KHR: Return on Investment [Chapter Six]
Ffff this is so overdue. Real life loves kicking me around. ;A;
KATEKYO HITMAN REBORN!: Return on Investment
Chapter Six: Used to your streets.
Theme Song: Download link to follow!
Other Chapter Links: Prologue | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16
Rating: NC-17
Characters: Hibari Kyouya, Yamamoto Takeshi
Summary: Palawan at night. This leads to that.
Notes: This longfic was my NaNoWriMo project for 2008, although I've actually been itching to write it ever since I returned to the fandom early on this year. It's meant to take place ten years into the new future created by Tsuna and his crew after the TYL arc, and is slightly AU-ish with several details. The title of this chapter is taken from the 31_days theme for September 6, 2007.
Chapter Six. Used to your streets.
Puerto Princesa City, Palawan Island, Philippines.
It was an early hour on a Friday night. Many hawkers still roamed the streets of Puerto Princesa or sat behind the rundown stalls close to shore or along all the major roads, bathed in the half-shadows of the evening or the harsh electric glow of fluorescent lamps. They an army of Bored and Tired faces peddling their wares, smacking randomly at swarms of mosquitoes, puffing their way through an assembly line of cheap cigarettes - they have learned, in their years of selling tourist traps to as many people as they could, that the best way to deal with their job was to keep their heads low and not ask questions.
“How much does this cost?”
The street vendor glanced down at the shirt thrust in front of him, then up at the inquirer’s face, then down again, just right in the middle, focused, in particular, on the bloodstains liberally blotching up his potential customer’s shirt. A foreigner, Oriental-looking, with surprisingly good Tagalog; his grasp of the language was both pleasant and just a little alarming.
The sharp-eyed stranger shook the t-shirt about in an attempt to catch the peddler’s attention again. “How much?” he repeated, with just the right amount of edge to his tone. The kind that could be read as impatient rather than threatening.
“Two-hundred fifty na lang po,” the vendor serenely returned. No need to hassle himself over some random foreigner with blood on his clothes. “Special price na po.”
(He wasn’t actually lying. He usually tried to ding chinks for half a thousand bucks before subsequently lowering the price, because they weren’t half as stingy as the Russians one usually got around the island. This stranger probably didn’t mind spending a lot either, but his better instincts told him that maybe it wouldn’t be a good idea to cheat this one. Not if he wanted to keep more than just his store intact.)
A pause, and the shirt was replaced by a wad of dirty-looking twenty-peso bills. By the time the vendor looked up, the stranger in that fancy (bloody) suit was long gone.
“That was unexpected,” Yamamoto remarked as Hibari walked past him. “Aren’t you worried that he’ll call the cops or something?”
Hibari walked along without a word and Yamamoto simply followed him, hands in his pockets and not looking disturbed or annoyed in the least. They walked among the locals and under the street lights, weaving their way through the evening crowd.
“So I was thinking that you’re probably not worried because you’ve got it all covered,” Yamamoto said sometime afterward. “I mean, it’s been nearly two hours. You’d think that people would talk after seeing strange Japs with blood on their clothes.” He was leaning against the wall of one of the many outhouses close to the beach, waiting for Hibari to finish up. “So I figure that yeah, you’ve must’ve bribed some guys when you landed, or maybe you’ve got some friends here. The usual stuff.”
Hibari stepped out, wearing the shirt he had just bought - it was a souvenir tee, with a halfway decent sketch of the island and the words “I ♥ PALAWAN” inscribed in big, bold letters over the drawing. Yamamoto grinned at him. Hibari didn’t even look in his direction; the Cloud Guardian started off again immediately, with his ruined shirt on his arm and his coat hanging off his shoulders. Yamamoto found himself looking for the Namimori Academy Disciplinary Committee armband before he remembered that Hibari wasn’t a prefect, he wasn’t on the varsity and both of them weren’t kids anymore.
“Oh, I nearly forgot,” Yamamoto said, as they sat at the tricycle station. “Tsuna had me attend this negotiation with the leaders of the Southern Side last month.” They had a bench to themselves and were seated on opposite ends of it, mostly because Yamamoto had settled in first and Hibari automatically sat as far away from him as possible. “The head was asking about you… he seems like a cool guy.”
