hair again. He hated this son of a bitch when he was drunk - he got all clingy, whining about the Queen Mother and all that, and some rather colorful exploits involving a pearl necklace - should have been shot, really, rather than just exiled, because a queen was a queen, regardless of what country, but personal opinions were things that should be kept just that; personal, so he never said anything. He wasn't a goddamned stuffed animal, though, and nor did he like wimpy, overly-emotional girls either (regardless of their original gender), so he elbowed Shamal in the gut when the older man got too close.
"Ah - ha ha...ha," the man laughed anyway, winded, and propped one of his heels on the edge of the bed to scratch at his leg, idly. For a moment, Gokudera saw hell - there was lace on those panties, holy shit! - and he turned his face away, going slightly green. The pervert was still speaking.
"You're a funny kid," Shamal observed, popping a few buttons open on his blazer to scratch at his chest, as well. "Kids your age should be jerking off to the G-rated models in the Pink House catalogue, for God's sake, not dressing up in women's clothing."
"Who's the idiot who's - ?!" Gokudera squawked, outraged, before his tirade was cut off by a warm, massive hand clamping itself firmly over his mouth. He sputtered, coughing on his own air, and jerked at the appendage with all of his might, face going red from anger and impending embarrassment, but found the obstacle impossible to move. The older man's every pore reeked of alcohol, and it was making him slightly dizzy. Gokudera huffed, breathing through his nose like an angry rhino, but ultimately fell still.
"It's only because I'm concerned, Hayato," Shamal continued, sluggishly, earnestly, eyes too bright and leaning too far over the edge of the bed; "I think...that even if it's only for a little while - that I'd like for you to be happy."
The pale-haired boy went red from his neck to the tips of his ears. Wh...What? What the hell was that old pervert...? Honestly, he didn't even have his own visa yet, so if that shithead was trying to con one off of him, he'd fucking kill him - 'like for you to be happy'? What the hell was that shit? Gokudera mmmph'd, trying to swear at the man, trying to do something, other than sit there and gape, with his hands curled into the infirmary cot and his heart hammering in his ears. That idiot was suffocating him - he couldn't goddamned breathe.
As if on cue, the hand covering his mouth disappeared, and he was at last able to speak. "F...Fuck - shit...god damned - !" he snarled, swinging with his fist again, but this time his wrist was caught, neatly, in a firm, yet not unkind, grip.
Shamal let out a long, aggravated sigh. "When a cute girl says something like that to you, Hayato," he slurred, exasperatedly, "you're supposed to smile, you know, and give her a big ol' kiss. That pre-menstrual pissiness of yours is only charming for another two or three years, kiddo, and then it starts to get old. Fast."
Ch...Charming? "Who's piss - " Gokudera started to grumble, before he was jerked forward, hard, and sent smashing into the older man's lips.
He went from red to white in an instant. There was no way in hell. Everything was warm, and wet, and tinted with the flavor of cheap Italian wine. His heart did flip-flops in his stomach and he was going to kill that bastard, so help him God. He pushed his palm down on the bed, trying desperately to back away, but the angle was wrong and his strength seemed to be failing him at the moment; if it had ever been there to begin with. Lips moved against his own, sloppy and generous, and a tongue split the line of his clenched teeth, forcing his head back, back -
Haaaaack. "Wh...What are you trying to do, k-kill me?!" Gokudera yelled, pushing back, half-coughing, half-growling, bent double on the bed with his hands on his neck, trying to do anything but look the infuriating bastard in the eye; "I don't need fucking CPR!"
"Well, I don't treat guys, either," Shamal retorted, frowning, before processing what he had just said, and bursting into a fit of snorted, drunken laughter.
Gokudera let out a huge, particularly exhaustive breath, before curling in on himself with his chin on his knees and glancing at the man sidelong out of the corner of his eyes. He really wanted a cigarette, but his only option, it seemed, was cheap Chianti some two hours old and two minutes warm. His throat felt tight, and his head was filled with the memory of the time he had visited the old pervert out at the sea. (He'd met Shamal's thirty-seven other sisters that day, and they'd all treated him to innumerable quantities of sweets, but only the man himself had remembered that his favorite food was gelato, and that he liked it sour.)
"I had to fucking import those," he groused, feeling his frown tug at the corners of his face.
Shamal stood, swaying slightly, and sat himself down next to the younger man in a manner that was more like falling. His fingers reached out, and buried themselves in Gokudera's light, fine hair. "We're a sad pair, aren't we, Hayato?" he agreed, lamentably, cheeks red and eyes drooping almost to shut. "I only got to see a fat girl's boob."
Gokudera shoved him angrily away.
But Shamal followed up impeccably, despite his inebriation - grabbed the pale-haired boy by the wrists, pushing him down, down, onto the surface of the bed, knees digging into his chest and apprehension dawning in his heart. A warm face, rough with stubble, nuzzled itself against the thin layer of his school shirt, to his chest.
"If you didn't see any fucking boobs in the girl's locker room," Gokudera snarled, trying to squirm away, "what the hell makes you think you'll see any here?" But his palms were wet, and he was sweating like a bastard - great drips of it, matting his hair to his head and his bangs behind his ears. He needed a cigarette. The urge was almost unbelieveable. "If you don't get your paws off of me, I'll blow you to bits, you sick son of a bitch!"
"In theory, a noble endeavor," Shamal agreed, earnestly, nodding so hard it looked for a moment as though his head might fall off; "but the practice of which I think is a bit too advanced for you, Hayato. After all, you've never even been kissed before. Of course, if you're going to go solo, then the girls in Bejean are the best."
Even, while saying this, the man was attempting to swing his legs around Gokudera's hips, doggedly. It would have been a more fruitful effort if the boy in question weren't resisting, currently, with all of his might, pushing at broad, blazered shoulders with an expression on his face akin to the utmost of fear and loathing.
"Get the hell off of me, you idiot!" he expostulated, for good measure; there were some things that simply needed to be said twice. "If you value your balls at all, old man, you'll - !"
And he shut up, as he was again quickly and thoroughly kissed. Something so close to pleasant that it was unpleasant jolted suddenly up his spine, and he inhaled, sharply, through his nose. A little CPR in this situation wouldn't have been so terrible, really - his face was so red that he thought he was going to die.
"Moof...yer...lipsh," Shamal grunted, bearing heavily down, and though Gokudera should have found something inherently ridiculous in the fact that he was being molested by a guy more than twice his age in a girl's blazer and skirt, all he found was that he felt...hot. Really, really hot. That bastard had such huge, rough palms, skirting all over his body like this or that. He withdrew his knees from his chest and dug his feet into the sides of the cot, trying to get enough leverage to push himself away.
"Kids...today... - no finesse," Shamal was still complaining, mournfully, even as he was stroking his tongue across the younger man's lips with ease; "kiss me back, Hayato." Gokudera, who had had in some ways more than enough of this, managed to jerk his head back and away enough to break his lips free.
"What kind of finesse can a guy like you have," he demanded, breathlessly, heart a telltale thump in his throat, "who dresses in women's clothing and spies on girls in the sports locker room?!"
The doctor drew back, laughing. "Enough, I think," he said, smiling crookedly, and Gokudera dug his teeth into his lower lip, apprehensively. "Of course, you still haven't learned a thing of what I've taught you of women, or flirting in general - maybe you should just go back to folding your paper planes, ehhh?"
This, really, was too fucking much. Being told off by a grown man in a skirt was too goddamned much. Unfortunate was the fact that he had such dark, rich-colored hair, flicked into perfect tips behind the curve of his ears. Even more unfortunate, perhaps, was the fact that - preference aside - beige really was a good color on that son of a bitch. Gokudera snarled.
"You're paying for my fucking cigarettes," he said, thunderously, and threw his arms without care around the assassin's neck.
"I'll do noooo such thing," Shamal argued, non-plussed, but lowered his head anyway; "I'm a doctor, for God's sake. I might as well go and ask you to stick your head into a microwave for faster effect, Hayaaato."
The way the man trilled his name was enough for Gokudera's breath to run fast even to his own ears, but the bite to the lobe of his ear was a one-hit KO, for sure. He hissed out something, a half-curse, that sounded way more weak and wanting than he'd wanted it to be, and tried not to flinch when broad, calloused hands stroked themselves through his hair, down the back and sides of his neck. He shivered, drawn out on a string, and tried his best to pay attention when Shamal murmured something in his ear that was neither Japanese nor Italian - English, that's what it was, English, and Gokudera wasn't as proficient in that as he'd have liked.
Shamal said it again; Open your mouth, and shit, shit, that was it? Like hell - the pale-haired boy clenched his teeth, baring them in his taut, sweat-stained face, and be damned if he was going to give that pervert the satisfaction. He wasn't a horse, for God's sake, to be given the bit, like that Cavallone, and nor was he a goddamned loudmouth, a vacuum, like that fucking Yamamoto. He stared down the doctor's bright, laughing eyes, and tried to ignore the weird feeling that was coiling in his stomach like a snake.
Shamal pinched his nostrils shut.
