(no subject)
Title: Any Other Day
Fandom: Katekyo Hitman Reborn!
Pairing: Gokudera/Yamamoto
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 7000
Notes: For the Kink Meme prompt "8059, back after a long mission, 'I missed you.'" Posted here because this got a little out of hand and would have been annoying (both to read and to post). So here it is. Pretend I'm anon. It's kinkier that way. ♥
Any other day this would be too stupid and dangerous to try. Any other day this would get you hurt. Any other day, but you don't care. You don't care because you are ten days overdue from your mission in Sicily and it is three in the morning and the soft light under Gokudera's bedroom door is the only sign of life in the compound.
The mission was supposed to be easy. Just some talks with a rival family. You're good at talking. That's why you, and not Gokudera, are always sent off to the diplomatic meetings. The Paglietta Famiglia are hardly allies, but they're not enemies either. And with the Black Spell on the move, it is a good idea to keep in the good graces of all of the families. That's what Tsuna said. Get in their good graces, stay there, and maybe they'll help you guys out when you need it.
But it hadn't gone that way, had it? They ambushed. They knew you were coming alone. And the Black Spell was faster than you, better located strategically. Of course, no one becomes a Vongola Guardian without being able to handle a small collection of lesser Family grunts, so you'd taken out the whole room of them. Every panicked maneuver you knew, some you'd only seen, some that sprung out of your bones as if they'd been curled up dormant in your marrow, and they were down, their corpses littered on the floor.
Not without first getting a few shots in at you, though. Not without a lot of blood lost and the quickening feeling in your gut that you wouldn't be alone with this room of corpses for very long if you stayed, so you split. Down back alleys, you barely remembered to re-sheath your katana, barely remembered to strap it to your back which bled beneath your fine black suit jacket. Gripping your wounds, biting your lip to chain back the noises of pain wanting to escape, to bring blood to your mouth to keep you awake. And, somehow, you found the Tomaso estate--relocated to Sicily after this whole mess with the Black Spell started. Relocated, and lucky fucking thing because you think you probably would have died if Longchamp hadn't been there to take you in and offer antiseptic to your wounds.
So, barging into Gokudera's room--your room, too, if you were pressed, but it doesn't matter because Gokudera still guards it like a fortress--barging in there unbidden is asking to be slaughtered in the doorway, but you do it anyway, because you fucking missed him.
You push in. He's sitting on his bed, back against the wall, knees drawn up, book open but he doesn't look like he's reading, and--"The door's shut, Lawn Head. That means keep the fuck out--" And he stops. His eyes go wide. "Jesus," he whispers.
Your heart leaps up into your throat. Gokudera looks relieved. Frightened and confused and tired, but relieved, too. And it is so easy to cross the room in three long steps and pull his head against your chest before he has a chance to speak any more.
You say it before you have a chance to figure out why: "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry," you say, your breath warm and moist on the crown of his head and you realize that you are crying.
Loving Gokudera Hayato is such a dangerous thing because anybody else would have embraced you in return, but he pushes you away. He pushes you away like something wild, his eyes flashing, his teeth bared. He's angry at you, you can tell, but there's sadness in there, too.
He doesn't ask where you've been. He doesn't have to. You have your hands on his shoulders, holding him away so you can see his eyes. "Tsuna didn't make any deals with the Pagliettas, did he?"
And Gokudera looks at you, confused maybe by your abrupt attention to business when you've been gone for over a week. But he shakes his head, faintly, and it's answer enough.
And your head drops. The first relief in days. "Thank God," you say. Then you pull him to you again. "Don't let him. The Black Spell..." You don't have to say the rest. Before you can take another breath, he's up and unbuttoning your shirt, evaluating the dressings on your body, checking you for additional wounds, for anything requiring immediate attention. He's a warrior in this thing again.
"Hey," you say, your voice suddenly very tired, "hey. Longchamp took care of it. I'm okay."
And his eyes are on fire again. "Longchamp? You were with an ally and you didn't contact us?"
He looks like he could hit you and the touch would be glorious. Because he's a friend. He's on your side, more or less, and anything that isn't trying to kill you right now is enough. You know you worried everyone. You would have gone crazy if it had been one of the others over there and you were here with nothing to do but fret and hope. You'd be overwhelmed with grief. But you didn't want Longchamp or his men to be threatened either, so you laid low until your wounds closed up and he could arrange for a flight home. You explain this. Gokudera doesn't seem to care. He's got ten days of strain built up inside of him like a fuse growing short and he pulls back his fist and punches you in the face.
It is the noise more than the impact that startles you. A loud crack in the dim room. And an old wound, one which those Paglietta grunts carved over your cheekbone with a short, blunt knife--Gokudera busts that one open again and you aren't much for pride, not like he is, but the idea of him thinking he did that to you makes you a little angry right now. You are tired and worried, too; Gokudera doesn't have that market cornered. So you shove him back, like you never wanted to do when you were kids. You were always afraid that he would think you didn't like him, always afraid that he wouldn't realize how much you loved him, that he'd want to be something like rivals forever. So you never did it then, but you do it now.
You shove him hard, shove him back onto the mattress because it's close and you know he won't hurt himself that way. He bounces a little there, looking pissed off and a little taken off guard. You've never done anything like this before, never not laughed something off, never let it get to you. You can feel the blood trickle down your face, like sweat almost, except it fucking hurts. And he looks at you like he knows it.
"Shit," he says quietly, "I'm sorry." He's silent for a moment, just looking you over, a little more carefully now, a little more observant, eyes sweeping for wounds like mines in a field. "Does the Tenth know you're back?"
You shake your head. If you woke Tsuna up, you'd have to explain everything, and you're not really feeling up to that right now, so you'll let it wait until morning. You'll let it wait because all you really want is to sit here right now and feel your own skin relax. So you sink down next to Gokudera on the bed, feet planted and knees apart and you let yourself fall back onto the mattress.
He sits next to you, book forgotten beside him, and he looks down at you, that worried little line between his eyebrows dug deeper than normal. If you had the energy, you'd probably think it was really cute. If he had the energy, he'd probably punch you again for thinking such a thing. Instead, you smile at him like everything is fine, like you weren't almost killed in Sicily, like the group of Paglietta diplomats weren't a hell of a lot stronger than you'd anticipated. You smile because it's easier than telling him everything. You smile and his shoulders relax. It justifies your effort more than words could have.
You know he wants to comfort you somehow. Or he wants you to comfort him--to tell him that it wasn't all that bad, that you defeated a room full of men without breaking a sweat, without wrinkling your suit. But comforting isn't something at which he is especially skilled. So he doesn't say anything and that's okay, too. Silence is just fine and, Christ, you could fall asleep just like this.
But then his fingertips are grazing over your hairline, light as a breeze, and you think you might cry again. You're home. You're home and Gokudera's next to you and you need to tell Tsuna and call your dad so he doesn't worry and you need to change out of these filthy clothes, but--
"We were going to call off the search tomorrow," Gokudera says, his voice match head-rough in the dark, rough like he hasn't really used it much in a while, or like he's been smoking a lot more than normal. You can see the small pile of crumpled cigarette packs on the floor by the trash, and you think both are probably true. Hell, you'd probably light up, too, if he'd gone missing on you. Especially in these times. "The Tenth said we couldn't expend any more energy on this, that you'd get out on your own if you were even still..." He trails off. You're smart enough to fill in the blanks.
