Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/2703665.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Katekyou_Hitman_Reborn!
  Relationship:
      Gokudera_Hayato/Yamamoto_Takeshi
  Character:
      Gokudera_Hayato, Yamamoto_Takeshi
  Additional Tags:
      Established_Relationship, Commitment, First_Time, Love_Confessions,
      Awkward_First_Times, Fluff_and_Smut
  Series:
      Part 9 of Understanding
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-12-03 Words: 6140
****** Commitment ******
by tastewithouttalent
Summary
     "Gokudera can see when Yamamoto's eyes flicker into recognition of
     his features, the way his smile melts a little at the corners to
     become bone-deep sincerity instead of his usual generic happiness."
     Gokudera has a confession, and a request, and Yamamoto agrees to
     both.
It’s still early when Gokudera knocks on Yamamoto’s door. They came straight
back from the baseball game, barely staying long enough for Yamamoto to wave
and flash a smile at his first-year protegees before returning to the base, but
Yamamoto headed for his room right away. Gokudera is fairly sure he’d be
welcome to follow, doesn’t feel the need to ask every time like Yamamoto
inexplicably does, but he’s been turning an idea over in his head for a while,
now, and he needs a few minutes alone to steady the thrum of anticipation in
his nerves. There’s no risk that delay will mean he’s not going to follow
through -- it’s too settled into his mind, like a dare to himself he can’t back
down from.
Besides, it’s a good day for commitment.
Yamamoto pulls the door open before Gokudera has time to panic at all. He’s
smiling in welcome before he even sees who his visitor is; Gokudera can see
when his eyes flicker into recognition of his features, the way his smile melts
a little at the corners to become bone-deep sincerity instead of his usual
generic happiness.
“Gokudera.” He sounds surprised, delighted as if he hasn’t seen the other in a
week instead of thirty minutes at the most.
“Hey,” Gokudera says, and that’s as far as he gets before he has to look away
from the affection in Yamamoto’s face. It’s hard to see Yamamoto looking at him
at the best of times; right now, with his proposition burning under his tongue,
he doesn’t stand a chance against the flush that climbs into his cheeks. “Can I
come in?”
“Sure,” Yamamoto says, moving to hold the door wide. Gokudera steps inside
without looking at him, reaches out to pull the door from Yamamoto’s hold and
push it shut behind him. Yamamoto lets him drag the weight from his hand,
doesn’t voice any trace of curiosity or confusion; when Gokudera manages to
glance up from the shadowed cover of his hair, the other boy is just watching
him, his head tipped very slightly to the side and his mouth so soft on warmth
that even his smile has faded. Gokudera wants to kiss him, wants to steal the
easy comfort in the slouch of his shoulders and the simple affection in his
eyes until the twists and tangles of his own thoughts smooth out into straight
lines. But he can’t unfold the knot of anxiety at his spine, the pressure of
unspoken words on the back of his tongue, and now that he’s here he’s really
starting to regret this decision, now that it’s too late to reasonably go back.
Some part of his tension must be evident to Yamamoto; he’s usually a little
quicker to initiate contact, even if he is always tentative and careful with
the first touch. This time he’s not reaching for Gokudera’s hand or hair or
shoulder, just lets his hands hang at his sides where Gokudera’s gaze has
stalled out. They’re both still and silent for a minute, so long Gokudera can
feel the discomfort of self-consciousness settling at the back of his neck;
then Yamamoto says, “Gokudera?” as easily as if they haven’t been standing in
silence since Gokudera came into the room. “Are you okay?”
Gokudera doesn’t have a good introduction to what he needs to say. He has the
middle, maybe the shape of an end on the horizon, but without a beginning
there’s nowhere to smoothly start.
He goes with the middle, instead.
“You have to know.” He’s not looking at Yamamoto’s face, can’t trust himself to
keep talking if he can see the gentle focus in the other boy’s expression. “How
I.” This is harder than he expected; even talking around the subject he can
feel his throat closing up with hot embarrassment. “How I feel about you.” He
coughs sharply, clears his throat as if there’s something there other than his
own painful self-consciousness. “Right?”
