Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/308111.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Katekyou_Hitman_Reborn!
  Relationship:
      Hibari/Yamamoto
  Character:
      Hibari_Kyouya, Yamamoto_Takeshi
  Additional Tags:
      Smut, violence_as_foreplay
  Series:
      Part 2 of Natural_Disasters
  Stats:
      Published: 2011-12-30 Words: 4205
****** Deluge ******
by Lys_ap_Adin_(lysapadin)
Summary
     Yamamoto is still acting strangely, and Hibari still doesn't quite
     know what he thinks of what's going on.
Notes
     Adult for smut. Follows Conflagration as part of the Natural
     Disasters series [index]. Violence as foreplay; yet another love-
     letter to Yamamoto's essential hotness. 4205 words.
Kyouya does not know what he thinks of his encounter with Yamamoto, so he does
not think of it at all. There is his territory to watch over and the school to
keep in order; the heat has inclined everyone to sloppiness and disorder and
thus, accordingly, he spends a great deal of time over the next few days
chastening the ones who think that the heat should allow them to disgrace
Namimori's uniform.
(Yamamoto, he notices without acknowledging that he is doing so, appears each
day with his uniform in perfect order and a smile on his face, an arm slung
around Sawada and a ready laugh for Gokudera. He shows no signs of being
anything but Sawada's loyal dog.)
None of the reprimands Kyouya administers are worth calling fights; they are
barely scuffles, a blow here and a kick there to push the sheep back into
proper behavior. That irritates Kyouya more than the sloppiness the heat
inspires; he roams Namimori restlessly, seeking a proper fight, but it's too
hot for anyone to step outside the lines of proper behavior. (And perhaps
people are aware that he is in no mood to be trifled with. Normally he would
find this satisfying, but just now it adds another layer to his frustration.)
His Sunday patrol is almost perfunctory, though Kyouya is as scrupulous with
his own duties as he is everyone else's. But his territory is quiet; he paces
along the sidewalks and streets and has no cause to linger upon them.
Not until he reaches the school.
Yamamoto is there again, alone for the first time Kyouya has seen all week, and
he is on the sports field again. What he is doing there has nothing to do with
sports at all. He has that blade of his and is running through proper kata with
it, forms that flow from one to the next the same way water flows downhill. He
does not use the ring or the box for this. It is simply him, the blade, and the
sunlight beating down on him as he paces through the dust, lunging and
spinning, crouching and striking.
Such kata, old and formal, demand proper attire—hakama with their seven folds,
kimono and haori to flutter with each sweeping, controlled movement, geta and
tabi to whisper through the swirling dust—but Yamamoto is wearing no such
thing. The cut-offs he wears are so old and faded that there is no saying what
their original color might have been. Now they are a nondescript grey, at least
in the places they are not otherwise discolored by patches of paint or other,
less identifiable stains or simply worn to threads. They end just above
Yamamoto's knees in a ragged, uneven mass of dangling threads, and hang off
Yamamoto's hips, quite possibly the only thing Yamamoto is currently wearing.
(Kyouya can see the blade of his hips and, when Yamamoto spins and crouches,
the pit end of his spine.)
The bruises from their last encounter have faded almost to nothing; Kyouya has
to look closely to see the fading yellow and brown patterns across Yamamoto's
torso because they blend into the golden tan of his skin and the natural
patterns of shadow that his muscles make as he moves.
Kyouya watches him through a full iteration of his forms, until Yamamoto comes
to the end of them (the current end; Kyouya knows full well that Yamamoto has
added several forms to his style already and will likely continue to do so as
necessity and his whims so move him). He holds himself in the final form for
several seconds, balanced on the balls of his feet and his blade held in a
thrust that, were Yamamoto facing a breathing enemy, would have slid up under
the ribs and through the lungs and heart. The dust floats through the air
around Yamamoto, hazing it gold in the sunlight, and begins to settle again
before Yamamoto releases the form, flowing out of it and turning to face Kyouya
in the same movement.
There is live steel in his hands and a calm, expectant look on his face, like
he's waiting for something. Kyouya gazes at him until Yamamoto lifts his
eyebrows just a bit and shifts the angle of his blade, bringing it into a
guarded stance.
The invitation is obvious; Kyouya accepts it.
