Bitch Be Tripping Balls! + 100moods Drabble
If you don't read VG Cats at all, at least go read the latest one. It's so worth it and it's where my new icon came from :)
But hey, I finally finished my essay for the summer program at Stanford, so now I just have to see if I get accepted.
...
...
...
FUCK.
Oh yeah, remember how I said I'd commit to writing projects on here? So I had work to do. LIKE ALWAYS.
[throws AP Chemistry textbook out of window]
But I do have a drabble. It's 8059 again, but I promise the next one will be 5927. I started writing it and it's actually...pretty wrong. Srsly.
Title: #079: Rejection
Fandom: Reborn, duh.
Rating: R18.
Summary: It’s a sequel to Sinful, but you don’t really have to read it to understand this one.
As the cold marble tiles on the countertop sent chills up his naked spine, Gokudera reminded Yamamoto of his two rules during sex:
No touching and no talking.
So Yamamoto had to make do. The first time Gokudera ordered this, he laughed and asked “Then how are we supposed to do this?” After being blown to pieces he realized what the pyrotechnic had meant. Any kind of contact besides a handjob would end it. Anything a syllable longer than a grunt or moan would ensure a sexless life.
Gokudera didn’t want emotion, or love, or pity. He wanted a quick fix, a shot of pain and a shot of ecstasy that would make him forget how miserable he was, even if it only lasted a few minutes. He wanted to pretend that it wasn’t the tall swordsman hunched over him, splitting him open with such force, gripping the sides of the counters and obeying his “touch rule.”
For some reason, Yamamoto felt he was splitting himself open in the process. He couldn’t resist looking down at the pyrotechnic: his silver hair disheveled and spilling onto the marble, his creamy skin tightened over his slender figure, his hypnotizing green eyes averted, this absolute perfection that killed him. He wanted to brush his calloused hands against those delicate cheeks and suck his skin at the nape of his neck and smother him with kisses from his chapped lips to his hip bone.
But of course, he was forbidden.
So he settled for the only touch he was allowed to have. Gokudera let out a rather loud moan and bit his lip to contain any more signs of pleasure as Yamamoto slowly wrapped his tanned and blistered hands around Gokudera’s length. The silver-haired man’s face was so angelic, so twisted in beauty and bliss that it only destroyed Yamamoto even more with a mix of pain and satisfaction.
Somehow, the touch he could normally do without. It was the talking that made it so difficult. After years of working in organized crime and being around Gokudera [because he’s Gokudera for Chrissake and is enveloped in cynicism] he still retained his simple mind and loved the simple exchange of words and would love to ask him anything like “What kind of flowers did you bring to Tsuna’s grave today?” and “Did you change the type of shampoo you use? It smells nice, like orchids.” He knows it’s childish and idiotic but he knows it’d be more likely that Gokudera would respond better to simple questions than what he really wants to say, like “It doesn’t hurt, right?” or “You have the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen.”
But of course, he isn’t allowed and beggars can’t be choosers.
So he settled for the only noises he was allowed to make.
He heard his unrequited love underneath him begin to whimper with every thrust. It was unbearable for him to hear, to only reply by moans of his own instead of his name. To not be able to pull him into a kiss like said love had done earlier (even if that kiss had no meaning and was only another distraction from Tsuna).
Yamamoto just wished he wasn’t the third wheel to Gokudera and a dead guy.
Both men come, and Gokudera avoids eye contact and rushes to the shower. Yamamoto takes a beer out of the fridge, sits on the counter, and wonders how long he can take it all.
But hey, I finally finished my essay for the summer program at Stanford, so now I just have to see if I get accepted.
...
...
...
FUCK.
Oh yeah, remember how I said I'd commit to writing projects on here? So I had work to do. LIKE ALWAYS.
[throws AP Chemistry textbook out of window]
But I do have a drabble. It's 8059 again, but I promise the next one will be 5927. I started writing it and it's actually...pretty wrong. Srsly.
Title: #079: Rejection
Fandom: Reborn, duh.
Rating: R18.
Summary: It’s a sequel to Sinful, but you don’t really have to read it to understand this one.
As the cold marble tiles on the countertop sent chills up his naked spine, Gokudera reminded Yamamoto of his two rules during sex:
No touching and no talking.
So Yamamoto had to make do. The first time Gokudera ordered this, he laughed and asked “Then how are we supposed to do this?” After being blown to pieces he realized what the pyrotechnic had meant. Any kind of contact besides a handjob would end it. Anything a syllable longer than a grunt or moan would ensure a sexless life.
Gokudera didn’t want emotion, or love, or pity. He wanted a quick fix, a shot of pain and a shot of ecstasy that would make him forget how miserable he was, even if it only lasted a few minutes. He wanted to pretend that it wasn’t the tall swordsman hunched over him, splitting him open with such force, gripping the sides of the counters and obeying his “touch rule.”
For some reason, Yamamoto felt he was splitting himself open in the process. He couldn’t resist looking down at the pyrotechnic: his silver hair disheveled and spilling onto the marble, his creamy skin tightened over his slender figure, his hypnotizing green eyes averted, this absolute perfection that killed him. He wanted to brush his calloused hands against those delicate cheeks and suck his skin at the nape of his neck and smother him with kisses from his chapped lips to his hip bone.
But of course, he was forbidden.
So he settled for the only touch he was allowed to have. Gokudera let out a rather loud moan and bit his lip to contain any more signs of pleasure as Yamamoto slowly wrapped his tanned and blistered hands around Gokudera’s length. The silver-haired man’s face was so angelic, so twisted in beauty and bliss that it only destroyed Yamamoto even more with a mix of pain and satisfaction.
Somehow, the touch he could normally do without. It was the talking that made it so difficult. After years of working in organized crime and being around Gokudera [because he’s Gokudera for Chrissake and is enveloped in cynicism] he still retained his simple mind and loved the simple exchange of words and would love to ask him anything like “What kind of flowers did you bring to Tsuna’s grave today?” and “Did you change the type of shampoo you use? It smells nice, like orchids.” He knows it’s childish and idiotic but he knows it’d be more likely that Gokudera would respond better to simple questions than what he really wants to say, like “It doesn’t hurt, right?” or “You have the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen.”
But of course, he isn’t allowed and beggars can’t be choosers.
So he settled for the only noises he was allowed to make.
He heard his unrequited love underneath him begin to whimper with every thrust. It was unbearable for him to hear, to only reply by moans of his own instead of his name. To not be able to pull him into a kiss like said love had done earlier (even if that kiss had no meaning and was only another distraction from Tsuna).
Yamamoto just wished he wasn’t the third wheel to Gokudera and a dead guy.
Both men come, and Gokudera avoids eye contact and rushes to the shower. Yamamoto takes a beer out of the fridge, sits on the counter, and wonders how long he can take it all.