rawr
Hello! I just joined Livejournal and went straight for this group 'cause- come on- Yamamoto and Gokudera? Who can say no to that?
So I bring my first Y/G. It evolved from a prompt my sister gave me, which were a list of words and pairings I had to cover. I used cheese, fork, spaghetti and teeth in this one. I've also written another one, its kind of yama/goku, but its more a yama/tsuna/goku sandwich (not triangle) and I was wondering if that was legal here. (???)
Well, on with the fic!
Title: Sticky Fingers
Rating/Warnings: (Heavy) Pg-15. Nothing too explicit though (sorry ;P)
Sum: Someone has to teach Yamamoto the proper way to eat cheese.
Snippet: As was befitting of an idiot, Yamamoto had no culinary skills. So Gokudera was, once again, stuck with the baseball freak for lunch at his house, having spent the last hour cooking for both of them.
Link:
Sticky Fingers
As befitting of an idiot, Yamamoto had no culinary skill. So Gokudera was, once again, stuck with the baseball freak for lunch at his house, having spent the last hour cooking for both of them, only to have Yamamoto practically ignore the cuisine in favour for the apparently fascinating Italian cream cheese.
“Mmmh, this is so good. Ha ha ha, I almost never have cheese. We mostly have leftovers of the restaurant at mine,” Yamamoto said good-naturedly, dipping his knife in the yellowish mass and spreading it generously on a piece of bread. Gokudera tried not to twitch as Yamamoto inexpertly handled it, messily biting so that the cheese oozed over the edges and unto the swordsman’s fingers. If he had never seen the other fight, Gokudera would have bet all his dynamite that Yamamoto didn’t have an ounce of grace in his being. At least he could bank on the fact that Yamamoto was an uncultured moron who didn’t know how to eat properly.
“What the hell are you doing? You’re wasting all the- it’s all over your fingers!” Gokudera growled, stabbing his spaghetti with his fork and temper. Yamamoto looked up, grinning.
“Whoops,” he laughed, and lifted his hand to his lips, languidly licking a digit, his tongue sweeping almost slowly from the base to the very tip.
Gokudera blinked and gripped his fork a little tighter.
“You moron, do you have no manners?” Gokudera protested, narrowing his eyes. Yamamoto, predictably, only smiled and shrugged.
“No need between friends!”
Gokudera glowered at his plate, muttering about how they weren’t friends, despite the fact that they were eating together, alone, at his rarely seen home, and how manners were applicable everywhere, despite his tendency to blow things up.
Gokudera was a man of many contradictions. Apparently.
Yamamoto gave another satisfied hum, sitting back slightly and looking around the room lazily once again. They were seated beside the table in the far end of the kitchen, in view of the classily decorated living room. Yamamoto hadn’t expected Gokudera’s apartment to be so...warm. With paintings of Venice and soft, brown couches and potted plants. Plants! From the cold explosion that was Gokudera; harsh words, silver hair, cutting temper. Sometimes Gokudera’s seemingly impenetrable exterior made Yamamoto expect to be led to a cave made out of ice for Gokudera’s abode. But then he would catch glimpses of the man who belonged on that sinking couch, or beside the photographs of the family he had left behind. When he interacted with Tsuna, or even sometimes with Yamamoto himself, mainly after being injured or when they were all too weary to drag defences up. Then the flicker of Gokudera’s smile would be enchanting. Unforgettable.
“Ah, Italian things are so good,” Yamamoto complimented, twirling his fork expertly, catching the strands of spaghetti. Countless meals at Gokudera’s after missions or when they were too bored or tired to do much else had taught Yamamoto the masterful art of the fork.
“What do you know about Italian things, idiot?” Gokudera muttered, who was certainly not thinking about Yamamoto’s tongue dragging across skin.
“I know that you’re an Italian thing!”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“That Italian things are good.” Gokudera looked at Yamamoto and there was a moment of silence before the former lifted an eyebrow.
“Whatever, you dork. Finish your meal, you’re helping me clean up,” Gokudera said, which’s reply was a typical laugh.
“Ok, ok. Just a bit more of this,” and Yamamoto reached for the cheese again. Gokudera wondered how the heavy substance hadn’t filled him yet. He guessed Yamamoto’s stomach must be as empty as his brain.
“Urgh, can u not learn anything beyond the simple swinging motions of a bat and sword?” Gokudera grunted as, once again, Yamamoto covered his fingers in cheese, this time on both hands. Yamamoto looked down at the covered digits and laughed.
“Sorry.”
And then he was doing it again. As if he weren’t even thinking about, just letting his tongue poke out, licking.