Kyouya reaches for his tonfa and rushes forward; Yamamoto holds his ground
until the last moment. Then he spins into movement again, deflecting one tonfa
with the blade and stepping aside from the other. Kyouya has fought with him
and seen him fight, has seen his forms in kata and in battle, and knows to
expect that deflection. He reverses his blow and lands a glancing strike across
Yamamoto's hip. Yamamoto grunts and ducks, spinning into a low crouch and
bringing his blade around even more quickly than Kyouya had expected him to.
The strike of it against his shoulder is sharp and stings, but does not break
skin—Yamamoto has reversed the blade, is striking with mune instead of edge.
Kyouya hisses and spins his tonfa, bringing it down on Yamamoto, who doesn't
quite elude the strike. It glances off his shoulder, next to the fading mark of
an older bruise.
This is not quite a fight, Kyouya thinks as they spin and circle around each
other, though it has all the forms but the one—Yamamoto may have turned the
blade, but he is not restraining himself otherwise (Kyouya's strikes would not
have permitted him to, in any case). His expression is absolutely focused and
intent, and he meets each of Kyouya's attacks readily, turning them aside or
accepting them when he must. If Yamamoto were anyone else, he would be groaning
in the dust already, bitten nearly to death. That he isn't, that he is strong
and fast enough to meet Kyouya on this ground, puts a strange, hot feeling
inside of Kyouya, one that he cannot name and that drives him onward in this
strange not-fight. He lashes at Yamamoto again and again, expecting this strike
to the jaw to be the one that will drop Yamamoto, this thrust to the stomach to
send him reeling and coughing, this twist of his tonfa to break Yamamoto's grip
on his blade (and perhaps his wrist as well). But Yamamoto ducks the tonfa to
his jaw and slices his blade through the air next to Kyouya's cheek; he catches
the thrust with his blade and turns it aside; his wrist isn't there when Kyouya
swings at it.
Each time he evades Kyouya, the feeling inside Kyouya winds tighter and
tighter, to the edge of what is bearable and then beyond. He doesn't know what
to call it, or what they are doing, but Yamamoto matches him until they are
both gasping for breath in the heat and Yamamoto's skin is slick with sweat.
Kyouya can feel the shirt plastered to his own skin and the hair that is
dripping sweat into his eyes. It, whatever it is, ends when Yamamoto fails to
completely deflect a blow and Kyouya's tonfa hits him with more force than any
of his previous blows. But Kyouya does not, cannot follow through with a
properly finishing strike, because Yamamoto's blade is resting against his
throat, the mune digging into the side of it and the sun-hot breadth of the
blade lying across his clavicle.
They are too close. The heat rolls off Yamamoto's body and his breath, ragged
and a little pained, stirs the air against Kyouya's cheek. It is too hot to be
so close to anyone, but Kyouya doesn't move. Neither does Yamamoto, who watches
Kyouya and blinks sweat and water out of his eyes as his mouth hangs open to
gulp for air.
The feeling in Kyouya's chest turns sharp as Yamamoto passes his tongue over
his lips. The sense memory, one bare week old, flashes through Kyouya's
mind—softness, the taste of iron, Yamamoto's tongue against his—and he acts on
it. The blade is still at his throat, so he hooks an arm around Yamamoto and
pulls him closer. When their mouths collide, it's too rough—Yamamoto's teeth
bruise his lips.
Strangely enough, that feels right.
Yamamoto grunts again and opens his mouth to Kyouya's, welcoming Kyouya's
tongue when he slides it between Yamamoto's lips. Kyouya tastes blood, though
he's not sure whether it's his own or Yamamoto's or whether it even matters.
Yamamoto's tongue is slick against his; he shifts his head, angling his mouth
against Kyouya's so that they fit together better, and kisses back.
Hunger. It's hunger that twists inside Kyouya. He recognizes the knife edge of
it now, the burn of it twisting in his gut. It wrenches at him as he bites
Yamamoto's lip and Yamamoto groans, makes him want to drop his tonfa and seize
hold of Yamamoto and somehow wring that sound out of him again. It is not a
rational feeling, this hunger that makes his cock throb, heavy and hard, and so
Kyouya pulls away from Yamamoto's mouth, disoriented by the rush of it.
Yamamoto is breathing as hard as he is; his mouth is slick and red and swollen.