So you touch him, a warm hand curved over his cheek. Just enough to let him know you're there, to let him know you're alive and that you're not going to leave this bed any time soon unless you are bodily dragged out of it. You don't say any of it, though. He'd tell you to fuck off, that he wasn't worried at all. Because he'd have to care about you or something to get worried. And he doesn't. As it is, he turns his face away and your hand drops back to your side.
In all honesty, you're getting a little tired of playing this game with him, this one where you say "I love you" and he rolls his eyes like you're telling him something trivial. But then he'll slip up and do something that betrays him. He'll smile at you like it makes him feel better, or he'll kiss you, or make love to you, and it makes your heart swell and all is forgiven.
Like right now. Right now, he slides his fingers through your sweaty hair, scritches them against your scalp, and lets his palm rest on the top of your head like it belongs there. You think it probably does. Other places, too, but this works for right now.
"If you want to get in bed tonight, you better go wash off that blood." He tries to sound apathetic about it.
You smile at the ceiling in the dim light. "All right, all right," you say as if it's a perfectly mundane request--Do the dishes, dear, and all of that nonsense you'd never say to each other. All right, all right and you push yourself up off of the bed, walking stiffly across the floor to the tiny adjoining bathroom. You pause just at the threshold, your hand curved around the door jamb. You don't turn around. "I missed you," you say, your voice echoing softly against the bathroom tiles. When you step inside, you don't even bother to shut the door.
Inside, you strip down. Jacket first, peeling it off the places where it sticks to dried blood. Then your tie, sliding the knot back and forth until it loosens enough to pull over your head and loop over the door knob. Your shirt, your shoes, your socks. All in a heap. It makes Gokudera crazy when you do that--his one rule when you started sharing his room, Pick up your own damn clothes--but you don't think he'll care right now. Then your belt and that goes on the floor, too. You reach for the button on your pants and look up. He's on the bed. He's watching you.
Gokudera never watches you when you undress. He usually turns his eyes away, usually mutters something inconsequential to make it very clear that he's not watching you, that he has better things to do. This vulnerable part of sex--you know it makes him uncomfortable. You always let him turn out the lights when you fuck, your mind shaping an image of him which the dark obscures. You're okay with that. But being watched this way--sharp green eyes, flushed cheeks like he knows he should be embarrassed that you caught him, his fingers twisted in the material of his pant legs--it excites you a little.
But his eyes move over your body again like this is just work, too, like he's just checking for more wounds, and you chuckle a little to yourself. You must be tired.
"I'm all right," you tell him as soothingly as possible, "all the dressings are clean." And you smile.
He scowls. Of course he does. He always scowls at you when you're nice to him. You're so used to it that it barely even hurts anymore. So you pop free the button on your pants and slowly close the door as they begin to slide down your hips. You know that, somewhere beneath the scowls and the insults and the hesitance, he cares about you. He wants you--no hiding that most of the time. It would just be nice not to have to fight so hard to hear it sometimes.
You turn on the shower, let it hiss against the tiles, let the steam build up and fog up the mirror, the tiny window which looks out onto the backyard. Kyoko and Haru and Bianchi grow a small garden there and, if this was spring time, you could open the window and smell gardenias. But it's not and the steam condenses quickly on the cold, frosted glass. So you step out of your pants and into the stream of the shower.
The hot water stings against the wounds on your back, soaking the dressings you probably should have removed but couldn't be bothered to. You're tired. And the promise of hot water on your tense muscles was appealing enough to skip that step. You can replace the wet bandages after the shower. Maybe Gokudera will help you. Maybe you'll just leave them off until morning when you have the energy to think about it.
Right now, your thoughts are occupied with knives and guns and the way the hair on the back of your neck had stood up as soon as you walked into the meeting room, every ounce of your intuition catching on before your logical brain. You think about the look in their eyes--the way they looked at you like it didn't matter if only days before they'd maintained a civil rivalry with the Vongola, something almost friendly if this wasn't the fucking mafia and ties meant blood and blood meant power. The Pagliettas didn't care. The Black Spell had offered them something better than the Vongola ever could. You don't know what, but you suppose that will probably be up to Hibari or Ryohei to find out. At least you got out of the mess with new information for Tsuna.
You take in a deep breath of steam. It feels good in your lungs which have been breathing ragged for days. But when your chest expands, another wound strains against its feeble attempts at healing. It stings. A drop of blood squeezes out, then dilutes in a stream of water, disappears over a protruding rib. You watch it and your heart begins to beat harder inside of your chest.
You could have died.
They could have killed you. One false move, one poorly executed attack, one Shigure form forgotten and you could have died in Sicily and your Family would never have known. Your dad would never have understood. You haven't told him you loved him in months. And at the thought, your heart wrenches against itself and the door to the bathroom clicks open.
You hear him step inside. You hear the door shut again. You wonder if you're keeping anyone awake right now, the sound of the shower, the doors, the loud crack when Gokudera punched you in the face. Any other day, you'd feel sorry about that. Right now, only a shower curtain separates you from Gokudera and you've been separated from the people you care about for too long.
You can hear him slide his clothes from his body and drop them onto the floor beside yours. You can hear him step closer, his feet padding softly against the tile floor. And when you see his fingers curl around the edge of the shower curtain, you choke back a noise that is something like crying and something like joy, and you grab his wrist to pull him in faster. He stumbles over the side of the bathtub and into you, his chin knocking against your clavicle, his hand gripping your upper arm for balance, your arm around his waist.
You help him stand back up, watching as he rubs his shin where it collided with the tub, watching as he scowls at you and your eagerness. You smile and shrug like always. You know he likes the urgency with which you always attend to touching him. It makes him feel like he belongs, and you want him to have that. So you pull him closer to you, into the stream of water, and run your hands through his hair to get it wet. He closes his eyes like a small, tired animal, and it makes you happy. You're home. You're home.
These are the thoughts that dragged you out of the bloody meeting room and into the streets, clutching at yourself and trying to look normal whenever you encountered others. These are the thoughts that kept you conscious until you reached the Tomaso estate. You won't tell Gokudera or the others how many days you laid there, out cold in Longchamp's medical wing. You won't tell them because you're not quite sure yourself. You just remember begging him not to call Japan. You remember begging him because you didn't want anyone to track you to Longchamp's place; you didn't want anyone to know that the Vongola were already moving more allies into Italy. Because even if you died without saying goodbye to the people you most cared about, those people would be safe because you carried out the last duty required of the Vongola guardians: Protect the Family at all costs. Protect it until death.
So it was worth the unconscious state of your body. It was worth the blood loss. It was worth all of it--the fear, the uncertainty, the slight loss of feeling in a couple of your fingertips--because Gokudera is alive here beneath your hands, his eyes closed to your touch, his throat letting out a soft moan at the way your fingers glide through his hair, the way the hot water feels streaming over his body. And it would be so predictable, so cliche to say that you're going to appreciate things more now--you've never had a scare quite like this one--but it's true. After Gokudera's hair is wet, you slip your arms around his shoulders and pull him tight against your chest. If the water wouldn't eventually turn cold, you think you could probably sleep here like this.