A tricycle eventually came around. Hibari murmured something in Tagalog to the driver, and the man sent him an alarmed look before nodding and revving his bike up. Hibari slipped into the passenger’s cabin, and pointedly glared at Yamamoto. Yamamoto dutifully took his place at the back of the bike, right behind the driver. He knew when to take a hint.
“You know, this seems like a really interesting place,” Yamamoto remarked later, as he stood around behind his companion, watching Hibari order some street food at the corner. “I wasn’t able to see much of Coron, but what I did see really impressed me. Ah!” the swordsman exclaimed, as though he had been struck with a sudden epiphany. “Here’s an idea… maybe we should have a family trip down here sometime! I’ll tell Tsuna when we get to Italy!”
Hibari turned around, shoved what looked like a bunch of peeled, sugared and fried bananas on a stick into his hands, and walked off. Yamamoto blinked at it, blinked at the vendor (who blinked right back at him), then loped off after Hibari, taking a tentative bite of the thing. Five bites later, he decided that he wanted more, but they turned into another area, and then into another area, and soon it became clear to Yamamoto that there would not be any more vendors selling whatever-that-thing-he-just-ate-was along the way.
Hibari walked, Yamamoto followed; Hibari attended to his business along the way, Yamamoto watched him do it; Hibari ignored whatever Yamamoto said, Yamamoto didn’t particularly care. That was the routine that they had established in their years together as Guardians of the Vongola - it was the pattern that defined them, and never seemed to change no matter what country they happened to be in at the moment.
It nearly midnight by the time they arrived at their destination: a grand hotel sitting on top of a hill, built in the old Spanish style, surrounded by trees and carefully tucked away from the noise and smell of the city. The Rain Guardian stood off to one side, admiring the view of the sea from the lounge; Hibari was off at the front desk of the lobby, talking to the woman manning the front desk in Tagalog. Yet another place under the Cloud Guardian’s control.
The sound of the elevator bell drew Yamamoto out of his thoughts, and he looked up in time to see Hibari entering one of the stalls. The Rain Guardian had to sprint to catch up to him, and literally threw himself in between the closing doors to in order to not get left behind. Hibari sent him a baleful look from where he had settled back against the wall, arms folded across his chest, legs crossed one in front of the other. Yamamoto only chuckled, scratched the back of his neck, and waited out the rest of the ride. The elevator music was some old tune with mandolins, violins and an incredibly high-pitched female singer. Probably a love song. Likely a lament.
When the doors opened on their floor, Yamamoto moved to stand in front of Hibari, hand outstretched, smile in place.
“Let me take the lead, for once.”
One brief, measuring look, and a heartbeat later the keys were in his hands. Yamamoto offered another smile and stepped out first. Hibari became the other set of footsteps sounding off just behind his own as he moved down the corridor, twirling the key ring around one finger. Their room was at the very end, beside a picture window facing the waters. He turned the lock, opened the door, and found himself pushed in and shoved against the wall.
“Kyouya-”
“Shut up.”
Because of the endless repetitions that defined their relationship, Yamamoto had grown used to seeing Hibari in pieces: the curve of an ear, the column of his neck, thin lips, gray eyes, a flash of collarbones, or maybe teeth. He used to try and keep the whole image of the other Guardian in mind whenever they came together. Somewhere down the line, however, he learned that it was easier and infinitely more thrilling to focus on things piece by piece instead, to study a different part each session, measuring it, turning it outside and in, pressing skin to skin, mapping out its connections to the whole with fingers, lips, tongue.
Hibari kissed him, and Yamamoto stopped thinking. He felt the Cloud Guardian’s hand travel upward, starting just at his hairline, tracing a path down his jaw, resting at his collar, near his neck. A quiet, wordless threat.
“…Well.” He smiled. He was not worried, not surprised. “What brought this on?”
Another kiss, tongue in mouth, rough and demanding. “Talking again,” Hibari muttered as he pulled back. His other hand was moving, slipping between them, sliding just under Yamamoto’s shirt and across the skin of his belly concealed beneath it. Yamamoto caught his wrist to keep him from straying down to the zipper of his pants. Hibari bit him and sent his hand down there anyway.