He licks his lips again, the point of his tongue darting out to lap at the
place that is split. The movement of it draws Kyouya's eyes in spite of himself
(what is he doing?).
Kyouya hisses between his teeth and pulls away from Yamamoto, retreating from
him and this encounter, and Yamamoto lets him go.
He favors the high places of campus; it soothes something in him to perch on
the roofs and look down on his domain, well above the eyes of anyone else.
Kyouya seeks the closest such refuge now, climbing to the roof of the athletic
clubhouse the moment he is away from Yamamoto's eyes. It is flat and shaded by
the tree whose branches have allowed him access to it; it will be a good place
to compose himself.
It also provides a place from which to view the sports field, where Yamamoto is
still standing. He has lowered his sword in the moments since Kyouya left him.
It dangles from his hand now, forgotten, as Yamamoto raises his other hand to
touch his mouth. He glances at his fingers and shakes his head, then touches
his side, exploring his ribs. Even from this distance and height, Kyouya can
see the way Yamamoto is careful of them as he fans his fingers over them,
touching each one in turn.
After a moment longer, Yamamoto satisfies himself with his explorations and
walks over to the place where a bundle of cloth sits with the sheath of his
sword. He sheathes the blade and gathers up the bundle, then turns toward the
clubhouse.
There are lockers inside, Kyouya knows, because the school is his domain and he
has made it his business to know every part of it; Yamamoto must have something
stored inside which he wishes to retrieve. Indeed, Yamamoto is aiming at the
door, and he is one of Namimori's favored athletes—he must have a key to access
it. Hibari watches him.
Just before Yamamoto ducks inside, he tilts his head up and looks directly at
Kyouya. His gaze is steady and he holds Kyouya's eyes with it for several
seconds before he looks down again and goes inside.
Kyouya cannot be sure from this angle, but it rather looks as though the door
is ajar.
Another invitation, if he chooses to accept it. Kyouya stares down at the place
where Yamamoto was just standing, reluctantly admitting to the deftness of the
gesture. It is an invitation, just as the way Yamamoto had angled his blade and
offered a fight had been, and it remains to Kyouya to decide whether he will do
anything about it.
(Yamamoto is subtle.)
The bark of the tree that shades this roof crumbles under his fingers as he
seizes a branch and swings himself down. He drops from the lowest branch and
lands in a crouch that jolts up his knees and hips and sends up a puff of dust
to swirl around his ankles. There is no one else on campus, so no one will ever
know that Kyouya pauses for a moment before he steps around the corner of the
building.
The door is indeed standing a few centimeters ajar. Kyouya pulls it shut after
himself.
The inside of the clubhouse is dark in comparison to the brazen sunlight
outside, save for a bar of light that slashes across the floor—it comes from
the room beyond this outer room of benches and individual cubbyholes and picks
out the rumpled pile of Yamamoto's clothes lying on a bench with his sword. The
air is musty, thick with the smell of old sweat and testosterone.
There is water running in the next room.
Kyouya follows the sound of it, picking his way around the benches on soundless
feet and padding into the next room. It's brightly lit with fluorescent lights
that reflect off the industrial white tile of the floor and the steel fixtures
of the sinks; the sound of the running water is louder in here. Kyouya follows
it past the row of sinks and toilet stalls and around a cinderblock partition
to where there is a row of shower heads lining the wall.
Yamamoto is standing beneath one; the water streams down his naked body. It
flattens the hair to his skull and sheets over his shoulders and back, down
over his ass and thighs and calves before it swirls across the floor and down
the drain. His bruises are rising fast now, darkening to purple on his shoulder
and ribs and hip, angry and livid.
Yamamoto doesn't seem to be heeding them much at the moment. He has one hand
braced against the wall, his fingers splayed wide against the tile, and he
leans on it, his spine describing a smooth arc. He has his other hand wrapped
around his cock and is stroking it, playing his fingers over the head and
running them down the shaft. What Kyouya can see of his expression is
abstracted with concentration, eyes half-lidded and his lips parted for breath.
As Kyouya watches, Yamamoto slides his fingers over the head of his cock again
with a twisting little flourish. It must feel good, because he makes a sound, a
husky one just audible over the rush of the water, and Kyouya finds himself
drawing a quick breath as the hunger from before surges up again, even more
intense.