Gokudera puts up with that for a moment, his chest close enough for you to feel the way his heartbeats fill in the spaces between yours. Just long enough for you to breathe in the scent of his hair, and then he's pushing away and stretching up to kiss you. It's light at first, the kind of kiss you give him in the mornings before you leave the bedroom and he insists on acting professional in front of the others, as if sharing a bedroom didn't tip them off. But you have no problem letting him keep his pride. So you give him quick kisses in the bedroom before you leave, just little ones that won't embarrass him or distract him later in the day, should he think about them. This kiss is one of those at first, but he doesn't keep it there. He deepens it. He presses his mouth against yours, forces yours open, moves his tongue inside.
And you're almost into it, almost ready to maybe grab a handful of his hair, or say screw this shower and take him into the bedroom for more of this because it relaxes you, but his fingers drift up over your face, over your busted-open cheek and he pulls away. His fingers are sticky with blood. It had already started to dry after he'd hit you, but not all the way, and it's on him. He frowns at it distastefully.
"Turn around," he says, rinsing his fingers under the water, "wash it off."
So you do. You don't want it on your face either, and you wouldn't want to make out with someone covered in blood, generally. You let the water run over your face, down your chin and your throat and when Gokudera slips his hands onto your hips and drags his nose over your shoulder, you moan into the stream.
He's curved up against your back, his chin resting on your shoulder, his fingers gripping either side of your waist like you might go away again. You don't know if you even plan to leave the compound any time soon. And, "Let me fuck you," he whispers in your ear, "let me."
The goosebumps shoot up your spine, over your ribs. He slides a rough palm over your abdomen, down a hip, and grips you tight. He's laying a line of kisses over your shoulder and up your neck, nuzzling his nose into the warm spot behind your ear. You can feel his chest against your back, his breath rocking your body slowly, more rhythmically than your own.
It's been so long since he's initiated things like this. It's always you. It's always you and your warm words, your hands moving gently over his body, maneuvering him toward something like complicity. It's always you and when it's not, your blood rushes out of your head so fast you think you might pass out. You sag against his strong body, let him hold you up as he bites down on your earlobe and begins to move his hand. You're hard.
You want to let him. It's hardly even a question. When haven't you? But it's out of your mouth before you can stop it.
"Tell me you missed me."
He scoffs against your neck and rubs himself against you. He moves a hand up your side, up your arm, fists the hand in your hair and drags your head down so he can bite the earlobe on the other side. He doesn't take his other hand off of your cock.
"I could have died," you say, grimacing through the pain of his teeth on your neck, wanting more of it at the same time. "Tell me you missed me."
He kisses your shoulder blades, both of them, the first one quick and the second one lingering, and his tongue slides down your spine. "What the fuck is this?" His breath is a warm puff against the skin down low on your back. "I thought you were dead." This time, it's a whisper that you barely feel.
And any other day, you would let this go. You'd fold to the feel of his breath on your body, the feel of his skin against yours. You'd fold and let him take you in the shower, then again in bed, sore and tired but filled with him and all of the things he refuses to say. And that's always enough. It fills you to bursting. Any other day. But right now, all you can think about is the way you knelt down beside those corpses in the Paglietta meeting room and thought maybe in a few seconds you'd have to join them because you didn't think you could move much more. But you did. And you did it because of what was waiting for you back in Japan. Gokudera is one of those things.
So, "How did that make you feel, Hayato?"
His tongue had been dragging its way over your hip, something that usually makes you shudder against his hands as he tries to hold you still. But then he stops. He stops for a moment, takes in a ragged, wet breath. "What is this? Daytime TV?"
And you're crying again. You're crying and you feel like a goddamned kid, and you know he'd make fun of you if he could see it and that would be almost okay because it would be like old times. And you almost wish for that because you were so scared for so many days, but then he grips another hard handful of hair at the nape of your neck and pulls your mouth to his. You blame exhaustion for the way he's able to overpower you and kiss you like this. The way he turns you around so you're facing him again and he shoves you against the tiles on the wall. And of all of the ridiculous things in the world, he looks pissed off. And with the kind of week you've had, you think you're probably well within your rights to ask him where he gets off being the angry one in this situation. But he snarls, bares his teeth, and presses so tightly against you that you don't think you could move if you wanted to.
"If you ever leave again like that, you'd better be dead because otherwise I'll kill you when you get back, you asshole."
And you blink at him. Water runs into your eyes and for a moment his eyes flash at you like he's still contemplating his right to off you right here. But then he looks away, ashamed at his own outburst, you know. You know--you've seen him look like that enough times to know, and he kisses you again, all tongue and teeth and his hands on your shoulders like if he keeps you here in this shower stall then you can't get away. And you let him. It's enough.
You let him slide down to press his lips down your chest, your abdomen, your sharp hips, every wound you received in the last week, every white wisp of scar that you've received over the last ten years. He kisses them all like rosary beads, and then he takes you in his mouth.
The back of your head hits the tiles hard enough to make you dizzy for a moment. You think it's the collision. Or it's his tongue, his fingers digging into your hip. It's his teeth on you, just enough to make your hips buck up, not enough to hurt you but you think that if he did, it would probably be okay. His hair is wet and stuck to his head like silver paint and you twist your fingers in it, watch his head move back and forth over you, watch it until you have to close your eyes because if you watch him any more you know you'll come just like this. And that would piss him off. It always pisses him off when you don't give him warning.
It's amazing what you can learn about a person in just a couple of years. Of course, you've known him forever. Forever--countless walks home after school, innumerable meals at your dad's restaurant, indeterminate evenings discussing Family strategy once you became friends enough for him to talk to you like one. But it's only been recently that you've known him like this, that you've known who he is in a way that no one else knows, not right now. There have been girlfriends, dates, flirtatious acquaintances. But this is all new, these strange beasts you are together. You know it. It could give you a big head if you let it. Right now, you just lean back and let it ride over you, this relationship, this intimacy, this deepening of a friendship ten years in the making and pretend that it can go on forever like this, just like this, no danger, no fear. No families conspiring against you and yours. Nothing but his lips around you, his hand following the path where his tongue cannot reach. Just this.
Just this and when that thought has you teetering at the edge of the abyss, ready to dive headlong, Gokudera pulls away abruptly, your cock still slick with him, his mouth undoubtedly tasting like you. He pulls back and looks at you and hooks one arm under your knee and stands up. He clenches his jaw and you can see in his eyes that he's steeling himself for this, for what he's about to say. It's all over him like powder burns, but he holds you there with his eyes.
"I went to three wakes last week," he says, anger spitting out between his words, anger and fear. "I thought I'd have to go to yours next. How would that make you feel?"
And he moves his fingers inside of you. He does it more roughly, much more roughly than he usually would, and you know it's his pride again. You try to catch his eyes but he won't let you. You know he's said too much but you don't care. He moves his fingers a little like he's angry with you for pulling that out of him, like his pride is hurt and he can't let you have the upper hand. So you let him take it for himself. It doesn't matter. You want this and he wants to give it and you don't give a damn about his bruised ego. The thought of disappearing across the ocean again, this time indefinitely, the thought of him disappearing without another word is too frightening and so what if you're a little sentimental tonight? So you hook a finger under his chin and make him look at you.