“You irritate me.”
They made out - all locked lips, shared breath and busy hands - and danced backwards - tangling limbs and randomly throwing off coats/holsters/weapons - to their proper destination with the awkward ease of a like-minded pair who had done that sort of thing a million times before. Yamamoto closed the door behind them by shoving Hibari against it. Hibari tripped Yamamoto onto the bed by putting a knee in between his legs and pushing Yamamoto down by the shoulders. The Cloud Guardian then settled himself right on top of Yamamoto’s hips as though he had always belonged there. The swordsman was unsure of what was more boggling: the sight of Hibari on top of him, or the way it felt to have Hibari on top of him, warm and heavy against his crotch. He had not thought much about how long it had been since the last time, at least not until Hibari had kissed him. At that moment, however, he was suddenly and painfully aware of it.
Hibari grabbed Yamamoto’s tie and pulled the latter up, literally yanking him back to reality. “Don’t blink,” the man muttered. “I might get bored.” His breath was hot and moist against Yamamoto’s lips; his eyes were lost within the fringe of his hair. Yamamoto smiled and kissed him, nipping playfully at his bottom lip. He kept his arms out both because he needed to support their collective weight and because he knew it drove Hibari up the wall when he didn’t reach out and touch him. Hibari reacted predictably enough: with a frustrated snarl, a bite to his neck, and the slow, almost methodical grinding of his hips against Yamamoto’s. A moment later, after he was finished giving Yamamoto a mark that nothing short of a turtleneck could hide, Hibari broke away and let go of Yamamoto’s tie. He moved his hands down and burrowed them between their bodies, fumbling with his buttons and Yamamoto’s zipper at the same time. Yamamoto watched him with a fair amount of amusement before looping one arm around Hibari’s waist and twisting about, switching their positions in a single, deft movement.
Trust in the infamous Cloud Guardian of the Vongola to attempt to kill you with a look, to make you think that you were in a disadvantageous position, even if he was the one who was breathless and annoyed with need, hot and angry and so obviously horny. Yamamoto swatted off Hibari’s attempts to rise up or hit him with practiced ease. He eventually put an end to the resistance completely by gathering up both the man’s wrists and holding them fast above the other’s head, and chuckled lightly when Hibari glared at him.
“You’re so impatient, Kyouya,” he murmured, as he worked to undo his tie. “Maybe I should show you how to pace yourself.”
“Idiot.”
Yamamoto responded by binding Hibari’s wrists together and pulling the knot in tight. He kept one hand wrapped around those wrists and let the other travel across Hibari’s body, starting from the man’s belly and working his way up, shoving the ludicrous shirt he was wearing out of the way, revealing skin inch by inch. He worked with painstaking slowness, using his tongue using his tongue and mouth to lick or nip or suck or blow on the newly exposed skin at every turn, all the way until he had completely removed the man’s shirt. He felt more than heard the hiss Hibari let out the moment his hand was unbuckling that belt, pushing those pants down. There was something fulfilling in the fact that he could make someone as proud as Hibari squirm. Yamamoto pulled back, briefly, to savor the moment and commit the vision of the family’s strongest Guardian spread out beneath him before taking the other man in his hand, by the hilt.
“Let’s do this slowly,” he murmured, into the hollow of Hibari’s throat. “You’ve got the stamina for that, right?” And he moved his tongue downward, just as he started stroking.
Sometime later, after Yamamoto made Hibari cum and the latter informed the former how much he hated him for giving such a good handjob with several bites down his neck and on his shoulder, they were pressed even closer together on the bed, Yamamoto on top and Hibari beneath, legs on legs, arms on arms, mouth on ear. Yamamoto had the other Guardian in his hand again, one finger teasing the tip of his cock; the fingers of his other hand were working their way into Hibari, carefully stretching the taut muscles of the man’s entrance. Hibari’s hands had long balled up into fists, clutching at the sheets; his eyes had fluttered shut, and he gasped soundlessly into the pillow pressed against his cheek. He trembled every time Yamamoto’s fingers moved inside of him, but kept his voice locked up somewhere between his lungs and throat, refusing to cry out. Yamamoto continued his work, knowing full well that by the end of the evening he would end up breaking Hibari’s resolve, with enough touch and enough tongue.