He does look up, then. He has to, has to try for this desperate hope that
Yamamoto will for once understand what he’s saying without Gokudera having to
spell out the words. But the other boy is just staring at him, his eyes wide
and blank of any miraculous intuition, and some manic energy grips Gokudera’s
thoughts and pushes the words past lips numb with panic.
“Because I like you.” Gokudera can’t even recognize his own voice, it sounds so
strained. He clears his throat but that doesn’t help, it just feels like he’s
choking on air. “Okay?”
Yamamoto’s eyes are wide, shocked like he’s forgotten how to speak, his lips
barely parted on a soundless response. It’s stupid, there’s no way he can not
know after weeks of rushed kisses in quiet corners and the constant anxious
press of fingers to wrists whenever they are away from others, but still
Gokudera isn’t surprised to see the light of novel understanding spread over
Yamamoto’s face like the sunrise.
“Really?” He is reaching out now, fingers stretching for the inside curve of
Gokudera’s elbow, but Gokudera moves faster, grabs too-tight at the other boy’s
wrist to stop the motion and seizes a handful of his shirt for good measure.
“Of course I do, you idiot” and he comes up on his toes, drags Yamamoto down
and presses the soft surprise at the other’s lips into understanding under his
own. Yamamoto makes the tiny sighing sound he always does, like he’s letting
some carefully stored tension ease away, and he’s tipping in closer to return
the kiss before his free hand has made it up to Gokudera’s hair. A pair of
fingers presses in against the back of the other boy’s neck, Yamamoto’s touch
skating just under his collar, and usually this would be the point where
Gokudera lets the heat of pleasure in his blood take over.
This time he pulls back, words surging too strong on his tongue to be ignored.
“You really thought I didn’t like you?”
“What?” Yamamoto sounds dazed, lost and detached from the thread of the
conversation. He’s watching Gokudera’s mouth instead of his eyes. “I dunno.”
His eyelashes shift dark over his gaze, one shoulder pulls up in a shrug. “I
wasn’t sure.”
“God,” Gokudera huffs, “You really are an idiot.”
Yamamoto blinks, his gaze coming back into focus for a moment before his lips
curve into a smile so wide it crinkles at the corners of his eyes. “Guess so.”
“Are you sure now?” Gokudera asks. The words come out snapping with irritation
but Yamamoto’s fingers are still at the back of his neck, he’s still leaning in
to reach instinctively for the shape of the other’s smile.
“Yeah,” Yamamoto says, smiling so wide it’s hard for Gokudera to kiss him. He
settles for the corner of the other boy’s mouth instead, the soft crease of joy
pressed into his skin, and Yamamoto shivers, lets his eyes shut and turns his
head in for more.
It’s enough, for a minute. Yamamoto’s touch is steady and gentle, his fingers
soothing without urging for more, but Gokudera’s fist is drawing tighter, his
motions going jerky with anxious want for more.
Gokudera pulls back first, but Yamamoto is the one who speaks, like he’s
catching Gokudera’s words directly off the heat of his tongue. “Do you want --”
“The bed,” Gokudera finishes before Yamamoto can compose the rest of the
question. He steps backwards without turning, drags Yamamoto in his wake so the
other boy has to stumble to catch up. He’s leaning in anyway, his usual careful
restraint failing so when Gokudera hesitates a step Yamamoto tips in too far,
crushes a kiss against his lower lip before they both manage to cross the
remaining distance without breaking apart. It’s Gokudera who kicks the edge of
the bed first, but Yamamoto doesn’t resist when the other drags him sideways by
his shirt, twists their positions so he can shove and topple Yamamoto’s balance
over the mattress instead of the floor. Even his fall is easy, relaxed and
lacking any of the panic Gokudera half-expects; he just collapses back over the
sheets, blinking up at Gokudera with his mouth still so soft it speaks more of
his pleasure than a smile would.
Gokudera moves before the affection in Yamamoto’s face can freeze him in place,
before his adrenaline has time to lock him into indecision. Yamamoto sits up to
meet him as he climbs onto the bed to straddle the other boy’s legs, turning
his head up for a kiss before Gokudera replaces his grip on the much-abused t-
shirt to pin him back down to the bed. He can feel Yamamoto’s laugh against his
lips and the purr of sound in the other boy’s shoulders as his fingers relax to
press against Yamamoto’s chest instead of drag at his shirt. Tipped forward
gravity doed half the work for him; all Gokudera has to do is let himself relax
and he fits against Yamamoto from hip to shoulder, so close he can feel where
the other boy’s shirt is riding up at his hip.