"I'd be broken," you say, quietly enough that he has to stare at you for a moment to process it, "I'd kill whoever did it."
You've never vowed to kill anyone before. And you've never killed out of anything but self-defense. They have always attacked you first. But you think you mean what you say. You think if someone ever dared to hurt your Family, the people you love, you'd take them out so fast you'd never even feel the slightest twinge regret. You could do it.
And he groans like the words embarrass him, but he moves against you, cock pressed against your hip, his fingers deep inside of you, like he wanted to hear it as much as you do. You don't care if you make him blush. You don't care if he'll deny this happened, come next morning. You don't care, you don't care, and you lean forward, cupping his head. "Are you going to fuck me or not," you whisper in his ear.
He makes a noise like you surprised him, and he pulls his fingers out of you. This is better. This is better for him--it's what sex should be, all physical and nothing emotional that could give him away. He likes when you talk to him like that, all crude commands and a rough voice because it's not like you at all. It's your body talking and not anything else. Let him think that. Let him because then he'll get closer to you, press his cock against you, press into you like this and you explode with the sensation of all of him touching you. All of him against you. All of him, and his breath is hot on your neck when he starts to move.
You clutch at the back of his head, fingers in his hair as he kisses your clavicle. Hand spread over his spine as he shifts his hips against you, moves into you deeper. You know that it was luck that saved you, luck more than your skill, luck more than the Paglietta incompetence. It was luck that Gokudera has you back now, has you close enough to fuck into you, to have his fingers on your skin, his teeth sliding over the nape of your neck where your head is bent down to rest on his shoulder. And if Gokudera is lucky, you know it is only because he's had to give up so much--it's karma at this point, not good fortune.
And you haven't lost as much as him. You know that if he disappeared, you wouldn't be blessed with the luck that would bring him back here. You wouldn't be quite that lucky because you've used up a lot of your luck on trivial things. You haven't saved it up like Gokudera. And there's a part of you that is tempted to never let him or any of your other friends leave on another mission alone. It's suicide now, suicide now that the other Families are choosing sides for the coming war. You don't know who you can trust except the people in this compound and it would kill you if something ever happened to them. You think about it, but that would be letting your emotions affect your job too much. That's why Gokudera is the way he is. Nothing will ever get in the way of his role.
Nothing--not fear or love or regret. Not superstition or the grim understanding that things have changed now. None of that and he makes sure you know it by the way he thrusts into you. He's not gentle despite your many obvious wounds, despite the dressings on your body made translucent by the shower spray. He's not slow like he is sometimes when you're allowed to think that he really wants you more than he wants anything else.
And you think that he probably does. One hand is around your cock, stroking you to dizziness, but the other hand is pressed over your heart, and you know that both of you can feel its beat, its frantic rhythm shared tightly between your flesh and his, held there like something precious, something you both know was almost lost. That hand which cups your heart also holds you back against him. His cheek is pressed to your shoulder, a connection of stillness though his hips move sharply against you. And even if he won't say it, you know he's glad you came back mostly in one piece.
So you say it for him. You crane your head down, kiss his nose, his cheekbone, the shell of his ear and you whisper it against his skin like a secret. You say, "If I couldn't come back to you, I don't know what I'd do."
And he chokes a little against you, his rhythm faltering, his fingers curling tighter around your cock, his nails digging deep and sudden into your chest. But it's only a moment. If you weren't so keyed up, if you weren't so keyed into him, you wouldn't have noticed it at all. But you know Gokudera. You know him and that's it. That's the button. So you say it again, another way, this time grabbing his chin and making him look in your eyes when you say it.
"I'm sorry I scared you. I would have called you if it was safe." Then you swallow because he's still looking at you, bold like the first time you kissed him and he kissed you back. Like when you said you wanted to take him to bed and he nodded, his eyes never retreating from your face. Whenever he looks at you like that, you always say something stupid. So you say, "I love you."
And he growls at you, honestly growls like a pissed off cat, and he looks away quickly. "Shut up," he hisses, and he starts to push into you again, his hips moving faster, more out of his control, and his skin feels so good against yours. When his mouth catches yours again, you take it as an answer. It's a good answer. So you groan into his mouth a little, making the vibration which always makes his breath gasp against your lips, which makes his hips move faster. You want it faster. You want him to fuck you until he comes and you can hold him to you, because you have him here. He's here and he's real and, for right now at least, he's not going anywhere.
So you let him slide you down the wall, his legs shaking as he tries to hold your weight, as he tries to slow the descent, and then his knees are on the floor of the shower and you're resting against him. Your arms are around his neck to keep you upright. He's still stroking your cock, still making your head spin, still moving in and out of you. You breathe him in--it's been so long. You breathe him in like you did the first time, memorizing the sweat and the cigarette smoke and the hint of cologne that he'd punch you for noticing. You breathed him in like that back then, deep so you'd never forget it and you do it again here because this isn't the first time. It's a million times later and everything is different and you're scared and he's scared, but you're both relieved. And that makes you a little bold.
So you grab his shoulders and push him back. You press his back down onto the floor of the shower, even though you're both too tall for this, your legs too long. You let the water stream down your back, down your face and onto his. And you kiss him because you can, because he's right there. Cup your hand around the back of his head, let the water run between your lips, and move your hips because you need that, too. Because it makes him groan into your mouth, makes him start to get loud like he always does right before he comes, just right before he comes, just this blurry snapshot of what his voice would sound like if he wasn't afraid of it telling all of his secrets. It's this gravelly thing in the back of his throat, this thing you feel rumble in his chest against yours. Long, whining noises that move out of his mouth in time with the way his fingers clutch at you--grab, hold, release, until your head is swimming on your shoulders, his hand still moving roughly over your cock and you come.
You come onto him, over his hand, onto his abdomen. The orgasm shoots through your body like an explosion, all bright lights and heat and lingering aftershocks. But when you manage to open your eyes, he's looking at you. He's watching your face, eyebrows pinched together, face pink with the heat. He's watching you and your guts twist in on themselves. He swallows once, and he holds your eyes. "I missed you," he says as steadily as he can, and he lets one hand ride up to your waist. "I thought they killed you."
That's it. That's enough. That's what you wanted to hear, and you move your hips, feel him slide in and out of you, pulsing against you because he's so close. He's so close that his eyes are clenched shut and his nails scrape down your thighs. His hips jump up and he's deeper inside you, hitting that spot that makes you groan. He mutters your name, light between his lips like a ghost, and you kiss his forehead as he comes. One blunt noise from his throat, one sustained thrust upward into you, and he comes.
You hold him to your chest as he finishes, as he spends himself and collapses quiet, his back once again pressed to the flooded floor of the shower. His eyes are closed, but he drags his fingers up and down your back, pausing at the soaked dressings you left on when you climbed into the shower. His fingers pause there, and he takes in a ragged breath. But you kiss him again, trying so hard to drive away any fears that might be welling up in his mind. You're here. You're here and you're not going away like that again. You're safe.
One of you blocks the drain and you're not sure who. But the water begins to fill up in the shower as you rest against his body, his breath moving you, your breath moving him. It begins to fill up and slosh against you bodies, a pantomime of cleansing.