The tattoo on Hibari’s back had expanded, Yamamoto realized, now that he had the leisure of stroking Hibari off and watching him from above without too much of a threat of being hit anywhere delicate. He remembered it being small and simple three years back; now the Cloud Guardian’s whole back had become a canvas, a work-in-progress involving cranes in flight, water and higebana stretching from his shoulders all the way down to the end of his spine. Hibari had first gotten the thing sometime during their high school years, on the night that he took down the last rebellious yakuza boss in Japan. The Cloud Guardian added to it with every major achievement, every celebrity kill - Yamamoto knew that for a fact, even though he had never actually accompanied the man to the tattoo parlor. Dino Cavallone had always been the one given that particular privilege.
Hibari shuddered against his hands, drawing Yamamoto back to the present; he released the other man’s cock, lifting his wet fingers to his lips, licked off the semen coating them. Hibari still tasted the same: sharp and bitter and burnt and strange. An acquired taste, something that one had to take in slowly - one looked for it again because they either wanted to figure it out or because they had failed to uncover everything about it. Cue addiction. Cue coming back, again and again and again.
“Stop dawdling.”
Hibari was glaring at him again, even while he was sprawled flat on his belly, barely able to lift up anything beyond his hips. Yamamoto chuckled.
“Don’t complain about this tomorrow.”
The only response he received was Hibari moaning for the first time that evening.
Later, as Yamamoto leaned forward and pressed in deep, as he watched Hibari’s back arch and felt the other man open up completely, he remembered, briefly, what it was like to be sheathed within another’s body, to sleep with the only other man he would ever want to touch the way he was touching Hibari. He wondered, as they both rode through the high, if Hibari was thinking about the same thing.
Some closing notes:
‘Na lang’, in the case of how it's used above, translates into something like “instead” or “just”. So, I guess you could read that full sentence as something like “Let’s just make it two-hundred fifty.” Also: affixing po after a sentence is a way of speaking respectfully to somebody in Tagalog.
KATEKYO HITMAN REBORN!: Return on Investment
Chapter Six: Used to your streets.
Theme Song: Download link to follow!
Other Chapter Links: Prologue | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16
Rating: NC-17
Characters: Hibari Kyouya, Yamamoto Takeshi
Summary: Palawan at night. This leads to that.
Notes: This longfic was my NaNoWriMo project for 2008, although I've actually been itching to write it ever since I returned to the fandom early on this year. It's meant to take place ten years into the new future created by Tsuna and his crew after the TYL arc, and is slightly AU-ish with several details. The title of this chapter is taken from the 31_days theme for September 6, 2007.
Chapter Six. Used to your streets.
Puerto Princesa City, Palawan Island, Philippines.
It was an early hour on a Friday night. Many hawkers still roamed the streets of Puerto Princesa or sat behind the rundown stalls close to shore or along all the major roads, bathed in the half-shadows of the evening or the harsh electric glow of fluorescent lamps. They an army of Bored and Tired faces peddling their wares, smacking randomly at swarms of mosquitoes, puffing their way through an assembly line of cheap cigarettes - they have learned, in their years of selling tourist traps to as many people as they could, that the best way to deal with their job was to keep their heads low and not ask questions.
“How much does this cost?”
The street vendor glanced down at the shirt thrust in front of him, then up at the inquirer’s face, then down again, just right in the middle, focused, in particular, on the bloodstains liberally blotching up his potential customer’s shirt. A foreigner, Oriental-looking, with surprisingly good Tagalog; his grasp of the language was both pleasant and just a little alarming.
The sharp-eyed stranger shook the t-shirt about in an attempt to catch the peddler’s attention again. “How much?” he repeated, with just the right amount of edge to his tone. The kind that could be read as impatient rather than threatening.
“Two-hundred fifty na lang po,” the vendor serenely returned. No need to hassle himself over some random foreigner with blood on his clothes. “Special price na po.”