"Of all the dirty - !" Gokudera howled, without thinking, and slapped the man's hand away a second too soon; his lips were caught, again, and the rest of his tirade was reduced to sputtering, incoherent outrage.
And eventually, even that died out, too. Died out faster than the Mafia's respect at the Tomaso's 75th Family Reunion or whatever the hell it was that he'd been dragged to as a kid, as a matter of fact, in the moment that Shamal's hands untucked his shirt from his belt and rubbed themselves slowly along the curve of his hips. A noise escaped his throat, unbidden, as rough, padded thumbs traced the line of his pelvic bone, dipping down a little too far in the center, and he almost fucking hahi!-ed, like that goddamned annoying girl; how fucking embarrassing was that? Gokudera bit, accidentally, on the edge of the other man's lips, as he attempted a snarl; he almost backed away to apologize, but Shamal seemed to like the biting, rumbling something that sounded like encouragement (either that, or a poorly-disguised belch) from his lips, hands picking up in pressure and urgency.
"Your response is getting better," the man noted, squinting blearily at him as though not quite understanding who or what the hell the pale-haired boy was; "but you're still so goddamned bitchy, Hayato. You're not doing this cute girl a favor, you know, by being sweet with her. Tell yourself that: 'I'm not doing anyone a favor. I'm the luckiest guy in the world right now. I'm not worthy of such good fortune'."
"What fucking good fortune?!" Gokudera had to spit, at that, because good fortune was being assigned the seat next to the Tenth at the beginning of the school year; good fortune was being able to afford something other than instant noodles and leftover sushi from the baseball nut for dinner - good fortune was not, last he had checked, getting one's jive on with a cross-dressing man in his thirties who reeked strongly of alcohol.
Good fortune was maybe, perhaps, the fact that the shithead in question did have remarkably strong, skilled hands. Possibly. Marginally good fortune, at best. (The youth stuffed his knuckles between his teeth to keep from whimpering as those same hands slid up under the fabric of his shirt, over his ribs.) Fingertips scratched at his sides, at his pelvis, again, and started to undo the buckles of his belt. Gokudera hitched in a breath.
"All right, you shit doctor," he said, a bit hurriedly, trying to manuever his legs to hide the fact that he was currently sporting the most raging hard-on he had ever had in his life from a hairy guy in a skirt; "don't you think your stupid joke has gone on for long enough? Go bother Noriko-sensei from 3A if you want some turf to plow, you stinking drunkard." It was solid advice - he'd been unfortunate enough to stumble in on the two of them after an unfortunate experience with Bucking Horse Dino had left him in need of a Band-Aid (or two, or twelve, but it hadn't mattered anyway because holy shit that woman's tits were huge) - and never mind the fact that his heart had banged as recklessly in his chest back then as it was currently doing right now.
Shamal stared at him, eyes struggling to stay in focus. "Hayato," he said, after a while, as though pained, and fell forward right after that.
Gokudera spasmed, and coughed, and tried to breathe amidst the sudden weight and smell of alcohol. "J-Jesus," he said, eyes watering, slightly, "passed out, you old coot? Just fucki - " And then he froze, because he realized that there were arms around his neck; big, solid ones, warm as the fucking Mediterrean, and just as reminiscent of home. The jackass was hugging him? The youth's mind boggled at the thought. Hadn't even fucking hugged him when he was eight, when he was young enough to enjoy it, young enough to not be...annoyed by it; shit, he really hated this bastard when he was drunk. Really.
"Hayato," Shamal said again, breath warm against the top of Gokudera's hair, "there's nothing in this world that makes me sadder, Hayato, than a guy who could have any girl in the world - easily, without trying - and they don't even have the interest. Aren't even willing to give it the time." He sighed, downtrodden. "You're breaking this cute girl's heart."
"Not cute," Gokudera corrected, but his face was beet-red, regardless. Girls? And him? It had all been because they'd known that he was going to one day be the Tenth's right-hand man, hadn't it? An interest in his future position, hadn't that been right? "And let go of me," he added, for good measure. "There's something poking me in the leg."
An instant too late, he realized what he had just said. 'Too late' because, even as he was squirming to get away, one of Shamal's mammoth hands clamped down over his wrist, and the other shoved itself, without hesitation, down the waistband of his jeans.
Gokudera squawked. "Wh-Wh-Wh - ?!" he fumbled, in a way that was more like a shriek, and tried to ignore the way the feeling in his stomach was flaring, fanning, at the presence of a warm, sure hand resting itself along the length of his erection. Fucking beige, and the man really did have nice, lean (albeit rather hairy) legs. They looked strangely good in knee-high socks. Was he insane? A side-effect of poison cooking-related trauma? Gokudera panted, heavily, still sweating like a bastard. He'd had to import those fucking L&Ms, and what the hell was that quack doing with his hand?
"A graduation from unresponsive prints of fashion models," Shamal was saying, guiding the younger man's wrist under his skirt with difficulty (still quite ludicrously tanked); "I'll give you the chance to touch a real, cute, feminine idol, how's that?"
"Are you suffering from some serious delusions about yourself or what?!" Gokudera retaliated, trying to jerk his hand back, and inadvertantly brushing his fingers against something hot, hard, and hidden thus far under the fabric of that skirt.
And then, Shamal made a face. His lips parted, a bit (lipstick smeared, and the younger man realized with dawning horror that most of it was probably smeared all over him); and one of his eyes squinched shut, tightly, as though he'd just felt a twinge of pain. It was such a stupid-looking, ridiculous face, but strangely...alluring, too, and Christ, Gokudera thought, as he lost this particular round, it'd be kind of satisfying, really, to make that jackass make a face like that even more.
Experience, of course, not being on his repertoire, he wiggled his hips, a little, ever-concerned with the circumstances surrounding his own body, and waited for some sort of cue.
"Ah, if you were a girl," Shamal was saying, bearing down on him with more weight than he'd have liked to suffer, "I'd marry you in an instant, Hayato," - which was perhaps not the best thing to say to a bristling, volatile, fourteen-year-old boy (who didn't care to being compared to a girl, either); but all of that mattered surprisingly little in the instant that the man flexed his palm, majestically, and touched.
And - oh, Jesus. What a fucking bundle of nerves. Every stroke, every squeeze, magnified itself to tenfold and dispersed sensation from his brain; curling his toes, curving his nails. He did something, inadvertantly - a kind of reflexive jerk - to the other man's dick that had Shamal groaning, as though sick, and rambling something at him in broken Czechoslovakian.
So the trick, then, was to not think about it. After all, if it had occurred to the young Italian that what he was essentially doing was rubbing one off with his tranny, drunken mentor, he might have stopped the thing entirely out of sheer ridiculousness; failing that, fear of the law, at least, because this was undoubtedly illegal in some way or another. But not thinking about it was easy. Thinking only about shoving his shirt sleeve in his mouth to muffle some extrememly girly moan or another was first-grade math easy, really, when the head of his cock was thumbed; his balls fondled, just so. Everything else was just background noise.
Including - "Ah, I don't care, I don't even care, marry me anyway, Hayato," which the idiot doctor was panting now, and there were barrettes in his hair, tiny ones, almost impossible to see, and despite all that, he was still wearing men's cologne; the Italian kind, not the pansy shit that the Brits or the Asians wore. Gokudera tried to pull a face, but found he could only pant, and buck, and spread his legs for more. His jeans were tight, and would probably rip if he stretched them any more; he didn't wear underwear, either, so the thought really should have concerned him, but it didn't. Not a lot did, right about now, though if the Tenth had suddenly burst in on them with some emergency or another, he still probably would have dropped everything for it, regardless. ('Probably', and that distressed him.)
"Eat...shit..." he ground out, desperately, grinding his hips just as desperately, molding himself against that rough, perfect touch. His own grip, he knew, was sweaty and too-tight from inexperience and urgency, and he tried to concentrate enough to do it right, to do it properly, but thought slipped away from him like sand in a sieve. "Who'd...want to...marry you...hunh?" His thumbs caught something at the base of the other man's shaft, and Shamal hissed; drawled a curse in their furtive, native Italian that was not particularly pleasant yet still somehow encouraging.
"How's...that, hunh?" Gokudera smirked, dragging his hands feather-light, dragging his gaze up, and froze as though shot in the instant that he realized that in this, like most other things, he'd been too goddamned bold.
"You..." he said, trailing off, because Shamal was looking at him; doing just that, just looking - but he was looking at him like he wanted to eat him, or own him, or shit, maybe even just hug him again which was by far the most terrifying of the lot. His eyes had gone as dark as his hair. And Gokudera, naive, had a moment for which he let his hands drop, let his eyes go just a little bit wide, and then he was coming, coming harder and faster than he ever had in his entire life, coming all over the goddamned place.
"Oh, shit - !" he yelled - wailed, was more like it - before yanking one of his hands back to his face and biting down, hard, on the webbing between his index finger and his thumb, toes curling dents into the very fabric of the infirmary cot below him. He pressed his eyes shut, riding it out, shuddering at pleasure so sharp it was almost painful reverbating through his every vein; hissed, frantically, at the slowing hand on his cock and the steadying hand on the back of his neck, snarling on thick, sweaty clumps of pale hair.