Fandom: Katekyo Hitman Reborn!
Pairing: Gokudera/Yamamoto
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 7000
Notes: For the Kink Meme prompt "8059, back after a long mission, 'I missed you.'" Posted here because this got a little out of hand and would have been annoying (both to read and to post). So here it is. Pretend I'm anon. It's kinkier that way. ♥
Any other day this would be too stupid and dangerous to try. Any other day this would get you hurt. Any other day, but you don't care. You don't care because you are ten days overdue from your mission in Sicily and it is three in the morning and the soft light under Gokudera's bedroom door is the only sign of life in the compound.
The mission was supposed to be easy. Just some talks with a rival family. You're good at talking. That's why you, and not Gokudera, are always sent off to the diplomatic meetings. The Paglietta Famiglia are hardly allies, but they're not enemies either. And with the Black Spell on the move, it is a good idea to keep in the good graces of all of the families. That's what Tsuna said. Get in their good graces, stay there, and maybe they'll help you guys out when you need it.
But it hadn't gone that way, had it? They ambushed. They knew you were coming alone. And the Black Spell was faster than you, better located strategically. Of course, no one becomes a Vongola Guardian without being able to handle a small collection of lesser Family grunts, so you'd taken out the whole room of them. Every panicked maneuver you knew, some you'd only seen, some that sprung out of your bones as if they'd been curled up dormant in your marrow, and they were down, their corpses littered on the floor.
Not without first getting a few shots in at you, though. Not without a lot of blood lost and the quickening feeling in your gut that you wouldn't be alone with this room of corpses for very long if you stayed, so you split. Down back alleys, you barely remembered to re-sheath your katana, barely remembered to strap it to your back which bled beneath your fine black suit jacket. Gripping your wounds, biting your lip to chain back the noises of pain wanting to escape, to bring blood to your mouth to keep you awake. And, somehow, you found the Tomaso estate--relocated to Sicily after this whole mess with the Black Spell started. Relocated, and lucky fucking thing because you think you probably would have died if Longchamp hadn't been there to take you in and offer antiseptic to your wounds.
So, barging into Gokudera's room--your room, too, if you were pressed, but it doesn't matter because Gokudera still guards it like a fortress--barging in there unbidden is asking to be slaughtered in the doorway, but you do it anyway, because you fucking missed him.
You push in. He's sitting on his bed, back against the wall, knees drawn up, book open but he doesn't look like he's reading, and--"The door's shut, Lawn Head. That means keep the fuck out--" And he stops. His eyes go wide. "Jesus," he whispers.
Your heart leaps up into your throat. Gokudera looks relieved. Frightened and confused and tired, but relieved, too. And it is so easy to cross the room in three long steps and pull his head against your chest before he has a chance to speak any more.
You say it before you have a chance to figure out why: "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry," you say, your breath warm and moist on the crown of his head and you realize that you are crying.
Loving Gokudera Hayato is such a dangerous thing because anybody else would have embraced you in return, but he pushes you away. He pushes you away like something wild, his eyes flashing, his teeth bared. He's angry at you, you can tell, but there's sadness in there, too.
He doesn't ask where you've been. He doesn't have to. You have your hands on his shoulders, holding him away so you can see his eyes. "Tsuna didn't make any deals with the Pagliettas, did he?"
And Gokudera looks at you, confused maybe by your abrupt attention to business when you've been gone for over a week. But he shakes his head, faintly, and it's answer enough.
And your head drops. The first relief in days. "Thank God," you say. Then you pull him to you again. "Don't let him. The Black Spell..." You don't have to say the rest. Before you can take another breath, he's up and unbuttoning your shirt, evaluating the dressings on your body, checking you for additional wounds, for anything requiring immediate attention. He's a warrior in this thing again.
"Hey," you say, your voice suddenly very tired, "hey. Longchamp took care of it. I'm okay."
And his eyes are on fire again. "Longchamp? You were with an ally and you didn't contact us?"
He looks like he could hit you and the touch would be glorious. Because he's a friend. He's on your side, more or less, and anything that isn't trying to kill you right now is enough. You know you worried everyone. You would have gone crazy if it had been one of the others over there and you were here with nothing to do but fret and hope. You'd be overwhelmed with grief. But you didn't want Longchamp or his men to be threatened either, so you laid low until your wounds closed up and he could arrange for a flight home. You explain this. Gokudera doesn't seem to care. He's got ten days of strain built up inside of him like a fuse growing short and he pulls back his fist and punches you in the face.
It is the noise more than the impact that startles you. A loud crack in the dim room. And an old wound, one which those Paglietta grunts carved over your cheekbone with a short, blunt knife--Gokudera busts that one open again and you aren't much for pride, not like he is, but the idea of him thinking he did that to you makes you a little angry right now. You are tired and worried, too; Gokudera doesn't have that market cornered. So you shove him back, like you never wanted to do when you were kids. You were always afraid that he would think you didn't like him, always afraid that he wouldn't realize how much you loved him, that he'd want to be something like rivals forever. So you never did it then, but you do it now.
You shove him hard, shove him back onto the mattress because it's close and you know he won't hurt himself that way. He bounces a little there, looking pissed off and a little taken off guard. You've never done anything like this before, never not laughed something off, never let it get to you. You can feel the blood trickle down your face, like sweat almost, except it fucking hurts. And he looks at you like he knows it.
"Shit," he says quietly, "I'm sorry." He's silent for a moment, just looking you over, a little more carefully now, a little more observant, eyes sweeping for wounds like mines in a field. "Does the Tenth know you're back?"
You shake your head. If you woke Tsuna up, you'd have to explain everything, and you're not really feeling up to that right now, so you'll let it wait until morning. You'll let it wait because all you really want is to sit here right now and feel your own skin relax. So you sink down next to Gokudera on the bed, feet planted and knees apart and you let yourself fall back onto the mattress.
He sits next to you, book forgotten beside him, and he looks down at you, that worried little line between his eyebrows dug deeper than normal. If you had the energy, you'd probably think it was really cute. If he had the energy, he'd probably punch you again for thinking such a thing. Instead, you smile at him like everything is fine, like you weren't almost killed in Sicily, like the group of Paglietta diplomats weren't a hell of a lot stronger than you'd anticipated. You smile because it's easier than telling him everything. You smile and his shoulders relax. It justifies your effort more than words could have.
You know he wants to comfort you somehow. Or he wants you to comfort him--to tell him that it wasn't all that bad, that you defeated a room full of men without breaking a sweat, without wrinkling your suit. But comforting isn't something at which he is especially skilled. So he doesn't say anything and that's okay, too. Silence is just fine and, Christ, you could fall asleep just like this.
But then his fingertips are grazing over your hairline, light as a breeze, and you think you might cry again. You're home. You're home and Gokudera's next to you and you need to tell Tsuna and call your dad so he doesn't worry and you need to change out of these filthy clothes, but--
"We were going to call off the search tomorrow," Gokudera says, his voice match head-rough in the dark, rough like he hasn't really used it much in a while, or like he's been smoking a lot more than normal. You can see the small pile of crumpled cigarette packs on the floor by the trash, and you think both are probably true. Hell, you'd probably light up, too, if he'd gone missing on you. Especially in these times. "The Tenth said we couldn't expend any more energy on this, that you'd get out on your own if you were even still..." He trails off. You're smart enough to fill in the blanks.