Gokudera touches his fingers to the triangle of bare skin, turning his head to
scrape his teeth against the corner of Yamamoto’s mouth so he doesn’t miss the
tiny choked inhale of reaction at the contact. When he looks up Yamamoto’s eyes
are shut, his mouth open and his throat working around the effort of keeping
his breathing steady. Gokudera’s gaze drops to that reflexive motion above the
other’s collar, is staring at the pattern of the other’s breathing with his
fingers stalled still on skin when he blurts, “I want.”
Yamamoto blinks, swallows, brings his eyes into focus on Gokudera’s face with a
visible effort. “Gokudera?”
Gokudera’s teeth catch at his lip, grind pressure up to the point of pain into
the skin without conscious effort on his part. When he moves his hand it’s too
fast, jerky with desperation, but Yamamoto’s expression flickers out-of-focus,
his eyes drift into the melting soft of pleasure Gokudera never sees enough of
as the other boy’s fingers shove his shirt up high across his skin. Gokudera’s
breathing harder himself but the rush of air in his lungs barely registers;
he’s too trapped by the part of Yamamoto’s lips and the shivery pant as his
inhales fall into sync with Gokudera’s touch. His skin is warm to the touch and
flushing hotter when Gokudera lets his touch linger, the heat so tangible
Gokudera knows Yamamoto’s skin is going pink under his fingers without having
to look.
“I want you,” he manages, and that doesn’t help but he has the admission
started, now, and Yamamoto is refocusing his gaze on Gokudera’s face and the
liquid heat in his eyes is enough draw alone to pull the rest of the words from
the other’s lips. “Like.” He swallows, takes a breath while Yamamoto watches
him from his position spread out glowing and willing on the bed. “Sex.”
Gokudera is flushing before he even gets the word out, his cheeks burning so
hot even the temptation of Yamamoto’s expression isn’t enough to keep him
sustaining eye contact. His fingers tense with panic, the short edge of his
fingernails scraping friction against Yamamoto’s skin, and he’s just opening
his mouth to take it back, pushing against the bed to sit up and away when
fingers touch the back of his neck, Yamamoto interlacing both his hands to hold
Gokudera in place.
“Yeah.” He’s pulling himself up to kiss Gokudera’s mouth, a quick burst of
warmth; Gokudera can feel the tension of the position under his fingertips but
the kiss is soft, gentle and careful as Yamamoto always is before it dissolves
into a laugh more delighted than amused. “I want to have sex with you too.”
Gokudera’s blush goes darker on contact with the words, his breathing sticking
sharp in his throat and turning into a growl of embarrassment. Yamamoto just
laughs against his mouth, keeps laughing even when Gokudera shoves him back
down to the mattress.
“God,” he hisses, but his hand is still pushing over the other boy’s skin,
mapping out the lines of his chest and making Yamamoto’s eyelashes flutter
again. “How can you just say that?” He’s snapping the words, they sound angry
enough in his head, but his voice is shaking with anticipation and panic in
equal parts so the sound is trembling as badly as his touch.
“You did first,” Yamamoto points out. He sighs, a faint hum of satisfaction as
Gokudera’s palm skims across his skin; his shirt is pushed high off his skin,
barely covering anything but his shoulders now. He looks like he’s glowing gold
under Gokudera’s touch, looks warm and alive and real in comparison with
Gokudera’s too-pale fingers.
“Shut up,” Gokudera growls, curls his thumb around the folds of rumpled shirt.
“Sit up.”
Yamamoto does as told, still smiling with more warmth than any one person
should be in possession of; Gokudera drags the shirt up over his head, tugs it
off over Yamamoto’s arm while the other is still trying to get his elbow up and
out of the way. Yamamoto slides his other wrist free, looking entirely unfazed
by the amount of skin he’s baring, and Gokudera shrugs out of his jacket,
tosses it sideways before Yamamoto has yet collected himself enough to grab at
the bottom of his sweater. He lifts his arms, Yamamoto pushes at the fabric,
and the whole thing inverts, ruffling Gokudera’s hair into disarray as it
slides over his head and briefly catching at the cord around his neck before
the jewelry slides free along with the sweater.