And then, there was a sudden, extremely conspicuous amount of nothing. Gokudera slumped, bowing his head between his legs and breathing slowly out of his nose, looking at his stomach and the waistband of his jeans, now smeared with thick, viscous white; he rubbed the stuff with his finger and brought it to his nose, hesitantly, before pulling a disgusted face and wiping it on his thigh. Shamal, similarly, was making the same disgusted face, shaking his stained hand back and forth rapidly as though burned, moaning something about cute, impatient little boys in a clipped Russian falsetto. He was swigging something from a small, silver flask that had appeared miraculously out of nowhere. Gokudera didn't mind much. He fell onto his back atop the bed, boneless.
Something scratchy hit him in the face.
"I don't treat guys," Shamal reminded him, unflappably, "but have the courtesy to treat yourself, at least." He gestured, impassively, to Gokudera's now-bleeding hand, then to the bandages that now lay, coiled, on his chest.
The youth obliged without complaint, though there were several things he could have said on the matter of the shit doctor and his 'treatment' of guys. He wrapped his hand sluggishly, without sitting up, feeling suddenly very tired. Less like he needed a cigarette, though. He almost smiled, except, well, women's underwear. There were some sins that just weren't meant to be forgiven.
He tied the gauze off with his teeth, and it wasn't until he'd stretched, a bit, and let out a slow, contented sigh, that he realized that that same shit doctor was currently attempting to insert something up his ass.
Gokudera yowled. "Are you fucking retarded?!" he demanded to know, scissoring his legs in an impressive psuedo-roundhouse that Shamal caught, easily, with only one hand. The youth thrashed, impressively, with all of his might. "You've got to be joking! Isn't that, like, something you could go to jail for, you piece of shit?! I'm not the goddamned Queen of England - there's gotta be bigger fish out there that you'd sink for, you lech!"
"Well, it's not fair," Shamal reasoned, perfectly calm (still perfectly drunk, too, from the way he went cross-eyed, briefly, and shook his head); "for you, a guy, to get your mess all over the place, and just roll over like that, leaving this unbelieveably cute and accomodating girl so unsatisfied."
Oh, that fucker, he thought he was going to get away with this, hunh? Gokudera snarled, and tensed up with all of his might against the intrusion (fingers, they were his fucking fingers; wasn't that gross as shit?). "Queen Mother!" he hollered, sore as all get-out.
"Premature ejaculation, Hayato," Shamal corrected him, wagging one of the fingers of his free hand then flicking him, hard, on the nose; "look, just let me borrow your butt, okay? It's not like I'm asking you to run laps or anything."
"No - way - !" Gokudera bellowed, pushing his palm against the doctor's face as hard as he could; pulling the other one, even harder, away from the vicinity of his rear. Their absence left a wet feeling - which could be attributed to, he noted a second later, the bottle of what appeared to be lotion that had appeared miraculously on the tray beside his cot. "Jesus Christ, do you just walk around with a bottle of Kose in your fucking pocket all the time, hunh?! Don't tell me you plan for stuff like this, incompetent - !"
"Preparedness," Shamal corrected, again, licking his lips; "for God's sake, kid, dat's my nobe - " for Gokudera, amidst struggling, had somehow jammed his finger up it, unceremoniously. He hastily yanked it free, blanching hugely, and let go of the man's face for a second to wipe it, hurriedly, on his jeans.
And in that second, he let his guard down, and in that same second, something cold and slick wormed its way into his ass.
If he'd have known the Japanese word for 'rape', he'd have been screaming it in an instant. (Alas, second language, how unfortunate.) He screamed plenty of other things, for sure, things about evisceration and Shamal's mother and what sort of jobs would be better suited for a eunuch, the lot of which he'd mostly learned from various TV dramas that he'd been forced to watch with his apartment-mates on nights when there hadn't been anything better to do - but all that didn't change, really, the fact that he was still stuck pants-down in the school infirmary with a guy in a girl's school uniform who was currently canoodling some overtime out of his ass.
"Death...pain...you - !" Gokudera gritted out, bearing down on the foreign feeling, but finding it impossible to eschew. He had to take a moment to inhale, and that finger pushed in further. Shamal swore, Turkish with exasperation.
"You're not very tolerant, are you?" he observed, squinting blearily again, rubbing a hand across his 5 o'clock shadow with a sigh. "Come on, I'll give you some aspirin when we're done, Hayato, so just take it easy already, for God's sake. Tu sei il mio favorito, capiche? Though you'd be a knockout if only you had boobs."
'Favorite'? Fucking favorite? For a guy who had 2,062 sisters, being favorited sure wasn't saying a fuck of a lot; Gokudera shook, minutely, and balled his hands in his shirt, casting his eyes to the ceiling and remembering a day of building sandcastles by the sea. He muttered some nonsense about eunuchs again, but did what he thought the bastard's favorite would do, and started wriggling out of his tight, ripped jeans.
"Hey, if it helps, think of something else," Shamal, the ultimate womanizer (if not slightly more 'woman' than 'izer' at the moment) advised, and honestly, what was he, some sort of idiot? Who the hell had the capacity to think about anything, when fingers the size of sausages were being plugged up their butt? Not, of course, that it was as bitterly unpleasant as it had been a moment ago; rather, the more Gokudera came to accept his imminent deflowering as a matter of course, the more the digits inside of him began to flit back and forth with ease, and the less it became a huge inconvenience to bear.
He thought of sour lemon gelato, and a hand the size of his head ruffling deeply into his hair.
"Fucking...stupid," the boy laughed then; harsh, clipped bites of swears; "it's so fucking stupid, don't you think?" He threw his arms, bent at the elbows, over his squinched eyes. "Just because my father never hugged me and the sight of my sister makes me puke, I - "
And his nostrils were pinched shut, and he was kissed, again.
(But he'd really meant to say something along the lines of, If you ever tell anyone about this, especially the Tenth, I'll fucking gut you, he really had. Strangely, he didn't mind terribly that he hadn't.) He opened his mouth, and breathed sour, mixed air with the hint of aged wine. There was a shift, and a slight grunt, and his lower half was spread, uncomfortably, in a neither pleasant nor particularly unpleasant sort of way that sent a shiver up his spine, regardless.
"Hey," he said aloud, as the thought occurred to him and the bastard broke away, giving him room once more to breathe; "how is it that you know about stuff like this, anyway? I thought you didn't treat guys, hunh?" Which - oh, the irony. (The humanity of it all, too, but his growl on the subject turned into a sort of high-pitched stutter as suddenly, a second finger joined the first in the commune that was currently taking place up his ass.)
"Ladies are a species of many secrets," Shamal said, diffidently; Gokudera felt, rather than saw, him shrug. "That's pretty rude of you to ask, Hayato. 'Course," - Gokudera shuddered, and trilled something low in his throat as the man's probing fingers found something that hit him really, really good - "you're most at home when you're being a rude little priss, isn't that right? Look, you're taking this like it's nothing, now."
"Priss," the pale-haired boy rumbled, opening his mouth for a serious swear-off, before the waist of his shirt was rolled up, unexpectedly, and shoved into his vulnerable mouth.
Which was just as well, really, as it made his embarrassing, nervous little squeak that much more difficult to hear when the fingers were taken out, his legs were pushed up, and something hard and just a little bit wet nudged itself against his ass. Shit, he had time to think, pressing his arms as tightly as he could around his forehead, he's huge, that piece of shit, and he had the nerve, of all things, to stick this in the Queen of England? Should have have it whacked off, s'what they should have done - and then moral outrage meant shamefully little when Shamal laughed, heartily, and pushed.
"Nnnngh!" Gokudera yelled, mostly because there was no particular way to articulate I'll fucking kill you! when there was a wad of fabric the size of his fist shoved up against the roof of his mouth. He flung his legs desperately around the first thing he could find; the backs of Shamal's thighs, and felt the lace of that stupid, frilly girl's underwear tickling the inside of his calf. Fucking beige, and he hadn't looked so much good like that as he had self-sorry and unguarded, and it was hard to tell which one was worse.
I still hate him anyway, the younger man decided, anyway, as he was carefully invaded, inch by slow-moving inch. The room stank like booze and sweat, and that expensive Venetian cologne, and it was getting pretty goddamned late in the day, and his L&Ms were still crushed to dust in the garbage can, but Shamal pressed his face roughly into his shoulder, fingers stroking the hair knotted at the nape of his neck, and Gokudera discovered in that minute what it truly meant to not give a shit.
"4/4 time," the doctor murmured, into his ear; "we'll start out slow, Hayato." The first beat of their hips made a steady, solid thump. It was a good sound. They ebbed and advanced in opposite rhythm; one melody, the other harmony, and in a few moments, it wasn't just the sound that was good.