So you touch him, a warm hand curved over his cheek. Just enough to let him know you're there, to let him know you're alive and that you're not going to leave this bed any time soon unless you are bodily dragged out of it. You don't say any of it, though. He'd tell you to fuck off, that he wasn't worried at all. Because he'd have to care about you or something to get worried. And he doesn't. As it is, he turns his face away and your hand drops back to your side.
In all honesty, you're getting a little tired of playing this game with him, this one where you say "I love you" and he rolls his eyes like you're telling him something trivial. But then he'll slip up and do something that betrays him. He'll smile at you like it makes him feel better, or he'll kiss you, or make love to you, and it makes your heart swell and all is forgiven.
Like right now. Right now, he slides his fingers through your sweaty hair, scritches them against your scalp, and lets his palm rest on the top of your head like it belongs there. You think it probably does. Other places, too, but this works for right now.
"If you want to get in bed tonight, you better go wash off that blood." He tries to sound apathetic about it.
You smile at the ceiling in the dim light. "All right, all right," you say as if it's a perfectly mundane request--Do the dishes, dear, and all of that nonsense you'd never say to each other. All right, all right and you push yourself up off of the bed, walking stiffly across the floor to the tiny adjoining bathroom. You pause just at the threshold, your hand curved around the door jamb. You don't turn around. "I missed you," you say, your voice echoing softly against the bathroom tiles. When you step inside, you don't even bother to shut the door.
Inside, you strip down. Jacket first, peeling it off the places where it sticks to dried blood. Then your tie, sliding the knot back and forth until it loosens enough to pull over your head and loop over the door knob. Your shirt, your shoes, your socks. All in a heap. It makes Gokudera crazy when you do that--his one rule when you started sharing his room, Pick up your own damn clothes--but you don't think he'll care right now. Then your belt and that goes on the floor, too. You reach for the button on your pants and look up. He's on the bed. He's watching you.
Gokudera never watches you when you undress. He usually turns his eyes away, usually mutters something inconsequential to make it very clear that he's not watching you, that he has better things to do. This vulnerable part of sex--you know it makes him uncomfortable. You always let him turn out the lights when you fuck, your mind shaping an image of him which the dark obscures. You're okay with that. But being watched this way--sharp green eyes, flushed cheeks like he knows he should be embarrassed that you caught him, his fingers twisted in the material of his pant legs--it excites you a little.
But his eyes move over your body again like this is just work, too, like he's just checking for more wounds, and you chuckle a little to yourself. You must be tired.
"I'm all right," you tell him as soothingly as possible, "all the dressings are clean." And you smile.
He scowls. Of course he does. He always scowls at you when you're nice to him. You're so used to it that it barely even hurts anymore. So you pop free the button on your pants and slowly close the door as they begin to slide down your hips. You know that, somewhere beneath the scowls and the insults and the hesitance, he cares about you. He wants you--no hiding that most of the time. It would just be nice not to have to fight so hard to hear it sometimes.
You turn on the shower, let it hiss against the tiles, let the steam build up and fog up the mirror, the tiny window which looks out onto the backyard. Kyoko and Haru and Bianchi grow a small garden there and, if this was spring time, you could open the window and smell gardenias. But it's not and the steam condenses quickly on the cold, frosted glass. So you step out of your pants and into the stream of the shower.
The hot water stings against the wounds on your back, soaking the dressings you probably should have removed but couldn't be bothered to. You're tired. And the promise of hot water on your tense muscles was appealing enough to skip that step. You can replace the wet bandages after the shower. Maybe Gokudera will help you. Maybe you'll just leave them off until morning when you have the energy to think about it.
Right now, your thoughts are occupied with knives and guns and the way the hair on the back of your neck had stood up as soon as you walked into the meeting room, every ounce of your intuition catching on before your logical brain. You think about the look in their eyes--the way they looked at you like it didn't matter if only days before they'd maintained a civil rivalry with the Vongola, something almost friendly if this wasn't the fucking mafia and ties meant blood and blood meant power. The Pagliettas didn't care. The Black Spell had offered them something better than the Vongola ever could. You don't know what, but you suppose that will probably be up to Hibari or Ryohei to find out. At least you got out of the mess with new information for Tsuna.
You take in a deep breath of steam. It feels good in your lungs which have been breathing ragged for days. But when your chest expands, another wound strains against its feeble attempts at healing. It stings. A drop of blood squeezes out, then dilutes in a stream of water, disappears over a protruding rib. You watch it and your heart begins to beat harder inside of your chest.
You could have died.
They could have killed you. One false move, one poorly executed attack, one Shigure form forgotten and you could have died in Sicily and your Family would never have known. Your dad would never have understood. You haven't told him you loved him in months. And at the thought, your heart wrenches against itself and the door to the bathroom clicks open.
You hear him step inside. You hear the door shut again. You wonder if you're keeping anyone awake right now, the sound of the shower, the doors, the loud crack when Gokudera punched you in the face. Any other day, you'd feel sorry about that. Right now, only a shower curtain separates you from Gokudera and you've been separated from the people you care about for too long.
You can hear him slide his clothes from his body and drop them onto the floor beside yours. You can hear him step closer, his feet padding softly against the tile floor. And when you see his fingers curl around the edge of the shower curtain, you choke back a noise that is something like crying and something like joy, and you grab his wrist to pull him in faster. He stumbles over the side of the bathtub and into you, his chin knocking against your clavicle, his hand gripping your upper arm for balance, your arm around his waist.
You help him stand back up, watching as he rubs his shin where it collided with the tub, watching as he scowls at you and your eagerness. You smile and shrug like always. You know he likes the urgency with which you always attend to touching him. It makes him feel like he belongs, and you want him to have that. So you pull him closer to you, into the stream of water, and run your hands through his hair to get it wet. He closes his eyes like a small, tired animal, and it makes you happy. You're home. You're home.
These are the thoughts that dragged you out of the bloody meeting room and into the streets, clutching at yourself and trying to look normal whenever you encountered others. These are the thoughts that kept you conscious until you reached the Tomaso estate. You won't tell Gokudera or the others how many days you laid there, out cold in Longchamp's medical wing. You won't tell them because you're not quite sure yourself. You just remember begging him not to call Japan. You remember begging him because you didn't want anyone to track you to Longchamp's place; you didn't want anyone to know that the Vongola were already moving more allies into Italy. Because even if you died without saying goodbye to the people you most cared about, those people would be safe because you carried out the last duty required of the Vongola guardians: Protect the Family at all costs. Protect it until death.
So it was worth the unconscious state of your body. It was worth the blood loss. It was worth all of it--the fear, the uncertainty, the slight loss of feeling in a couple of your fingertips--because Gokudera is alive here beneath your hands, his eyes closed to your touch, his throat letting out a soft moan at the way your fingers glide through his hair, the way the hot water feels streaming over his body. And it would be so predictable, so cliche to say that you're going to appreciate things more now--you've never had a scare quite like this one--but it's true. After Gokudera's hair is wet, you slip your arms around his shoulders and pull him tight against your chest. If the water wouldn't eventually turn cold, you think you could probably sleep here like this.