(He wasn’t actually lying. He usually tried to ding chinks for half a thousand bucks before subsequently lowering the price, because they weren’t half as stingy as the Russians one usually got around the island. This stranger probably didn’t mind spending a lot either, but his better instincts told him that maybe it wouldn’t be a good idea to cheat this one. Not if he wanted to keep more than just his store intact.)
A pause, and the shirt was replaced by a wad of dirty-looking twenty-peso bills. By the time the vendor looked up, the stranger in that fancy (bloody) suit was long gone.
“That was unexpected,” Yamamoto remarked as Hibari walked past him. “Aren’t you worried that he’ll call the cops or something?”
Hibari walked along without a word and Yamamoto simply followed him, hands in his pockets and not looking disturbed or annoyed in the least. They walked among the locals and under the street lights, weaving their way through the evening crowd.
“So I was thinking that you’re probably not worried because you’ve got it all covered,” Yamamoto said sometime afterward. “I mean, it’s been nearly two hours. You’d think that people would talk after seeing strange Japs with blood on their clothes.” He was leaning against the wall of one of the many outhouses close to the beach, waiting for Hibari to finish up. “So I figure that yeah, you’ve must’ve bribed some guys when you landed, or maybe you’ve got some friends here. The usual stuff.”
Hibari stepped out, wearing the shirt he had just bought - it was a souvenir tee, with a halfway decent sketch of the island and the words “I ♥ PALAWAN” inscribed in big, bold letters over the drawing. Yamamoto grinned at him. Hibari didn’t even look in his direction; the Cloud Guardian started off again immediately, with his ruined shirt on his arm and his coat hanging off his shoulders. Yamamoto found himself looking for the Namimori Academy Disciplinary Committee armband before he remembered that Hibari wasn’t a prefect, he wasn’t on the varsity and both of them weren’t kids anymore.
“Oh, I nearly forgot,” Yamamoto said, as they sat at the tricycle station. “Tsuna had me attend this negotiation with the leaders of the Southern Side last month.” They had a bench to themselves and were seated on opposite ends of it, mostly because Yamamoto had settled in first and Hibari automatically sat as far away from him as possible. “The head was asking about you… he seems like a cool guy.”
A tricycle eventually came around. Hibari murmured something in Tagalog to the driver, and the man sent him an alarmed look before nodding and revving his bike up. Hibari slipped into the passenger’s cabin, and pointedly glared at Yamamoto. Yamamoto dutifully took his place at the back of the bike, right behind the driver. He knew when to take a hint.
“You know, this seems like a really interesting place,” Yamamoto remarked later, as he stood around behind his companion, watching Hibari order some street food at the corner. “I wasn’t able to see much of Coron, but what I did see really impressed me. Ah!” the swordsman exclaimed, as though he had been struck with a sudden epiphany. “Here’s an idea… maybe we should have a family trip down here sometime! I’ll tell Tsuna when we get to Italy!”
Hibari turned around, shoved what looked like a bunch of peeled, sugared and fried bananas on a stick into his hands, and walked off. Yamamoto blinked at it, blinked at the vendor (who blinked right back at him), then loped off after Hibari, taking a tentative bite of the thing. Five bites later, he decided that he wanted more, but they turned into another area, and then into another area, and soon it became clear to Yamamoto that there would not be any more vendors selling whatever-that-thing-he-just-ate-was along the way.
Hibari walked, Yamamoto followed; Hibari attended to his business along the way, Yamamoto watched him do it; Hibari ignored whatever Yamamoto said, Yamamoto didn’t particularly care. That was the routine that they had established in their years together as Guardians of the Vongola - it was the pattern that defined them, and never seemed to change no matter what country they happened to be in at the moment.
It nearly midnight by the time they arrived at their destination: a grand hotel sitting on top of a hill, built in the old Spanish style, surrounded by trees and carefully tucked away from the noise and smell of the city. The Rain Guardian stood off to one side, admiring the view of the sea from the lounge; Hibari was off at the front desk of the lobby, talking to the woman manning the front desk in Tagalog. Yet another place under the Cloud Guardian’s control.