6/8 was the next measure, pleasure spreading in a slow ring, slightly staccato, and a low, throaty suggestion that he touch himself, a little, just to prove that he'd know to do it, next time, when he should. (So he did, self-consciously, teeth digging holes into the fabric of his shirt and hands fluttering over himself like the breath of a butterfly. Until he went too hard, once, and let out a terrible cry, and learned that to do it harder was to do it better, and adhered to that in practice.)
"12/16," he heard above him, in a muted groan, but he remembered the last time he had gotten too bold with his eyes, and kept them firmly shut. His legs shook, and his hips wriggled with every thrust, but it was still with a mild sense of embarrassment that he came all over himself for the second time that day; slower, and with more clarity than he had before, less of a sense of brutal satisfaction and more of a subtle szforzando, low in pitch yet high in volume. He tensed, disliking being treated so roughly in the aftermath, and he heard a word - either a compliment, or a collioquism for defenestration - and then the shoulder against his face went still; something hot flooded into him with about as much grace as a stampede, and he almost drowned in the weight of a warm, familiar body falling onto him, panting hard with exertion.
He liked this soft, hazy silence, he really did, but Gokudera didn't have much in the way of ears for his own harsh, ragged breathing (still spared a second to look, mournfully, at his smokes laying scattered atop the rubbish in the trash can, anyway), so after a minute or two he spat out his shirt and said, gruffly, "You're heavy. Get the hell off, incompetent quack."
"Oi, Hayato," Shamal sighed, mockingly exasperated, "isn't there anything else you want to say?" He drew his head back, a bit; cocked an eyebrow, expectantly.
"Oh," Gokudera replied, after a moment's thought, " - if you tell anyone about this, especially the Tenth, I'll fucking gut you. Piece of shit." That said, he swiped an errant hand through his hair, satisfied. Covered in a number of questionable substances, for sure, and aching in more places than one, but...ultimately, satisfied.
Could have lived without the idiot doctor opening his mouth again, though. "Ahhhh, if you were a shoe, you'd have been the perfect fit, Hayato. You'd make a nice B cup, though."
"Speak for yourself!" the pale-haired boy hollered, feeling around for his jeans - threw them on, angrily, making a rip in the fabric that hadn't been part of the initial design, but not really caring, either way. He stomped his way to the infirmary door, trying to ignore the fact that he was limping in a way that could be considered 'conspicuously obvious'. (Fucking huge - he wasn't English, for a fact, but as any citizen who would lay down his life for God and country, and not necessarily in that order, Gokudera felt a momentary shame that he'd allowed himself to be duped by the same jackass who'd defiled the Brits' queen.)
"Hey, don't be like that," Shamal drawled, hair mussed, lips swollen, eyes insufferably satisfied; "where're you gonna go with that lipstick all over your face anyway, kid?"
"Away from you," Gokudera asserted, vehemently, struggling to lace his sneakers up by the door without bending his back any more than was necessary (could a stick of dynamite actually fit up someone's ass? he wondered); "to the store, you nosy prick, to get myself some goddamned cigarettes." Because the urge to smoke was now, unerringly, even stronger than ever.
"L&Ms, wasn't it?" the man asked, propping himself on an elbow, and licking his lips as though he were a cat. "If you can make do with the Lucky Strikes down at the Lawson's, I'll buy you a whole carton later. 'Cuz it's been a while since I've heard you at the piano, Hayato."
Gokudera paused, door halfway open. Of course, the only reason the bastard had ever bothered coming to see him play was because of his sister, hadn't that been right? He'd worn beige then, too, a camel-colored cigarette jacket that had smelled like him, and smelled like a bunch of people that weren't him, too, and his foot had absently tapped out the time. Gokudera didn't mind 12/16 time.
He did, however, currently mind the lewd and rather complicated gestures that were now being made in his direction, so he snarled, face red, and yanked the door open the rest of the way with abandon.
"Just buy me a fucking gelato," he grumbled, and slammed it firmly shut behind him.
And Shamal, who remembered, just laughed, and laughed, and laughed.
AN: ?! Or something. Actually, you know, I won't scream to myself something trivial like "WHY THE FUCK DID I WRITE THIS!??!?!" or anything like that, but I WILL scream to myself, "WHY THE FUCK DID I HAVE *FUN* WRITING THIS?!?!!?!??! ;______;" because really, I shouldn't have. Really. Shouldn't have.
Some things! L&Ms are Italian cigarettes, if you couldn't get that; well, they're Italian when the Italians aren't busy smoking Marlboros lol. (Amerikku.) Apparently the tobacco market in Italy is not doing so hot. Why smoke when you make bitching vino? Similarly, Chianti is relatively mid-grade Italian wine. Not "cheap" in the sense that one could probably drink paint thinner and achieve the same taste and effect, but it's not fucking Pinot Gregio, either. Kose is like the Lubriderm of Japanese hand lotions, btw. It was either that or Sekkisei, which is more like Olay, which, uh, lol context.
Oh, and if you don't know what Lucky Strikes are by now, you should just kill yourself. Because you clearly haven't watched enough Japanese television. (J/k. But surely you've seen the box super-imposed on various anime promotion posters, y/n?) Lawson's is Japan's 7-11, and is pretty much used in much the same manner as Amerikkan 7-11 - for underaged children to buy cigarettes, condoms, and/or beer. Sorry, Japan. (Actually, Japan has 7-11s of its own, which is further proof that the American standard is slowly starting to be assimilated by other countries, too. But this is a yaoi porn fic, and not Economics 101, so I won't say anything else on this subject. Were you expecting me to? lol)
In terms of actual writing-related notes, I'm...sorry. I don't really have much to say. There's no excuse for this. I can't believe I squeezed as many words out of this as I did in general. Also, music-related porn metaphors FTL. I didn't violate any Queen Mothers, but I might as well be shot for this anyway. *shrug*
Saaa, anonymous no commentu! *rubs hands together in glee* Tanoshimi da na!
...rune, you're gonna reply with that icon I hate, aren't you.
Anyway, the sole reason this was written was for an anonymous who requested it on the Reborn! kink meme, with the prompt being 'cross-dressing'. (It would have never left my head, otherwise.) NOW YOU KNOW WHO I AM, ANONYMOUS. *ruins the fun* You, however, may still comment anonymously on this fic if you would like.
As a matter of fact, for fun, I INSIST that everyone who comments on this does so anonymously. >D I've never done anything like this, so let yourselves loose! I'll be looking forward to the results. Kufufufu...amidoingitrite?
Warning: the one cross-dressing is probably not the one that you think. (Or hope for. WILL YOU STILL PLOW FORTH?)
[EDIT]: Oh BALLZ, because slow!Lori is SLOOOOOW, somebody else already went ahead and answered this prompt. Oh well, by then this was halfway done so I sure as fuck wasn't scrapping it then. Though I apologize for inflicting any more pain on anyone than what was originally needed. Also, because someone else left a prompt on that meme that made me laugh, I threw a couple lines of it in this fic for kicks. If you happen to notice it, I hope you don't mind, Second Anonymous?
Title: The Devil in the Shape of a Woman
Author: Carol Karlsen Lorelei DiAngelo
Rating: God help me, NC-17. *shakes fist at anon weakly*
Pairing: Shamal/Gokudera. And here you thought only the Japanese were brave enough to tackle this pairing... Still, the fact that this pairing was only requested twice on that meme kind of made me sad. I mean, if there's stuff like Ryohei/THE BEARS on that meme, than Shamal/Gokkun isn't really THAT weird, in hindsight.
Summary: In which Gokudera recovers in the school infirmary from Bianchi-related trauma, only to be faced with another, more pressing, trauma.
For: Anonymous. You are everyone and no one. Also, coincidentally, rather insane. :D But I love you anyway.
Notes: ...
Word Count: 7,062. I regret doing a word count for this. ;_____;
There were three things in this world that Gokudera Hayato was absolutely loathe to see (yet unfortunately unable to avoid, due to various circumstances or another). The first of which was the suffering or humiliation of the Vongola Tenth Boss, and he bled shame at the fact that some manner of the former or latter had at least once been attributed to him.
The second was Yamamoto, who was about as omnipresent as the eyes of the mountain god, and equally as unwanted. (Gokudera said a silent prayer.)
And the last of which was, unfortunately, parked right around his eye-level at this very moment, in the form of long, hairy legs clad poorly in the loose, knee-high socks of high-school white.
"Shit!" he cursed, bolting upright in the infirmary bed; an absolute understatement if there ever was one; "Holy fucking shit!" he reiterated, which was perhaps a little closer to the truth. Gokudera, in his haste to get the hell away, tangled his legs in the bedsheets and almost went toppling to the floor. "W-W-W-W-Why - "
"...are you dressed like a woman?!" he screamed, pointing disbelievingly at the spectacle that lay before him.
"Well, why are youuuu," Shamal drawled, accusingly, dressed in a tight-fitting blazer that looked ready to rip across his shoulders at any second, and a decidingly indecent-lengthed pleated skirt (as well as quite obviously drunk), "taking up all this space in my office, ehhh?"