Gokudera puts up with that for a moment, his chest close enough for you to feel the way his heartbeats fill in the spaces between yours. Just long enough for you to breathe in the scent of his hair, and then he's pushing away and stretching up to kiss you. It's light at first, the kind of kiss you give him in the mornings before you leave the bedroom and he insists on acting professional in front of the others, as if sharing a bedroom didn't tip them off. But you have no problem letting him keep his pride. So you give him quick kisses in the bedroom before you leave, just little ones that won't embarrass him or distract him later in the day, should he think about them. This kiss is one of those at first, but he doesn't keep it there. He deepens it. He presses his mouth against yours, forces yours open, moves his tongue inside.
And you're almost into it, almost ready to maybe grab a handful of his hair, or say screw this shower and take him into the bedroom for more of this because it relaxes you, but his fingers drift up over your face, over your busted-open cheek and he pulls away. His fingers are sticky with blood. It had already started to dry after he'd hit you, but not all the way, and it's on him. He frowns at it distastefully.
"Turn around," he says, rinsing his fingers under the water, "wash it off."
So you do. You don't want it on your face either, and you wouldn't want to make out with someone covered in blood, generally. You let the water run over your face, down your chin and your throat and when Gokudera slips his hands onto your hips and drags his nose over your shoulder, you moan into the stream.
He's curved up against your back, his chin resting on your shoulder, his fingers gripping either side of your waist like you might go away again. You don't know if you even plan to leave the compound any time soon. And, "Let me fuck you," he whispers in your ear, "let me."
The goosebumps shoot up your spine, over your ribs. He slides a rough palm over your abdomen, down a hip, and grips you tight. He's laying a line of kisses over your shoulder and up your neck, nuzzling his nose into the warm spot behind your ear. You can feel his chest against your back, his breath rocking your body slowly, more rhythmically than your own.
It's been so long since he's initiated things like this. It's always you. It's always you and your warm words, your hands moving gently over his body, maneuvering him toward something like complicity. It's always you and when it's not, your blood rushes out of your head so fast you think you might pass out. You sag against his strong body, let him hold you up as he bites down on your earlobe and begins to move his hand. You're hard.
You want to let him. It's hardly even a question. When haven't you? But it's out of your mouth before you can stop it.
"Tell me you missed me."
He scoffs against your neck and rubs himself against you. He moves a hand up your side, up your arm, fists the hand in your hair and drags your head down so he can bite the earlobe on the other side. He doesn't take his other hand off of your cock.
"I could have died," you say, grimacing through the pain of his teeth on your neck, wanting more of it at the same time. "Tell me you missed me."
He kisses your shoulder blades, both of them, the first one quick and the second one lingering, and his tongue slides down your spine. "What the fuck is this?" His breath is a warm puff against the skin down low on your back. "I thought you were dead." This time, it's a whisper that you barely feel.
And any other day, you would let this go. You'd fold to the feel of his breath on your body, the feel of his skin against yours. You'd fold and let him take you in the shower, then again in bed, sore and tired but filled with him and all of the things he refuses to say. And that's always enough. It fills you to bursting. Any other day. But right now, all you can think about is the way you knelt down beside those corpses in the Paglietta meeting room and thought maybe in a few seconds you'd have to join them because you didn't think you could move much more. But you did. And you did it because of what was waiting for you back in Japan. Gokudera is one of those things.
So, "How did that make you feel, Hayato?"
His tongue had been dragging its way over your hip, something that usually makes you shudder against his hands as he tries to hold you still. But then he stops. He stops for a moment, takes in a ragged, wet breath. "What is this? Daytime TV?"
And you're crying again. You're crying and you feel like a goddamned kid, and you know he'd make fun of you if he could see it and that would be almost okay because it would be like old times. And you almost wish for that because you were so scared for so many days, but then he grips another hard handful of hair at the nape of your neck and pulls your mouth to his. You blame exhaustion for the way he's able to overpower you and kiss you like this. The way he turns you around so you're facing him again and he shoves you against the tiles on the wall. And of all of the ridiculous things in the world, he looks pissed off. And with the kind of week you've had, you think you're probably well within your rights to ask him where he gets off being the angry one in this situation. But he snarls, bares his teeth, and presses so tightly against you that you don't think you could move if you wanted to.
"If you ever leave again like that, you'd better be dead because otherwise I'll kill you when you get back, you asshole."
And you blink at him. Water runs into your eyes and for a moment his eyes flash at you like he's still contemplating his right to off you right here. But then he looks away, ashamed at his own outburst, you know. You know--you've seen him look like that enough times to know, and he kisses you again, all tongue and teeth and his hands on your shoulders like if he keeps you here in this shower stall then you can't get away. And you let him. It's enough.
You let him slide down to press his lips down your chest, your abdomen, your sharp hips, every wound you received in the last week, every white wisp of scar that you've received over the last ten years. He kisses them all like rosary beads, and then he takes you in his mouth.
The back of your head hits the tiles hard enough to make you dizzy for a moment. You think it's the collision. Or it's his tongue, his fingers digging into your hip. It's his teeth on you, just enough to make your hips buck up, not enough to hurt you but you think that if he did, it would probably be okay. His hair is wet and stuck to his head like silver paint and you twist your fingers in it, watch his head move back and forth over you, watch it until you have to close your eyes because if you watch him any more you know you'll come just like this. And that would piss him off. It always pisses him off when you don't give him warning.
It's amazing what you can learn about a person in just a couple of years. Of course, you've known him forever. Forever--countless walks home after school, innumerable meals at your dad's restaurant, indeterminate evenings discussing Family strategy once you became friends enough for him to talk to you like one. But it's only been recently that you've known him like this, that you've known who he is in a way that no one else knows, not right now. There have been girlfriends, dates, flirtatious acquaintances. But this is all new, these strange beasts you are together. You know it. It could give you a big head if you let it. Right now, you just lean back and let it ride over you, this relationship, this intimacy, this deepening of a friendship ten years in the making and pretend that it can go on forever like this, just like this, no danger, no fear. No families conspiring against you and yours. Nothing but his lips around you, his hand following the path where his tongue cannot reach. Just this.
Just this and when that thought has you teetering at the edge of the abyss, ready to dive headlong, Gokudera pulls away abruptly, your cock still slick with him, his mouth undoubtedly tasting like you. He pulls back and looks at you and hooks one arm under your knee and stands up. He clenches his jaw and you can see in his eyes that he's steeling himself for this, for what he's about to say. It's all over him like powder burns, but he holds you there with his eyes.
"I went to three wakes last week," he says, anger spitting out between his words, anger and fear. "I thought I'd have to go to yours next. How would that make you feel?"
And he moves his fingers inside of you. He does it more roughly, much more roughly than he usually would, and you know it's his pride again. You try to catch his eyes but he won't let you. You know he's said too much but you don't care. He moves his fingers a little like he's angry with you for pulling that out of him, like his pride is hurt and he can't let you have the upper hand. So you let him take it for himself. It doesn't matter. You want this and he wants to give it and you don't give a damn about his bruised ego. The thought of disappearing across the ocean again, this time indefinitely, the thought of him disappearing without another word is too frightening and so what if you're a little sentimental tonight? So you hook a finger under his chin and make him look at you.