The room isn’t as warm as it felt originally -- the air is chilled enough that
Gokudera’s skin pulls tight and cringing from the temperature, a tremor of
discomfort running through him before he can try to hide it. But Yamamoto is
letting his sweater fall to the floor, reaching out to press his hands flat
against Gokudera’s shoulders and pull him back down, and then there’s so much
skin against his Gokudera forgets all about being cold. Yamamoto is dragging at
his shoulders to urge him closer, opening his mouth almost before Gokudera can
kiss him again, and his lips are warm and his tongue is warmer. Gokudera’s arm
is pinned between them; he twists his wrist, slides his fingers down past the
edge of skin and against their remaining clothes. Yamamoto is rocking up in
anticipation of his movement before Gokudera even has his fingers against his
jeans, humming wordless appreciation in advance of the other boy’s hand
pressing in against his zipper. Yamamoto’s pressed hard against the denim, so
warm Gokudera can feel the heat even through the weight of the fabric; he
presses his palm in, slides the friction of his hand in against the shape of
the other boy. Yamamoto shudders against his mouth, his fingers clutching
against Gokudera’s shoulder for a moment before he eases his hold so he can
drag his hand down across the other boy’s skin in echo of Gokudera’s own
movement. He’s more gentle about the press of his hand, his wrist a little more
careful than Gokudera’s, but the friction is still enough to flood Gokudera’s
blood with warmth, to distract him from the grace of kissing so he has to drop
his head to Yamamoto’s shoulder instead, press his lips flat to the other boy’s
collarbone to stall the whimper that begs in his throat. He’s still pressing
against Yamamoto’s jeans, though, maneuvering his thumb until he can catch at
the other boy’s button and slide it free of the denim. Yamamoto arches up the
tiny distance he can manage, rocks against Gokudera’s palm and the inside line
of his thigh before Gokudera can press him back down to the sheets and tug his
zipper down. There’s a fumble of hands, Gokudera leaning in hard against
Yamamoto so he can shove at the other boy’s pants; then he has to pull away,
drag himself away from the press of Yamamoto’s palm and the draw of his skin to
slide back across the bed and drag the other boy’s clothes off his legs.
Yamamoto arches off the bed helpfully, falls back so he can lift his feet and
kick his clothing off entirely. Gokudera tosses the jeans to join their shirts
on the floor and Yamamoto shifts, lets his legs spread wide so Gokudera’s eyes
are caught by the inherent offer of the position. His cheeks flare sunburn hot
and it’s too much, he can’t look down at Yamamoto spread out for him and keep
any shred of the coherency he needs.
“Turn over,” he says, drawing back to the end of the bed like he’s retreating
from a battlefield. He has to drag the bottle of lube out of his pocket anyway,
has to control the tremble in his hands enough to manage the movement while
Yamamoto swallows visibly and rolls over to press his face to the sheets.
Gokudera’s hands go still for a moment; he can’t see Yamamoto’s face anymore
but now there’s the smooth curve of the other’s spine laid out in front of him,
he can see the tremble of Yamamoto’s breathing in the tiny movement of his
shoulders and the tension in his legs. At least he doesn’t have anyone to see
the way his mouth comes open on a soundless whine, the way his cheeks flush hot
before he turns his attention down to the bottle in his hand. He tugs his rings
off, leaving his fingers feeling strangely bare for a moment as the jewelry
falls and rings off-key notes against the floor; then he’s opening the bottle
with more force than is necessary, spilling far more liquid than he needs over
his skin before he can control the nervous shake in his hands. Yamamoto is
turning his head, taking a careful breath of air, but he’s not looking at
Gokudera; his eyes are out-of-focus, gazing unseeing at the plain white of the
wall in front of him.