“Stop that,” Gokudera ordered, glaring. Yamamoto looked at him, Asian eyes wide in confusion.
“Hmm? Stop what?” he questioned, popping another finger into his mouth. Gokudera leaned over the table in an instant, gripping Yamamoto’s wrist hard.
“That.”
The motion had left the much closer than before, Gokudera’s plate pushed to the side and Yamamoto’s food almost decorating Gokudera’s shirt. Something seemed to happen at the contact; a slice of electricity jumping from one to the other as they stared straight into each other’s eyes. Slowly, slowly, Gokudera pulled so that the finger slid out of Yamamoto’s mouth, stopping only when Yamamoto’s other hand wrapped around Gokudera’s, so that they were making a three-way link. There was a heat underneath Gokudera’s skin that was maddening. It begged for something to be done about it. Demanded it.
“You’re covering me with cheese, idiot,” Gokudera said lowly, almost whispering, as if anything louder would break the spell. He wasn’t thinking; the moment was filling the air, the space between them as Gokudera lowered his face slightly, bringing his other hand to unwrap Yamamoto’s fingers from his wrist and then lift them up. They paused there, lingering just in front of Gokudera’s lips, both their eyes dilating so that they were dark, drawing each other in. It only took Yamamoto to lick his lips for Gokudera to part his, letting his tongue catch the underside of Yamamoto’s middle finger, the longest, tasting the rich cheese. A little hitch of air left Yamamoto, which Gokudera only caught because of the distance, or lack thereof. But he refused to be interrupted; to think. His nerves were thrumming. He hadn’t broken eye contact at all, looking straight at Yamamoto though eyelashes; hooded and dark. It was getting so hot that Gokudera was beginning to think that the only solution would have to be to take off all of his clothes. And, well, if that led to other things, it wouldn’t exactly be his fault. And as good as the bastard Yamamoto looked in a white, fitted shirt and loose red tie, those had to go as well.
Gokudera had gone from finger to finger, cleaning them slowly, and as he removed the last one he let his teeth drag, biting slightly before letting go. He released Yamamoto completely and was going to move back when Yamamoto struck suddenly, knocking his own plate to the side and yanking Gokudera forwards by his tie.
“If you’re going to start something, finish it,” Yamamoto whispered with such seriousness that Gokudera couldn’t have replied even if he wanted to. He only let surprise and a self-struggle have a moment of hesitance before he opened his mouth against Yamamoto with no need for chaste foreplay.
“Idiot,” he moaned, forgetting everything but the feel of Yamamoto’s tongue sliding against his, the harsh pull of hair in a desperate attempt to bring them closer. The taste of cheese had disappeared and as a plate crashed to the floor it was clear that it was no time for food. In a moment Yamamoto had climbed over the table and straddled Gokudera. The months, years, of sexual tension had suddenly gone up in flames as they stared pulling at each other, biting and tearing as if the first time would be the last. Gokudera let his head tilt back with a moan as he opened his legs and Yamamoto rubbed against him, the friction between clothes so much that it wasn’t enough. Yamamoto dipped his head and licked the offered skin on Gokudera’s throat, ripping the shirt open from the top downwards as he thrust against the Italian once again, groaning at the feel of Gokudera’s hands high on Yamamoto’s thighs, kneading desperately. Suddenly, one of those hands raised farther and cupped the hard length under the clothes hard, making Yamamoto bite down on Gokudera’s collar bone, making both of them cry out. The hand stroked from base upward, lifting to Yamamoto stomach where in full impatience he yanked the shirt open, letting button fly and then pulling the shirt off as they panted into each other’s lips before another kiss that bruised and gave as much as it took.
“Too slow too slow come on,” Gokudera moaned, arching upwards, seeking more, more as they explored new skin, both their shirts off and Yamamoto’s red tie hanging loosely against tan skin. As Gokudera traced a scar with a licked-wet finger, Yamamoto complied and unzipped the other’s trousers quickly, making Gokudera gasp and growl out a moan at the feel of skin on skin, thrusting forwards.
“Is that quick enough?” Yamamoto whispered a laugh in his ear. Gokudera tried to glare but his expression was limited to the pleasured spectrum.
“No,” he moaned, trying to suck in enough air to think, and not doing a very good job of it.
“More?” Yamamoto murmured in his ear, his tongue tracing the shell of it. Gokudera moaned louder.
“Yes. More, more,” he demanded, thrusting harder into Yamamoto’s slow strokes.
“Then come on. Fuck me,” he said and Gokudera squeezed his eyes shut hard as a wave of want rippled like fire through him. In a moment they were stumbling to their feet, rubbing against each other, moaning at every touch and loss of skin.
What they had started they were sure as fuck going to end.