"I'd be broken," you say, quietly enough that he has to stare at you for a moment to process it, "I'd kill whoever did it."
You've never vowed to kill anyone before. And you've never killed out of anything but self-defense. They have always attacked you first. But you think you mean what you say. You think if someone ever dared to hurt your Family, the people you love, you'd take them out so fast you'd never even feel the slightest twinge regret. You could do it.
And he groans like the words embarrass him, but he moves against you, cock pressed against your hip, his fingers deep inside of you, like he wanted to hear it as much as you do. You don't care if you make him blush. You don't care if he'll deny this happened, come next morning. You don't care, you don't care, and you lean forward, cupping his head. "Are you going to fuck me or not," you whisper in his ear.
He makes a noise like you surprised him, and he pulls his fingers out of you. This is better. This is better for him--it's what sex should be, all physical and nothing emotional that could give him away. He likes when you talk to him like that, all crude commands and a rough voice because it's not like you at all. It's your body talking and not anything else. Let him think that. Let him because then he'll get closer to you, press his cock against you, press into you like this and you explode with the sensation of all of him touching you. All of him against you. All of him, and his breath is hot on your neck when he starts to move.
You clutch at the back of his head, fingers in his hair as he kisses your clavicle. Hand spread over his spine as he shifts his hips against you, moves into you deeper. You know that it was luck that saved you, luck more than your skill, luck more than the Paglietta incompetence. It was luck that Gokudera has you back now, has you close enough to fuck into you, to have his fingers on your skin, his teeth sliding over the nape of your neck where your head is bent down to rest on his shoulder. And if Gokudera is lucky, you know it is only because he's had to give up so much--it's karma at this point, not good fortune.
And you haven't lost as much as him. You know that if he disappeared, you wouldn't be blessed with the luck that would bring him back here. You wouldn't be quite that lucky because you've used up a lot of your luck on trivial things. You haven't saved it up like Gokudera. And there's a part of you that is tempted to never let him or any of your other friends leave on another mission alone. It's suicide now, suicide now that the other Families are choosing sides for the coming war. You don't know who you can trust except the people in this compound and it would kill you if something ever happened to them. You think about it, but that would be letting your emotions affect your job too much. That's why Gokudera is the way he is. Nothing will ever get in the way of his role.
Nothing--not fear or love or regret. Not superstition or the grim understanding that things have changed now. None of that and he makes sure you know it by the way he thrusts into you. He's not gentle despite your many obvious wounds, despite the dressings on your body made translucent by the shower spray. He's not slow like he is sometimes when you're allowed to think that he really wants you more than he wants anything else.
And you think that he probably does. One hand is around your cock, stroking you to dizziness, but the other hand is pressed over your heart, and you know that both of you can feel its beat, its frantic rhythm shared tightly between your flesh and his, held there like something precious, something you both know was almost lost. That hand which cups your heart also holds you back against him. His cheek is pressed to your shoulder, a connection of stillness though his hips move sharply against you. And even if he won't say it, you know he's glad you came back mostly in one piece.
So you say it for him. You crane your head down, kiss his nose, his cheekbone, the shell of his ear and you whisper it against his skin like a secret. You say, "If I couldn't come back to you, I don't know what I'd do."
And he chokes a little against you, his rhythm faltering, his fingers curling tighter around your cock, his nails digging deep and sudden into your chest. But it's only a moment. If you weren't so keyed up, if you weren't so keyed into him, you wouldn't have noticed it at all. But you know Gokudera. You know him and that's it. That's the button. So you say it again, another way, this time grabbing his chin and making him look in your eyes when you say it.
"I'm sorry I scared you. I would have called you if it was safe." Then you swallow because he's still looking at you, bold like the first time you kissed him and he kissed you back. Like when you said you wanted to take him to bed and he nodded, his eyes never retreating from your face. Whenever he looks at you like that, you always say something stupid. So you say, "I love you."
And he growls at you, honestly growls like a pissed off cat, and he looks away quickly. "Shut up," he hisses, and he starts to push into you again, his hips moving faster, more out of his control, and his skin feels so good against yours. When his mouth catches yours again, you take it as an answer. It's a good answer. So you groan into his mouth a little, making the vibration which always makes his breath gasp against your lips, which makes his hips move faster. You want it faster. You want him to fuck you until he comes and you can hold him to you, because you have him here. He's here and he's real and, for right now at least, he's not going anywhere.
So you let him slide you down the wall, his legs shaking as he tries to hold your weight, as he tries to slow the descent, and then his knees are on the floor of the shower and you're resting against him. Your arms are around his neck to keep you upright. He's still stroking your cock, still making your head spin, still moving in and out of you. You breathe him in--it's been so long. You breathe him in like you did the first time, memorizing the sweat and the cigarette smoke and the hint of cologne that he'd punch you for noticing. You breathed him in like that back then, deep so you'd never forget it and you do it again here because this isn't the first time. It's a million times later and everything is different and you're scared and he's scared, but you're both relieved. And that makes you a little bold.
So you grab his shoulders and push him back. You press his back down onto the floor of the shower, even though you're both too tall for this, your legs too long. You let the water stream down your back, down your face and onto his. And you kiss him because you can, because he's right there. Cup your hand around the back of his head, let the water run between your lips, and move your hips because you need that, too. Because it makes him groan into your mouth, makes him start to get loud like he always does right before he comes, just right before he comes, just this blurry snapshot of what his voice would sound like if he wasn't afraid of it telling all of his secrets. It's this gravelly thing in the back of his throat, this thing you feel rumble in his chest against yours. Long, whining noises that move out of his mouth in time with the way his fingers clutch at you--grab, hold, release, until your head is swimming on your shoulders, his hand still moving roughly over your cock and you come.
You come onto him, over his hand, onto his abdomen. The orgasm shoots through your body like an explosion, all bright lights and heat and lingering aftershocks. But when you manage to open your eyes, he's looking at you. He's watching your face, eyebrows pinched together, face pink with the heat. He's watching you and your guts twist in on themselves. He swallows once, and he holds your eyes. "I missed you," he says as steadily as he can, and he lets one hand ride up to your waist. "I thought they killed you."
That's it. That's enough. That's what you wanted to hear, and you move your hips, feel him slide in and out of you, pulsing against you because he's so close. He's so close that his eyes are clenched shut and his nails scrape down your thighs. His hips jump up and he's deeper inside you, hitting that spot that makes you groan. He mutters your name, light between his lips like a ghost, and you kiss his forehead as he comes. One blunt noise from his throat, one sustained thrust upward into you, and he comes.
You hold him to your chest as he finishes, as he spends himself and collapses quiet, his back once again pressed to the flooded floor of the shower. His eyes are closed, but he drags his fingers up and down your back, pausing at the soaked dressings you left on when you climbed into the shower. His fingers pause there, and he takes in a ragged breath. But you kiss him again, trying so hard to drive away any fears that might be welling up in his mind. You're here. You're here and you're not going away like that again. You're safe.
One of you blocks the drain and you're not sure who. But the water begins to fill up in the shower as you rest against his body, his breath moving you, your breath moving him. It begins to fill up and slosh against you bodies, a pantomime of cleansing.