He shivers when Gokudera touches him. Yamamoto’s skin is soft, tanned gold and
as warm as if sunlight is lingering in the smooth color under Gokudera’s hand,
but the tremble of reaction takes all his tension with it, leaves him sprawled
boneless and unresisting for whatever Gokudera wants to do to him. Neither of
them speak, Gokudera because his throat is too tight with anticipation and
Yamamoto because he looks like he’s forgotten the use of language, like his
mouth is made only for kissing and little wordless noises of encouragement.
Gokudera moves slowly. He can barely breathe for fear of doing something wrong,
terrified of moving too fast and shattering the weird unspoken peace hovering
between them by accidentally hurting Yamamoto. It’s hard even to brace himself
to push with just one slick finger, and then when he does he’s barely inside
before he can’t breathe, he can’t even remember how to move his hand. Yamamoto
is barely breathing faster but he’s so warm, his skin is flushed but
he’s burning inside, the heat is radiating out from him personally instead of
some sun-stolen flush. And he’s tight, Gokudera was expecting that, a little,
but it’s almost painful with just one finger, there’s no way he’s ever going to
fit.
“Gokudera?” Yamamoto asks, and Gokudera blinks hard, looks up at the other
boy’s face. He still looks calm, heat-hazed and more contemplative than in pain
as Gokudera feared. There’s no trace of panic in his voice, either, even though
Gokudera’s heart is hammering against his chest until he can barely breathe.
There’s no way he’s going to admit that to Yamamoto, though. “Yeah,” he says,
and pushes in deeper. Yamamoto gasps a half-breath of air and Gokudera nearly
jerks away before he remembers to go slow, before he takes a breath enough to
realize that Yamamoto looks okay, still, that it’s not pain in his expression
as much as curiosity.
“You okay?” Gokudera intended that to sound casual and unconcerned; it comes
out strained, grating with audible evidence of his nerves, but Yamamoto doesn’t
comment, doesn’t even glance back at him.
“Yeah.” He shifts his weight and Gokudera nearly pulls away again; he can feel
the tiny movement of Yamamoto’s hips around his fingers, telegraphed directly
to his senses. A small part of him recoils from the idea, terrified
backtracking from the intimacy of the thought, but the far greater part is
purring, drawing him hotter and harder than he can ever remember being against
the front of his jeans. He takes an anxious breath, blinks back into focus on
the easy sweep of Yamamoto’s shoulders, and when he moves his hand he’s not
listening to the panic at all. His heart is still pounding chokingly fast, his
thoughts are still scrambling instructions at him, but the motion of his hand
is at some impossible distance from that, obeying the shudder of response he
can see in Yamamoto’s shoulders and hear in Yamamoto’s breathing rather than
checking in with Gokudera’s over-thought plans first. It’s terrifying to trust
the instinct Gokudera has never relied on before, but he lacks the experience
to find a better checkpoint, and whatever he is doing some part of it seems
right. Yamamoto isn’t jerking away, isn’t hissing in pain or flinching back,
and as Gokudera keeps moving he can feel the other boy relax against the
pressure of his finger.
“Yamamoto,” and he’s shaking again, his voice sounds breathy and laced over
with the adrenaline he is trying to hide. “I’m gonna do another.”
Yamamoto nods agreement. “Okay.” He still sounds unfairly calm, like this isn’t
a big deal, like Gokudera can’t feel every tremor of his body responding to the
other boy’s movements. Gokudera huffs frustration, the comfort of familiar
frustration curling through his veins, but when he draws his hand back his
motions are still slow, just as careful as the first time, and Yamamoto doesn’t
flinch at the pressure. It must be uncomfortable, Gokudera can feel all that
first-wave tension against him again and what is tight for him must be a
stretch for Yamamoto. But the other boy is lying still and mostly-relaxed, only
the slight speed of his breathing a giveaway for his reaction, and that helps
take the edge off Gokudera’s worry.
Gokudera pauses once he’s got both fingers inside Yamamoto, partially so
Yamamoto can adjust and partially so he can catch his own breath. He’s flushed
hot all over his face, the heat is burning over his collarbones and across his
shoulders until he’s sure he’s red with sensation and self-consciousness in
equal parts.