Gokudera, in his desperation to flee, only wound up tangling himself in the bedsheets even more, and he sputtered, eschewing every known curse in every known language available. "I think your priorities are messed up, you shit doctor," he clarified, for he was only in the infirmary as a result of an unfortunate meeting with his sister at lunchtime; "why the hell are you dressed as a woman?!"
Not even a good-looking one, at that. A genius assassin, for sure, but Shamal was no master of disguise. And was that lipstick? Gokudera felt an urge to vomit approach that had nothing to do with poison cooking.
"How was I supposed to know that they'd get angry at me for mingling with them in the locker room?" Shamal whined, looking quite sorry for himself, and plunked himself down on the stool next to the infirmary cot, legs spread hideously wide. Gokudera tried not to stare, for it was undoubtedly akin to staring directly into the sun. (He had bad enough eyesight as it was; he had no particular urge to make it worse.)
"Why the hell wouldn't they?" the youth parroted in disbelief, eyes bulging in the absolute refusal to believe that there was someone in this world who could possibly be more idiotic or more single-minded than Yamamoto Takeshi. "Don't tell me you honestly thought that they'd be fooled by that disguise, you ridiculous piece of shit." He still found himself staring at those long, spread legs, regardless. What was he, some kind of fucking masochist? Gokudera shook his head to clear himself of the thought. (After all, a couple of cars was nothing, really, compared to the joy he got from seeing the Tenth. Never minding the angry, mammoth god of the mountain, either. There were some obstacles that simply had to be overcome, in order to experience true bliss.)
"It is a superb disguise," Shamal ennunciated, slowly, in the way that drunk people do when they are desperately trying to prove that they are not drunk; "you've got no sense of subtlety, Hayato."
"Because I have common sense," the pale-haired boy retorted, reaching over to the table next to the cot where he'd slung his school jacket, desperate for a smoke, "which is a far better thing to have, honestly." He waved the stench of alcohol out of his face, and frowned heavily when the pocket of his school blazer turned up empty. "What the hell? Where's my...?"
Shamal held up the pack of L&Ms as though dangling something above a dog on a leash. "Your bustling sex drive thanks me in advance, Hayatoooo." He crushed the cardboard in his fist.
Gokudera gawked. "You... You son of a bitch! I have to have those things fucking imported, you know, costs me a goddamned fortune - !" He swung a blind, angry fist, but Shamal, even drunk, managed to dodge it quite easily. The younger man attempted to calm his fury when he nearly overbalanced into the doctor's lap, but it was hard. He was so goddamned tired of people putting a stomp on his smoking habit - for Christ's sake! He lived in a small, second-story apartment with a bunch of Japanese guys who were convinced that he was planning on marrying one of them to obtain his visa; smoking was one of the few comforts that he had left, god damn it! He chomped down on his lower lip and let out a growl.
"Oh, come onnnn, don't pull that face, Hayato," Shamal crooned, reaching over and ruffling his hair; Gokudera snarled, and would have bit him, if he was certain he wouldn't catch some sort of veneral disease. He jerked out of harm's way, regardless. "Smoking stifles your sexual appetite, you know."
"Can't stifle what doesn't exist," Gokudera clarified, slapping away the hand that was inching towards his hair again. He hated this son of a bitch when he was drunk - he got all clingy, whining about the Queen Mother and all that, and some rather colorful exploits involving a pearl necklace - should have been shot, really, rather than just exiled, because a queen was a queen, regardless of what country, but personal opinions were things that should be kept just that; personal, so he never said anything. He wasn't a goddamned stuffed animal, though, and nor did he like wimpy, overly-emotional girls either (regardless of their original gender), so he elbowed Shamal in the gut when the older man got too close.
"Ah - ha ha...ha," the man laughed anyway, winded, and propped one of his heels on the edge of the bed to scratch at his leg, idly. For a moment, Gokudera saw hell - there was lace on those panties, holy shit! - and he turned his face away, going slightly green. The pervert was still speaking.
"You're a funny kid," Shamal observed, popping a few buttons open on his blazer to scratch at his chest, as well. "Kids your age should be jerking off to the G-rated models in the Pink House catalogue, for God's sake, not dressing up in women's clothing."
"Who's the idiot who's - ?!" Gokudera squawked, outraged, before his tirade was cut off by a warm, massive hand clamping itself firmly over his mouth. He sputtered, coughing on his own air, and jerked at the appendage with all of his might, face going red from anger and impending embarrassment, but found the obstacle impossible to move. The older man's every pore reeked of alcohol, and it was making him slightly dizzy. Gokudera huffed, breathing through his nose like an angry rhino, but ultimately fell still.
"It's only because I'm concerned, Hayato," Shamal continued, sluggishly, earnestly, eyes too bright and leaning too far over the edge of the bed; "I think...that even if it's only for a little while - that I'd like for you to be happy."
The pale-haired boy went red from his neck to the tips of his ears. Wh...What? What the hell was that old pervert...? Honestly, he didn't even have his own visa yet, so if that shithead was trying to con one off of him, he'd fucking kill him - 'like for you to be happy'? What the hell was that shit? Gokudera mmmph'd, trying to swear at the man, trying to do something, other than sit there and gape, with his hands curled into the infirmary cot and his heart hammering in his ears. That idiot was suffocating him - he couldn't goddamned breathe.
As if on cue, the hand covering his mouth disappeared, and he was at last able to speak. "F...Fuck - shit...god damned - !" he snarled, swinging with his fist again, but this time his wrist was caught, neatly, in a firm, yet not unkind, grip.
Shamal let out a long, aggravated sigh. "When a cute girl says something like that to you, Hayato," he slurred, exasperatedly, "you're supposed to smile, you know, and give her a big ol' kiss. That pre-menstrual pissiness of yours is only charming for another two or three years, kiddo, and then it starts to get old. Fast."
Ch...Charming? "Who's piss - " Gokudera started to grumble, before he was jerked forward, hard, and sent smashing into the older man's lips.
He went from red to white in an instant. There was no way in hell. Everything was warm, and wet, and tinted with the flavor of cheap Italian wine. His heart did flip-flops in his stomach and he was going to kill that bastard, so help him God. He pushed his palm down on the bed, trying desperately to back away, but the angle was wrong and his strength seemed to be failing him at the moment; if it had ever been there to begin with. Lips moved against his own, sloppy and generous, and a tongue split the line of his clenched teeth, forcing his head back, back -
Haaaaack. "Wh...What are you trying to do, k-kill me?!" Gokudera yelled, pushing back, half-coughing, half-growling, bent double on the bed with his hands on his neck, trying to do anything but look the infuriating bastard in the eye; "I don't need fucking CPR!"
"Well, I don't treat guys, either," Shamal retorted, frowning, before processing what he had just said, and bursting into a fit of snorted, drunken laughter.
Gokudera let out a huge, particularly exhaustive breath, before curling in on himself with his chin on his knees and glancing at the man sidelong out of the corner of his eyes. He really wanted a cigarette, but his only option, it seemed, was cheap Chianti some two hours old and two minutes warm. His throat felt tight, and his head was filled with the memory of the time he had visited the old pervert out at the sea. (He'd met Shamal's thirty-seven other sisters that day, and they'd all treated him to innumerable quantities of sweets, but only the man himself had remembered that his favorite food was gelato, and that he liked it sour.)
"I had to fucking import those," he groused, feeling his frown tug at the corners of his face.
Shamal stood, swaying slightly, and sat himself down next to the younger man in a manner that was more like falling. His fingers reached out, and buried themselves in Gokudera's light, fine hair. "We're a sad pair, aren't we, Hayato?" he agreed, lamentably, cheeks red and eyes drooping almost to shut. "I only got to see a fat girl's boob."
Gokudera shoved him angrily away.
But Shamal followed up impeccably, despite his inebriation - grabbed the pale-haired boy by the wrists, pushing him down, down, onto the surface of the bed, knees digging into his chest and apprehension dawning in his heart. A warm face, rough with stubble, nuzzled itself against the thin layer of his school shirt, to his chest.
"If you didn't see any fucking boobs in the girl's locker room," Gokudera snarled, trying to squirm away, "what the hell makes you think you'll see any here?" But his palms were wet, and he was sweating like a bastard - great drips of it, matting his hair to his head and his bangs behind his ears. He needed a cigarette. The urge was almost unbelieveable. "If you don't get your paws off of me, I'll blow you to bits, you sick son of a bitch!"
"In theory, a noble endeavor," Shamal agreed, earnestly, nodding so hard it looked for a moment as though his head might fall off; "but the practice of which I think is a bit too advanced for you, Hayato. After all, you've never even been kissed before. Of course, if you're going to go solo, then the girls in Bejean are the best."
Even, while saying this, the man was attempting to swing his legs around Gokudera's hips, doggedly. It would have been a more fruitful effort if the boy in question weren't resisting, currently, with all of his might, pushing at broad, blazered shoulders with an expression on his face akin to the utmost of fear and loathing.
"Get the hell off of me, you idiot!" he expostulated, for good measure; there were some things that simply needed to be said twice. "If you value your balls at all, old man, you'll - !"