The sound of the elevator bell drew Yamamoto out of his thoughts, and he looked up in time to see Hibari entering one of the stalls. The Rain Guardian had to sprint to catch up to him, and literally threw himself in between the closing doors to in order to not get left behind. Hibari sent him a baleful look from where he had settled back against the wall, arms folded across his chest, legs crossed one in front of the other. Yamamoto only chuckled, scratched the back of his neck, and waited out the rest of the ride. The elevator music was some old tune with mandolins, violins and an incredibly high-pitched female singer. Probably a love song. Likely a lament.
When the doors opened on their floor, Yamamoto moved to stand in front of Hibari, hand outstretched, smile in place.
“Let me take the lead, for once.”
One brief, measuring look, and a heartbeat later the keys were in his hands. Yamamoto offered another smile and stepped out first. Hibari became the other set of footsteps sounding off just behind his own as he moved down the corridor, twirling the key ring around one finger. Their room was at the very end, beside a picture window facing the waters. He turned the lock, opened the door, and found himself pushed in and shoved against the wall.
“Kyouya-”
“Shut up.”
Because of the endless repetitions that defined their relationship, Yamamoto had grown used to seeing Hibari in pieces: the curve of an ear, the column of his neck, thin lips, gray eyes, a flash of collarbones, or maybe teeth. He used to try and keep the whole image of the other Guardian in mind whenever they came together. Somewhere down the line, however, he learned that it was easier and infinitely more thrilling to focus on things piece by piece instead, to study a different part each session, measuring it, turning it outside and in, pressing skin to skin, mapping out its connections to the whole with fingers, lips, tongue.
Hibari kissed him, and Yamamoto stopped thinking. He felt the Cloud Guardian’s hand travel upward, starting just at his hairline, tracing a path down his jaw, resting at his collar, near his neck. A quiet, wordless threat.
“…Well.” He smiled. He was not worried, not surprised. “What brought this on?”
Another kiss, tongue in mouth, rough and demanding. “Talking again,” Hibari muttered as he pulled back. His other hand was moving, slipping between them, sliding just under Yamamoto’s shirt and across the skin of his belly concealed beneath it. Yamamoto caught his wrist to keep him from straying down to the zipper of his pants. Hibari bit him and sent his hand down there anyway.
“You irritate me.”
They made out - all locked lips, shared breath and busy hands - and danced backwards - tangling limbs and randomly throwing off coats/holsters/weapons - to their proper destination with the awkward ease of a like-minded pair who had done that sort of thing a million times before. Yamamoto closed the door behind them by shoving Hibari against it. Hibari tripped Yamamoto onto the bed by putting a knee in between his legs and pushing Yamamoto down by the shoulders. The Cloud Guardian then settled himself right on top of Yamamoto’s hips as though he had always belonged there. The swordsman was unsure of what was more boggling: the sight of Hibari on top of him, or the way it felt to have Hibari on top of him, warm and heavy against his crotch. He had not thought much about how long it had been since the last time, at least not until Hibari had kissed him. At that moment, however, he was suddenly and painfully aware of it.
Hibari grabbed Yamamoto’s tie and pulled the latter up, literally yanking him back to reality. “Don’t blink,” the man muttered. “I might get bored.” His breath was hot and moist against Yamamoto’s lips; his eyes were lost within the fringe of his hair. Yamamoto smiled and kissed him, nipping playfully at his bottom lip. He kept his arms out both because he needed to support their collective weight and because he knew it drove Hibari up the wall when he didn’t reach out and touch him. Hibari reacted predictably enough: with a frustrated snarl, a bite to his neck, and the slow, almost methodical grinding of his hips against Yamamoto’s. A moment later, after he was finished giving Yamamoto a mark that nothing short of a turtleneck could hide, Hibari broke away and let go of Yamamoto’s tie. He moved his hands down and burrowed them between their bodies, fumbling with his buttons and Yamamoto’s zipper at the same time. Yamamoto watched him with a fair amount of amusement before looping one arm around Hibari’s waist and twisting about, switching their positions in a single, deft movement.
Trust in the infamous Cloud Guardian of the Vongola to attempt to kill you with a look, to make you think that you were in a disadvantageous position, even if he was the one who was breathless and annoyed with need, hot and angry and so obviously horny. Yamamoto swatted off Hibari’s attempts to rise up or hit him with practiced ease. He eventually put an end to the resistance completely by gathering up both the man’s wrists and holding them fast above the other’s head, and chuckled lightly when Hibari glared at him.