“Still fine?” That has more of the gruff edge he wants, sounds a little more
like he doesn’t care that Yamamoto is the warmest thing he’s ever touched and
that his blood is evaporating to steam under his skin. Then Yamamoto smiles,
the bright flash of delight Gokudera knows so well, and all Gokudera’s
resistance crumbles to dust even before he says, “Yeah, Gokudera, I’m fine.”
“Alright.” Gokudera sounds shattered, there’s no way for him to put his voice
back together now. “I’m gonna move.” He suits actions to words, easing back and
pressing in again, and Yamamoto is still gazing at the wall and still relaxed
across the sheets and the pressure around Gokudera’s fingers is easing with
every gentle thrust of his hand. After a minute he chances turning his hand,
slides his fingers slightly apart; Yamamoto’s breathing catches for a moment,
but it evens out before Gokudera can more than hesitate in the rhythm of his
movements. After a pause he resumes again without asking for confirmation;
Yamamoto is still smiling faintly, like he’s forgotten to smooth his expression
into neutrality, and that is reassurance enough to overcome the brief catch of
worry.
Gokudera’s heart is still pounding, adrenaline still hot and surging in his
blood, but it’s less panic, now, more anticipation and hope so intense that
disappointment feels inevitable. But they’ve made it this far, he has Yamamoto
warm and pliant in front of him and he can almost feel the other boy’s
breathing against his fingers, and he’s just starting to wonder how long
he should continue when Yamamoto takes a breath and shifts his hips and says,
“You can try now, if you want.”
It’s not really all that suggestive, even in context; given where Gokudera is
touching it’s hardly even a step up from what they’re doing. But hearing the
clear sound of Yamamoto’s voice on the words tightens Gokudera’s chest, shoves
the entire experience out of the realm of fantasy and into reality so he can
feel his stomach drop like gravity has suddenly fallen out from under his feet.
“Yeah.” He pulls his hand back, faster than he intended and faster than he
should, but Yamamoto doesn’t complain; he just pushes up on his elbow, twists
at his waist so he can look back as Gokudera reaches for the front of his
pants. Their eyes meet for a hummingbird-fast heartbeat; then Gokudera has to
look away, coughing around the air he suddenly can’t get as his cheeks stain
crimson and hot. It has no effect at all on how hard he is; if anything the
unflinching trust in Yamamoto’s eyes makes it worse, fumbles Gokudera’s hands
when he really wants nothing as much as to get his pants off as rapidly as
possible. Even with his movements awkward and clumsy, it doesn’t take more than
a few seconds to get his jeans open. Then he’s almost there, there’s just
another brief delay while he shoves the fabric off his hips and drops to sit
next to Yamamoto so he can push them off his legs.
It’s strangely easier once the fabric is off; there’s nothing left to even
think about hiding at that point. Yamamoto can see the flush of pink all across
Gokudera’s skin, the evidence of his interest utterly pointless to even attempt
to hide. And he’s not retreating, not even blushing with self-consciousness;
when Gokudera risks a glance Yamamoto’s eyes are hotter even than they were,
his lips parted on his breathing like he’s forgotten about his expression
entirely, and the color in his cheeks is definitely not embarrassment. It’s his
mouth that confirms it, the soft unthinking pout of want that gives Gokudera
the self-confidence he needs to act.
“Okay.” His voice isn’t shaking, anymore. His fingers are slick when he strokes
carefully over himself, lacking the familiar comfort of their usual friction,
but he’s not thinking of that, he’s already a minute ahead, already lighting up
with expectation. Yamamoto shifts his legs a little wider as Gokudera fits his
knees between the other boy’s, arches up an inch before Gokudera has even
touched his hip. He’s still startlingly warm on Gokudera’s fingers but he’s
starting to tremble a little, now, showing the first signs of nerves Gokudera
has seen from him all night. Gokudera has gone right past nerves and out the
other side into calm, a sense of inevitability settling over him so even though
his breathing is nearly panting his hands are steady.