And he shut up, as he was again quickly and thoroughly kissed. Something so close to pleasant that it was unpleasant jolted suddenly up his spine, and he inhaled, sharply, through his nose. A little CPR in this situation wouldn't have been so terrible, really - his face was so red that he thought he was going to die.
"Moof...yer...lipsh," Shamal grunted, bearing heavily down, and though Gokudera should have found something inherently ridiculous in the fact that he was being molested by a guy more than twice his age in a girl's blazer and skirt, all he found was that he felt...hot. Really, really hot. That bastard had such huge, rough palms, skirting all over his body like this or that. He withdrew his knees from his chest and dug his feet into the sides of the cot, trying to get enough leverage to push himself away.
"Kids...today... - no finesse," Shamal was still complaining, mournfully, even as he was stroking his tongue across the younger man's lips with ease; "kiss me back, Hayato." Gokudera, who had had in some ways more than enough of this, managed to jerk his head back and away enough to break his lips free.
"What kind of finesse can a guy like you have," he demanded, breathlessly, heart a telltale thump in his throat, "who dresses in women's clothing and spies on girls in the sports locker room?!"
The doctor drew back, laughing. "Enough, I think," he said, smiling crookedly, and Gokudera dug his teeth into his lower lip, apprehensively. "Of course, you still haven't learned a thing of what I've taught you of women, or flirting in general - maybe you should just go back to folding your paper planes, ehhh?"
This, really, was too fucking much. Being told off by a grown man in a skirt was too goddamned much. Unfortunate was the fact that he had such dark, rich-colored hair, flicked into perfect tips behind the curve of his ears. Even more unfortunate, perhaps, was the fact that - preference aside - beige really was a good color on that son of a bitch. Gokudera snarled.
"You're paying for my fucking cigarettes," he said, thunderously, and threw his arms without care around the assassin's neck.
"I'll do noooo such thing," Shamal argued, non-plussed, but lowered his head anyway; "I'm a doctor, for God's sake. I might as well go and ask you to stick your head into a microwave for faster effect, Hayaaato."
The way the man trilled his name was enough for Gokudera's breath to run fast even to his own ears, but the bite to the lobe of his ear was a one-hit KO, for sure. He hissed out something, a half-curse, that sounded way more weak and wanting than he'd wanted it to be, and tried not to flinch when broad, calloused hands stroked themselves through his hair, down the back and sides of his neck. He shivered, drawn out on a string, and tried his best to pay attention when Shamal murmured something in his ear that was neither Japanese nor Italian - English, that's what it was, English, and Gokudera wasn't as proficient in that as he'd have liked.
Shamal said it again; Open your mouth, and shit, shit, that was it? Like hell - the pale-haired boy clenched his teeth, baring them in his taut, sweat-stained face, and be damned if he was going to give that pervert the satisfaction. He wasn't a horse, for God's sake, to be given the bit, like that Cavallone, and nor was he a goddamned loudmouth, a vacuum, like that fucking Yamamoto. He stared down the doctor's bright, laughing eyes, and tried to ignore the weird feeling that was coiling in his stomach like a snake.
Shamal pinched his nostrils shut.
"Of all the dirty - !" Gokudera howled, without thinking, and slapped the man's hand away a second too soon; his lips were caught, again, and the rest of his tirade was reduced to sputtering, incoherent outrage.
And eventually, even that died out, too. Died out faster than the Mafia's respect at the Tomaso's 75th Family Reunion or whatever the hell it was that he'd been dragged to as a kid, as a matter of fact, in the moment that Shamal's hands untucked his shirt from his belt and rubbed themselves slowly along the curve of his hips. A noise escaped his throat, unbidden, as rough, padded thumbs traced the line of his pelvic bone, dipping down a little too far in the center, and he almost fucking hahi!-ed, like that goddamned annoying girl; how fucking embarrassing was that? Gokudera bit, accidentally, on the edge of the other man's lips, as he attempted a snarl; he almost backed away to apologize, but Shamal seemed to like the biting, rumbling something that sounded like encouragement (either that, or a poorly-disguised belch) from his lips, hands picking up in pressure and urgency.
"Your response is getting better," the man noted, squinting blearily at him as though not quite understanding who or what the hell the pale-haired boy was; "but you're still so goddamned bitchy, Hayato. You're not doing this cute girl a favor, you know, by being sweet with her. Tell yourself that: 'I'm not doing anyone a favor. I'm the luckiest guy in the world right now. I'm not worthy of such good fortune'."
"What fucking good fortune?!" Gokudera had to spit, at that, because good fortune was being assigned the seat next to the Tenth at the beginning of the school year; good fortune was being able to afford something other than instant noodles and leftover sushi from the baseball nut for dinner - good fortune was not, last he had checked, getting one's jive on with a cross-dressing man in his thirties who reeked strongly of alcohol.
Good fortune was maybe, perhaps, the fact that the shithead in question did have remarkably strong, skilled hands. Possibly. Marginally good fortune, at best. (The youth stuffed his knuckles between his teeth to keep from whimpering as those same hands slid up under the fabric of his shirt, over his ribs.) Fingertips scratched at his sides, at his pelvis, again, and started to undo the buckles of his belt. Gokudera hitched in a breath.
"All right, you shit doctor," he said, a bit hurriedly, trying to manuever his legs to hide the fact that he was currently sporting the most raging hard-on he had ever had in his life from a hairy guy in a skirt; "don't you think your stupid joke has gone on for long enough? Go bother Noriko-sensei from 3A if you want some turf to plow, you stinking drunkard." It was solid advice - he'd been unfortunate enough to stumble in on the two of them after an unfortunate experience with Bucking Horse Dino had left him in need of a Band-Aid (or two, or twelve, but it hadn't mattered anyway because holy shit that woman's tits were huge) - and never mind the fact that his heart had banged as recklessly in his chest back then as it was currently doing right now.
Shamal stared at him, eyes struggling to stay in focus. "Hayato," he said, after a while, as though pained, and fell forward right after that.
Gokudera spasmed, and coughed, and tried to breathe amidst the sudden weight and smell of alcohol. "J-Jesus," he said, eyes watering, slightly, "passed out, you old coot? Just fucki - " And then he froze, because he realized that there were arms around his neck; big, solid ones, warm as the fucking Mediterrean, and just as reminiscent of home. The jackass was hugging him? The youth's mind boggled at the thought. Hadn't even fucking hugged him when he was eight, when he was young enough to enjoy it, young enough to not be...annoyed by it; shit, he really hated this bastard when he was drunk. Really.
"Hayato," Shamal said again, breath warm against the top of Gokudera's hair, "there's nothing in this world that makes me sadder, Hayato, than a guy who could have any girl in the world - easily, without trying - and they don't even have the interest. Aren't even willing to give it the time." He sighed, downtrodden. "You're breaking this cute girl's heart."
"Not cute," Gokudera corrected, but his face was beet-red, regardless. Girls? And him? It had all been because they'd known that he was going to one day be the Tenth's right-hand man, hadn't it? An interest in his future position, hadn't that been right? "And let go of me," he added, for good measure. "There's something poking me in the leg."
An instant too late, he realized what he had just said. 'Too late' because, even as he was squirming to get away, one of Shamal's mammoth hands clamped down over his wrist, and the other shoved itself, without hesitation, down the waistband of his jeans.
Gokudera squawked. "Wh-Wh-Wh - ?!" he fumbled, in a way that was more like a shriek, and tried to ignore the way the feeling in his stomach was flaring, fanning, at the presence of a warm, sure hand resting itself along the length of his erection. Fucking beige, and the man really did have nice, lean (albeit rather hairy) legs. They looked strangely good in knee-high socks. Was he insane? A side-effect of poison cooking-related trauma? Gokudera panted, heavily, still sweating like a bastard. He'd had to import those fucking L&Ms, and what the hell was that quack doing with his hand?
"A graduation from unresponsive prints of fashion models," Shamal was saying, guiding the younger man's wrist under his skirt with difficulty (still quite ludicrously tanked); "I'll give you the chance to touch a real, cute, feminine idol, how's that?"
"Are you suffering from some serious delusions about yourself or what?!" Gokudera retaliated, trying to jerk his hand back, and inadvertantly brushing his fingers against something hot, hard, and hidden thus far under the fabric of that skirt.
And then, Shamal made a face. His lips parted, a bit (lipstick smeared, and the younger man realized with dawning horror that most of it was probably smeared all over him); and one of his eyes squinched shut, tightly, as though he'd just felt a twinge of pain. It was such a stupid-looking, ridiculous face, but strangely...alluring, too, and Christ, Gokudera thought, as he lost this particular round, it'd be kind of satisfying, really, to make that jackass make a face like that even more.
Experience, of course, not being on his repertoire, he wiggled his hips, a little, ever-concerned with the circumstances surrounding his own body, and waited for some sort of cue.