“You’re so impatient, Kyouya,” he murmured, as he worked to undo his tie. “Maybe I should show you how to pace yourself.”
“Idiot.”
Yamamoto responded by binding Hibari’s wrists together and pulling the knot in tight. He kept one hand wrapped around those wrists and let the other travel across Hibari’s body, starting from the man’s belly and working his way up, shoving the ludicrous shirt he was wearing out of the way, revealing skin inch by inch. He worked with painstaking slowness, using his tongue using his tongue and mouth to lick or nip or suck or blow on the newly exposed skin at every turn, all the way until he had completely removed the man’s shirt. He felt more than heard the hiss Hibari let out the moment his hand was unbuckling that belt, pushing those pants down. There was something fulfilling in the fact that he could make someone as proud as Hibari squirm. Yamamoto pulled back, briefly, to savor the moment and commit the vision of the family’s strongest Guardian spread out beneath him before taking the other man in his hand, by the hilt.
“Let’s do this slowly,” he murmured, into the hollow of Hibari’s throat. “You’ve got the stamina for that, right?” And he moved his tongue downward, just as he started stroking.
Sometime later, after Yamamoto made Hibari cum and the latter informed the former how much he hated him for giving such a good handjob with several bites down his neck and on his shoulder, they were pressed even closer together on the bed, Yamamoto on top and Hibari beneath, legs on legs, arms on arms, mouth on ear. Yamamoto had the other Guardian in his hand again, one finger teasing the tip of his cock; the fingers of his other hand were working their way into Hibari, carefully stretching the taut muscles of the man’s entrance. Hibari’s hands had long balled up into fists, clutching at the sheets; his eyes had fluttered shut, and he gasped soundlessly into the pillow pressed against his cheek. He trembled every time Yamamoto’s fingers moved inside of him, but kept his voice locked up somewhere between his lungs and throat, refusing to cry out. Yamamoto continued his work, knowing full well that by the end of the evening he would end up breaking Hibari’s resolve, with enough touch and enough tongue.
The tattoo on Hibari’s back had expanded, Yamamoto realized, now that he had the leisure of stroking Hibari off and watching him from above without too much of a threat of being hit anywhere delicate. He remembered it being small and simple three years back; now the Cloud Guardian’s whole back had become a canvas, a work-in-progress involving cranes in flight, water and higebana stretching from his shoulders all the way down to the end of his spine. Hibari had first gotten the thing sometime during their high school years, on the night that he took down the last rebellious yakuza boss in Japan. The Cloud Guardian added to it with every major achievement, every celebrity kill - Yamamoto knew that for a fact, even though he had never actually accompanied the man to the tattoo parlor. Dino Cavallone had always been the one given that particular privilege.
Hibari shuddered against his hands, drawing Yamamoto back to the present; he released the other man’s cock, lifting his wet fingers to his lips, licked off the semen coating them. Hibari still tasted the same: sharp and bitter and burnt and strange. An acquired taste, something that one had to take in slowly - one looked for it again because they either wanted to figure it out or because they had failed to uncover everything about it. Cue addiction. Cue coming back, again and again and again.
“Stop dawdling.”
Hibari was glaring at him again, even while he was sprawled flat on his belly, barely able to lift up anything beyond his hips. Yamamoto chuckled.
“Don’t complain about this tomorrow.”
The only response he received was Hibari moaning for the first time that evening.
Later, as Yamamoto leaned forward and pressed in deep, as he watched Hibari’s back arch and felt the other man open up completely, he remembered, briefly, what it was like to be sheathed within another’s body, to sleep with the only other man he would ever want to touch the way he was touching Hibari. He wondered, as they both rode through the high, if Hibari was thinking about the same thing.
Some closing notes:
‘Na lang’, in the case of how it's used above, translates into something like “instead” or “just”. So, I guess you could read that full sentence as something like “Let’s just make it two-hundred fifty.” Also: affixing po after a sentence is a way of speaking respectfully to somebody in Tagalog.