He thinks about offering some kind of warning, some announcement or suggestion
or indication that he’s going to move. But Yamamoto’s shoulders are tense with
expectation already, Gokudera’s close enough he can hear the other boy’s
breathing catching hot on the sheets, and in the end he doesn’t have the words
anyway. He rocks forward instead until his cock bumps radiant-warm skin, and
Yamamoto relaxes at the contact, like the comfort of touch is soothing away
whatever unusual anxiety has collected under his skin. So Gokudera tips in
close over Yamamoto’s spine, lets his gaze focus on the shift of shoulderblade
under the other boy’s skin, and starts to push forward as slowly as he can.
Yamamoto makes some sound as Gokudera slides into him, a high little gasp, but
his reaction is drowned out by the groan that Gokudera doesn’t realize he’s
going to make. Yamamoto is so tight it’s like an ache of sensation under
Gokudera’s skin, so hot it’s almost too much, it’s on the edge of too much and
absolutely not enough at once.
Gokudera stops moving, tries to loosen the unconsciously tight hold he has at
Yamamoto’s hip while he catches his breath. “You okay?” he manages; he can’t
look at Yamamoto’s face, can’t do anything but stare at the other boy’s skin
and hover in suspension waiting for agreement.
“Keep going,” Yamamoto says, and that’s not really an answer but that is what
Gokudera wanted to hear. He shifts his knees, steadies his weight, starts to
slowly slide forward again. Yamamoto whimpers again, but this time Gokudera has
his lips shut on whatever sound his throat might decide to make and he can hear
that it’s not really pain in the other’s voice as much as involuntary response,
like Gokudera is forcing the sound out of him with his movements. The idea
sparks under his skin and sets his blood on fire; he’s still open-mouthed on
trying to catch his breath from that when he sinks in the last inch into the
other boy.
He pauses for a moment. For a minute Gokudera is sure neither of them is
breathing; Yamamoto’s eyes are shut now, his forehead creased like he’s
concentrating very hard on something. Gokudera doesn’t mean to lean in closer
before he’s there, curled in so close he could kiss Yamamoto’s shoulder, if he
wanted.
“I’m gonna move,” he says, almost whispering the words. Yamamoto nods without
opening his eyes, shifts his weight on the bed; the motion burns Gokudera’s
rationality away, leaves him staring gasping and unseeing at the dark of
Yamamoto’s eyelashes as he pulls back, eases forward again. He doesn’t have to
think about going slowly; the sensation is so close to too much he’s more
afraid of going quickly than anything else. It’s enough to draw the friction
almost-infinite as he moves, the heat collecting slowly instead of building to
a crescendo. After a moment his vision clears enough to focus on the other
boy’s expression, the tangle of his hair against his forehead and the
unthinking softness of his parted lips. There’s something there, some meaning
at his mouth or collected in his forehead, but Gokudera can’t piece it
together, can’t see enough of Yamamoto’s expression to properly read his
reaction. He stares for a minute, reaching for the information he is yet
missing; then he rocks forward at a different angle, and Yamamoto jerks with
some new reaction, and Gokudera snaps to a decision.
“Wait.” He’s pushing back, pulling away before Yamamoto has even opened his
eyes and twisted to watch him.
“What? Why?” His eyes are half-lidded, his mouth soft and bruised-pink, and
Gokudera is certain this was a good idea even before he pushes at Yamamoto’s
hip.
“Turn over,” he orders, his tongue borrowing unconscious command. “I want to
see your face.”
Yamamoto stares at him for a moment, his cheeks darkening like Gokudera’s words
are pulling blood visible to the surface; then he moves all at once, twisting
onto his back so fast he nearly falls off the bed before he can slides back to
more or less the center of the sheets. He’s hard without Gokudera even having
touched him, there’s a tiny slick of liquid drawing sticky between the head of
his cock and the flat of his stomach. It’s a distraction but not enough, not
when he’s angling his legs wider in offering and Gokudera is pushing his hips
up slightly off the bed to improve the angle. Yamamoto is half-sitting up as
Gokudera comes in closer to fit himself back in, his back curled in like he
can’t bear to be at any distance at all from the other boy. Gokudera lifts his
head as he gets his position right; he only intends to watch Yamamoto’s eyes
but the other is closer than he expects, closing the distance between their
mouths so Gokudera’s lips are pressed to his as he starts to slide back into
the other boy. Yamamoto sighs a trembling sound against Gokudera’s mouth,
Gokudera can feel the vibration shudder on his tongue, and they both move
without speaking, Yamamoto falling back onto the bed and Gokudera toppling in
over him. With the length of Yamamoto’s legs hooked around his waist the
difference in their height is gone; Gokudera doesn’t have to reach to kiss the
soft of Yamamoto’s mouth, doesn’t have to tip his head back to watch the
melting gold of the other’s eyes. It’s a better angle for moving, too;
Yamamoto’s hips are tipped up a little higher than is probably quite
comfortable for him, but Gokudera can brace against the bed with one arm and
rock his hips forward with the smooth promise of a steady rhythm, and after a
moment Yamamoto gets his heel braced at Gokudera’s back to pull the other in
closer and tip himself closer at once until Gokudera isn’t sure which of them
is setting the pace.