"Ah, if you were a girl," Shamal was saying, bearing down on him with more weight than he'd have liked to suffer, "I'd marry you in an instant, Hayato," - which was perhaps not the best thing to say to a bristling, volatile, fourteen-year-old boy (who didn't care to being compared to a girl, either); but all of that mattered surprisingly little in the instant that the man flexed his palm, majestically, and touched.
And - oh, Jesus. What a fucking bundle of nerves. Every stroke, every squeeze, magnified itself to tenfold and dispersed sensation from his brain; curling his toes, curving his nails. He did something, inadvertantly - a kind of reflexive jerk - to the other man's dick that had Shamal groaning, as though sick, and rambling something at him in broken Czechoslovakian.
So the trick, then, was to not think about it. After all, if it had occurred to the young Italian that what he was essentially doing was rubbing one off with his tranny, drunken mentor, he might have stopped the thing entirely out of sheer ridiculousness; failing that, fear of the law, at least, because this was undoubtedly illegal in some way or another. But not thinking about it was easy. Thinking only about shoving his shirt sleeve in his mouth to muffle some extrememly girly moan or another was first-grade math easy, really, when the head of his cock was thumbed; his balls fondled, just so. Everything else was just background noise.
Including - "Ah, I don't care, I don't even care, marry me anyway, Hayato," which the idiot doctor was panting now, and there were barrettes in his hair, tiny ones, almost impossible to see, and despite all that, he was still wearing men's cologne; the Italian kind, not the pansy shit that the Brits or the Asians wore. Gokudera tried to pull a face, but found he could only pant, and buck, and spread his legs for more. His jeans were tight, and would probably rip if he stretched them any more; he didn't wear underwear, either, so the thought really should have concerned him, but it didn't. Not a lot did, right about now, though if the Tenth had suddenly burst in on them with some emergency or another, he still probably would have dropped everything for it, regardless. ('Probably', and that distressed him.)
"Eat...shit..." he ground out, desperately, grinding his hips just as desperately, molding himself against that rough, perfect touch. His own grip, he knew, was sweaty and too-tight from inexperience and urgency, and he tried to concentrate enough to do it right, to do it properly, but thought slipped away from him like sand in a sieve. "Who'd...want to...marry you...hunh?" His thumbs caught something at the base of the other man's shaft, and Shamal hissed; drawled a curse in their furtive, native Italian that was not particularly pleasant yet still somehow encouraging.
"How's...that, hunh?" Gokudera smirked, dragging his hands feather-light, dragging his gaze up, and froze as though shot in the instant that he realized that in this, like most other things, he'd been too goddamned bold.
"You..." he said, trailing off, because Shamal was looking at him; doing just that, just looking - but he was looking at him like he wanted to eat him, or own him, or shit, maybe even just hug him again which was by far the most terrifying of the lot. His eyes had gone as dark as his hair. And Gokudera, naive, had a moment for which he let his hands drop, let his eyes go just a little bit wide, and then he was coming, coming harder and faster than he ever had in his entire life, coming all over the goddamned place.
"Oh, shit - !" he yelled - wailed, was more like it - before yanking one of his hands back to his face and biting down, hard, on the webbing between his index finger and his thumb, toes curling dents into the very fabric of the infirmary cot below him. He pressed his eyes shut, riding it out, shuddering at pleasure so sharp it was almost painful reverbating through his every vein; hissed, frantically, at the slowing hand on his cock and the steadying hand on the back of his neck, snarling on thick, sweaty clumps of pale hair.
And then, there was a sudden, extremely conspicuous amount of nothing. Gokudera slumped, bowing his head between his legs and breathing slowly out of his nose, looking at his stomach and the waistband of his jeans, now smeared with thick, viscous white; he rubbed the stuff with his finger and brought it to his nose, hesitantly, before pulling a disgusted face and wiping it on his thigh. Shamal, similarly, was making the same disgusted face, shaking his stained hand back and forth rapidly as though burned, moaning something about cute, impatient little boys in a clipped Russian falsetto. He was swigging something from a small, silver flask that had appeared miraculously out of nowhere. Gokudera didn't mind much. He fell onto his back atop the bed, boneless.
Something scratchy hit him in the face.
"I don't treat guys," Shamal reminded him, unflappably, "but have the courtesy to treat yourself, at least." He gestured, impassively, to Gokudera's now-bleeding hand, then to the bandages that now lay, coiled, on his chest.
The youth obliged without complaint, though there were several things he could have said on the matter of the shit doctor and his 'treatment' of guys. He wrapped his hand sluggishly, without sitting up, feeling suddenly very tired. Less like he needed a cigarette, though. He almost smiled, except, well, women's underwear. There were some sins that just weren't meant to be forgiven.
He tied the gauze off with his teeth, and it wasn't until he'd stretched, a bit, and let out a slow, contented sigh, that he realized that that same shit doctor was currently attempting to insert something up his ass.
Gokudera yowled. "Are you fucking retarded?!" he demanded to know, scissoring his legs in an impressive psuedo-roundhouse that Shamal caught, easily, with only one hand. The youth thrashed, impressively, with all of his might. "You've got to be joking! Isn't that, like, something you could go to jail for, you piece of shit?! I'm not the goddamned Queen of England - there's gotta be bigger fish out there that you'd sink for, you lech!"
"Well, it's not fair," Shamal reasoned, perfectly calm (still perfectly drunk, too, from the way he went cross-eyed, briefly, and shook his head); "for you, a guy, to get your mess all over the place, and just roll over like that, leaving this unbelieveably cute and accomodating girl so unsatisfied."
Oh, that fucker, he thought he was going to get away with this, hunh? Gokudera snarled, and tensed up with all of his might against the intrusion (fingers, they were his fucking fingers; wasn't that gross as shit?). "Queen Mother!" he hollered, sore as all get-out.
"Premature ejaculation, Hayato," Shamal corrected him, wagging one of the fingers of his free hand then flicking him, hard, on the nose; "look, just let me borrow your butt, okay? It's not like I'm asking you to run laps or anything."
"No - way - !" Gokudera bellowed, pushing his palm against the doctor's face as hard as he could; pulling the other one, even harder, away from the vicinity of his rear. Their absence left a wet feeling - which could be attributed to, he noted a second later, the bottle of what appeared to be lotion that had appeared miraculously on the tray beside his cot. "Jesus Christ, do you just walk around with a bottle of Kose in your fucking pocket all the time, hunh?! Don't tell me you plan for stuff like this, incompetent - !"
"Preparedness," Shamal corrected, again, licking his lips; "for God's sake, kid, dat's my nobe - " for Gokudera, amidst struggling, had somehow jammed his finger up it, unceremoniously. He hastily yanked it free, blanching hugely, and let go of the man's face for a second to wipe it, hurriedly, on his jeans.
And in that second, he let his guard down, and in that same second, something cold and slick wormed its way into his ass.
If he'd have known the Japanese word for 'rape', he'd have been screaming it in an instant. (Alas, second language, how unfortunate.) He screamed plenty of other things, for sure, things about evisceration and Shamal's mother and what sort of jobs would be better suited for a eunuch, the lot of which he'd mostly learned from various TV dramas that he'd been forced to watch with his apartment-mates on nights when there hadn't been anything better to do - but all that didn't change, really, the fact that he was still stuck pants-down in the school infirmary with a guy in a girl's school uniform who was currently canoodling some overtime out of his ass.
"Death...pain...you - !" Gokudera gritted out, bearing down on the foreign feeling, but finding it impossible to eschew. He had to take a moment to inhale, and that finger pushed in further. Shamal swore, Turkish with exasperation.
"You're not very tolerant, are you?" he observed, squinting blearily again, rubbing a hand across his 5 o'clock shadow with a sigh. "Come on, I'll give you some aspirin when we're done, Hayato, so just take it easy already, for God's sake. Tu sei il mio favorito, capiche? Though you'd be a knockout if only you had boobs."
'Favorite'? Fucking favorite? For a guy who had 2,062 sisters, being favorited sure wasn't saying a fuck of a lot; Gokudera shook, minutely, and balled his hands in his shirt, casting his eyes to the ceiling and remembering a day of building sandcastles by the sea. He muttered some nonsense about eunuchs again, but did what he thought the bastard's favorite would do, and started wriggling out of his tight, ripped jeans.
"Hey, if it helps, think of something else," Shamal, the ultimate womanizer (if not slightly more 'woman' than 'izer' at the moment) advised, and honestly, what was he, some sort of idiot? Who the hell had the capacity to think about anything, when fingers the size of sausages were being plugged up their butt? Not, of course, that it was as bitterly unpleasant as it had been a moment ago; rather, the more Gokudera came to accept his imminent deflowering as a matter of course, the more the digits inside of him began to flit back and forth with ease, and the less it became a huge inconvenience to bear.
He thought of sour lemon gelato, and a hand the size of his head ruffling deeply into his hair.
"Fucking...stupid," the boy laughed then; harsh, clipped bites of swears; "it's so fucking stupid, don't you think?" He threw his arms, bent at the elbows, over his squinched eyes. "Just because my father never hugged me and the sight of my sister makes me puke, I - "
And his nostrils were pinched shut, and he was kissed, again.
(But he'd really meant to say something along the lines of, If you ever tell anyone about this, especially the Tenth, I'll fucking gut you, he really had. Strangely, he didn't mind terribly that he hadn't.) He opened his mouth, and breathed sour, mixed air with the hint of aged wine. There was a shift, and a slight grunt, and his lower half was spread, uncomfortably, in a neither pleasant nor particularly unpleasant sort of way that sent a shiver up his spine, regardless.
"Hey," he said aloud, as the thought occurred to him and the bastard broke away, giving him room once more to breathe; "how is it that you know about stuff like this, anyway? I thought you didn't treat guys, hunh?" Which - oh, the irony. (The humanity of it all, too, but his growl on the subject turned into a sort of high-pitched stutter as suddenly, a second finger joined the first in the commune that was currently taking place up his ass.)
"Ladies are a species of many secrets," Shamal said, diffidently; Gokudera felt, rather than saw, him shrug. "That's pretty rude of you to ask, Hayato. 'Course," - Gokudera shuddered, and trilled something low in his throat as the man's probing fingers found something that hit him really, really good - "you're most at home when you're being a rude little priss, isn't that right? Look, you're taking this like it's nothing, now."
"Priss," the pale-haired boy rumbled, opening his mouth for a serious swear-off, before the waist of his shirt was rolled up, unexpectedly, and shoved into his vulnerable mouth.
Which was just as well, really, as it made his embarrassing, nervous little squeak that much more difficult to hear when the fingers were taken out, his legs were pushed up, and something hard and just a little bit wet nudged itself against his ass. Shit, he had time to think, pressing his arms as tightly as he could around his forehead, he's huge, that piece of shit, and he had the nerve, of all things, to stick this in the Queen of England? Should have have it whacked off, s'what they should have done - and then moral outrage meant shamefully little when Shamal laughed, heartily, and pushed.
"Nnnngh!" Gokudera yelled, mostly because there was no particular way to articulate I'll fucking kill you! when there was a wad of fabric the size of his fist shoved up against the roof of his mouth. He flung his legs desperately around the first thing he could find; the backs of Shamal's thighs, and felt the lace of that stupid, frilly girl's underwear tickling the inside of his calf. Fucking beige, and he hadn't looked so much good like that as he had self-sorry and unguarded, and it was hard to tell which one was worse.
I still hate him anyway, the younger man decided, anyway, as he was carefully invaded, inch by slow-moving inch. The room stank like booze and sweat, and that expensive Venetian cologne, and it was getting pretty goddamned late in the day, and his L&Ms were still crushed to dust in the garbage can, but Shamal pressed his face roughly into his shoulder, fingers stroking the hair knotted at the nape of his neck, and Gokudera discovered in that minute what it truly meant to not give a shit.
"4/4 time," the doctor murmured, into his ear; "we'll start out slow, Hayato." The first beat of their hips made a steady, solid thump. It was a good sound. They ebbed and advanced in opposite rhythm; one melody, the other harmony, and in a few moments, it wasn't just the sound that was good.
6/8 was the next measure, pleasure spreading in a slow ring, slightly staccato, and a low, throaty suggestion that he touch himself, a little, just to prove that he'd know to do it, next time, when he should. (So he did, self-consciously, teeth digging holes into the fabric of his shirt and hands fluttering over himself like the breath of a butterfly. Until he went too hard, once, and let out a terrible cry, and learned that to do it harder was to do it better, and adhered to that in practice.)
"12/16," he heard above him, in a muted groan, but he remembered the last time he had gotten too bold with his eyes, and kept them firmly shut. His legs shook, and his hips wriggled with every thrust, but it was still with a mild sense of embarrassment that he came all over himself for the second time that day; slower, and with more clarity than he had before, less of a sense of brutal satisfaction and more of a subtle szforzando, low in pitch yet high in volume. He tensed, disliking being treated so roughly in the aftermath, and he heard a word - either a compliment, or a collioquism for defenestration - and then the shoulder against his face went still; something hot flooded into him with about as much grace as a stampede, and he almost drowned in the weight of a warm, familiar body falling onto him, panting hard with exertion.
He liked this soft, hazy silence, he really did, but Gokudera didn't have much in the way of ears for his own harsh, ragged breathing (still spared a second to look, mournfully, at his smokes laying scattered atop the rubbish in the trash can, anyway), so after a minute or two he spat out his shirt and said, gruffly, "You're heavy. Get the hell off, incompetent quack."
"Oi, Hayato," Shamal sighed, mockingly exasperated, "isn't there anything else you want to say?" He drew his head back, a bit; cocked an eyebrow, expectantly.
"Oh," Gokudera replied, after a moment's thought, " - if you tell anyone about this, especially the Tenth, I'll fucking gut you. Piece of shit." That said, he swiped an errant hand through his hair, satisfied. Covered in a number of questionable substances, for sure, and aching in more places than one, but...ultimately, satisfied.
Could have lived without the idiot doctor opening his mouth again, though. "Ahhhh, if you were a shoe, you'd have been the perfect fit, Hayato. You'd make a nice B cup, though."
"Speak for yourself!" the pale-haired boy hollered, feeling around for his jeans - threw them on, angrily, making a rip in the fabric that hadn't been part of the initial design, but not really caring, either way. He stomped his way to the infirmary door, trying to ignore the fact that he was limping in a way that could be considered 'conspicuously obvious'. (Fucking huge - he wasn't English, for a fact, but as any citizen who would lay down his life for God and country, and not necessarily in that order, Gokudera felt a momentary shame that he'd allowed himself to be duped by the same jackass who'd defiled the Brits' queen.)
"Hey, don't be like that," Shamal drawled, hair mussed, lips swollen, eyes insufferably satisfied; "where're you gonna go with that lipstick all over your face anyway, kid?"
"Away from you," Gokudera asserted, vehemently, struggling to lace his sneakers up by the door without bending his back any more than was necessary (could a stick of dynamite actually fit up someone's ass? he wondered); "to the store, you nosy prick, to get myself some goddamned cigarettes." Because the urge to smoke was now, unerringly, even stronger than ever.
"L&Ms, wasn't it?" the man asked, propping himself on an elbow, and licking his lips as though he were a cat. "If you can make do with the Lucky Strikes down at the Lawson's, I'll buy you a whole carton later. 'Cuz it's been a while since I've heard you at the piano, Hayato."
Gokudera paused, door halfway open. Of course, the only reason the bastard had ever bothered coming to see him play was because of his sister, hadn't that been right? He'd worn beige then, too, a camel-colored cigarette jacket that had smelled like him, and smelled like a bunch of people that weren't him, too, and his foot had absently tapped out the time. Gokudera didn't mind 12/16 time.
He did, however, currently mind the lewd and rather complicated gestures that were now being made in his direction, so he snarled, face red, and yanked the door open the rest of the way with abandon.
"Just buy me a fucking gelato," he grumbled, and slammed it firmly shut behind him.
And Shamal, who remembered, just laughed, and laughed, and laughed.
AN: ?! Or something. Actually, you know, I won't scream to myself something trivial like "WHY THE FUCK DID I WRITE THIS!??!?!" or anything like that, but I WILL scream to myself, "WHY THE FUCK DID I HAVE *FUN* WRITING THIS?!?!!?!??! ;______;" because really, I shouldn't have. Really. Shouldn't have.
Some things! L&Ms are Italian cigarettes, if you couldn't get that; well, they're Italian when the Italians aren't busy smoking Marlboros lol. (Amerikku.) Apparently the tobacco market in Italy is not doing so hot. Why smoke when you make bitching vino? Similarly, Chianti is relatively mid-grade Italian wine. Not "cheap" in the sense that one could probably drink paint thinner and achieve the same taste and effect, but it's not fucking Pinot Gregio, either. Kose is like the Lubriderm of Japanese hand lotions, btw. It was either that or Sekkisei, which is more like Olay, which, uh, lol context.
Oh, and if you don't know what Lucky Strikes are by now, you should just kill yourself. Because you clearly haven't watched enough Japanese television. (J/k. But surely you've seen the box super-imposed on various anime promotion posters, y/n?) Lawson's is Japan's 7-11, and is pretty much used in much the same manner as Amerikkan 7-11 - for underaged children to buy cigarettes, condoms, and/or beer. Sorry, Japan. (Actually, Japan has 7-11s of its own, which is further proof that the American standard is slowly starting to be assimilated by other countries, too. But this is a yaoi porn fic, and not Economics 101, so I won't say anything else on this subject. Were you expecting me to? lol)
In terms of actual writing-related notes, I'm...sorry. I don't really have much to say. There's no excuse for this. I can't believe I squeezed as many words out of this as I did in general. Also, music-related porn metaphors FTL. I didn't violate any Queen Mothers, but I might as well be shot for this anyway. *shrug*
Saaa, anonymous no commentu! *rubs hands together in glee* Tanoshimi da na!
...rune, you're gonna reply with that icon I hate, aren't you.