They pull away from kissing for a moment, both breathing so hard Gokudera
thinks they’d be in some danger of passing out if they kept going. Yamamoto’s
cheeks are flushed high with sensation, one hand braced at Gokudera’s shoulder
and the other digging into silver hair, and his eyes are focused in on
Gokudera’s mouth like he’s incapable of looking anywhere else. Gokudera gulps
air, rocks forward as far as he can go, and while Yamamoto is trembling with
the sensation he gets his free hand down between them to wrap his fingers
around the other boy’s cock.
Yamamoto’s head tips back, the movement reflexive reaction as much as the
purring moan that spills up from his throat, and Gokudera leans in with as
little thought to press his mouth against the smooth line of Yamamoto’s throat.
He can taste salt on his tongue and vibration on his lips, Yamamoto is hard
under his fingers and hot around him, and when he strokes up over the other’s
length he can feel the shudder of response against him as clearly as he can
feel it under his lips. Gokudera’s humming pleasure without deliberation, his
mouth coming open to gasp for breath around a groan of encouragement, and
Yamamoto is so warm that he feels like he’s melting around Gokudera, like he’s
trembling himself out of existence and into just a single sustained note of
pleasure.
Gokudera strokes up over Yamamoto’s length again. It’s not a particularly
smooth movement; his fingers are unsteady, his wrist shaking, and it’s all out-
of-order with the unconscious motion of his hips as he keeps thrusting into the
other boy, but he can still hear Yamamoto’s breath hitch with the telltale
sound of restraint giving way. Gokudera pulls back enough to see Yamamoto’s
face, moves his hand once more, not even sure if he’s stroking or just
touching, now, and Yamamoto’s expression drops out of focus and into open-
mouthed pleasure. His cheeks flush darker, he makes a tiny gasping sound like
he can’t remember how to breathe, and then he’s coming over Gokudera’s fingers
and drawing tight around Gokudera’s cock, and it’s too much all at once.
Gokudera isn’t even sure he keeps moving his hand to draw Yamamoto through the
last of his orgasm; his awareness fades away all at once, all his sense of self
evaporating until he doesn’t even hear what sound he makes as the pleasure hits
him. There’s just heat, sensation rippling out into every corner of his body as
satisfaction washes over his head and pulls him under.
He’s shaking when he thinks to blink again, when he realizes he’s breathing
against the side of Yamamoto’s neck and has his forehead pressed into
Yamamoto’s hair. There’s an arm wrapped around his shoulders, Yamamoto holding
him close enough to forestall any idea Gokudera might have of rolling away too
quickly.
Gokudera is overheated, his skin sticky with sweat and lube and come all
together, and from how hard he’s breathing Yamamoto is no better than he is.
But when he lifts his head to see the other boy’s face Yamamoto is watching him
with his eyes as soft as Gokudera has ever seen them, like Gokudera is the only
thing in the world worth watching. Gokudera can feel his face go warm under
that gaze, silent protest at the implication in Yamamoto’s expression, but when
he looks at Yamamoto’s mouth he has better things to do than voice a complaint.
He doesn’t realize he’s smiling until the tension at his lips makes kissing
difficult, but by then Yamamoto has started to laugh warm and delighted, and
for once Gokudera can’t muster even half-hearted frustration; there’s just heat
and pleasure and joy surging bright in his thoughts.
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