He has done nothing—neither moved nor made a sound—but perhaps Yamamoto can
feel himself being watched. He turns his head and looks directly at Kyouya. The
dreaminess fades from his expression, leaving his eyes alert, if heavy-lidded
and dark.
And he's still stroking his cock, sliding his fingers back and forth, each flex
of his wrist deliberate. The water slides over him, runs down his arms in
steady rivulets and over the flushed skin of his cock, making strange patterns
against the paler skin of his ass and upper thighs.
Kyouya's own cock presses against the tightness of his slacks, hard enough to
ache. Yamamoto must be able to see that, but he stays where he is, fisting his
cock slowly as the water gurgles in the drain and Kyouya watches him. The hiss
of the spray is the only other sound in the room until Yamamoto slides his
thumb over the head of his cock and gasps.
Kyouya steps toward him; the soles of his shoes tap against the tile and the
sound echoes off the walls. Yamamoto stills as he approaches, watching him pace
the length of the showers. When Kyouya reaches the wet tiles, his shoes squeak
against them, the sound loud and strange; the tap squawks a protest when he
reaches out and twists it off.
The silence after the last of the water rattles down the drain is loud, broken
only by the sound of Yamamoto's quick breaths. He hasn't moved since Kyouya
began to stalk toward him, but now that Kyouya has come to a stop less than an
arm's length away, he straightens up, turns to face Kyouya, and lets his hands
fall to his side. The water beads on his skin and slides down his chest and
stomach with every small movement he makes.
"Hey," he says, voice soft, and that's the first thing either of them have said
to each other all afternoon. He doesn't say anything else. Kyouya doesn't know
what he could say, really. (Words are useless enough in ordinary circumstances;
what good would they be for this?)
Kyouya lifts a hand and touches a fingertip to the water that is pooling in the
wing of Yamamoto's collarbone instead of replying. The water is cooler than he
expected, tepid where it beads on Yamamoto's skin—sensible of him not to take a
hot shower in this weather. Yamamoto's throat moves as he swallows, and bobs
again as Kyouya follows the path that a bead of water takes as it slides down
his chest. Yamamoto's skin is warm beneath his fingertips, slippery from the
shower, and jumps and shivers as Kyouya touches him. His cock lies against his
stomach, flushed dark with blood. When Kyouya trails his fingertip along the
length of it, Yamamoto gasps. It's a curiously open sound; Kyouya glances at
him, tracking the way Yamamoto gulps for breath, and smoothes his fingertip
over the head, tracing the shape of it and the slickness beading there.
It makes Yamamoto moan when he does, sudden and open, and the hunger in Kyouya
turns sharp in response to that sound. He wraps his fingers around Yamamoto's
cock, weighing the shape and size of it in his palm as Yamamoto's lashes
flutter over his eyes and he makes a hoarse sound. It's a satisfying weight,
Kyouya decides, fitting his fingers around Yamamoto and stroking him. Yamamoto
presses into his fist, rocking his hips against it, short jerks that match the
low, urgent sounds that escape his throat, sounds that Kyouya has never heard
another person make before, sounds that are open and hungry and pleased,
unselfconscious as the look of naked pleasure on Yamamoto's face. They send a
curl of something like satisfaction twisting through Kyouya. He tightens his
fingers around Yamamoto, dragging his thumb over the head of his cock, and
that's it—Yamamoto cries out and his cock throbs in Kyouya's hand as he comes.
This is the second time Kyouya has watched him do that. This time he fastens on
the way Yamamoto's throat flushes with color as his hips jerk against Kyouya's
hand and his shout echoes off the tiles, loud in the silence of the room. He
wobbles and flails a hand out, catching it against the wall as his chest
heaves. When he opens his eyes, he looks as though he's just taken a stunning
blow. He stares at Kyouya, eyes dazed, and the tendril of Kyouya's satisfaction
turns warm (this is his doing).
His fingers are sticky with Yamamoto's come; he glances at the mess when he
releases Yamamoto. Before he can decide what to do about it (there are sinks on
the other side of the partition, a tissue in his pocket), Yamamoto makes a
sound.
No, words.
"Let me...?" he says, his voice as raspy as it's never been used.
Kyouya frowns—let him what?—but Yamamoto reaches for his hand before he can
puzzle it out. He lifts it gingerly, eyes darting to Kyouya's as he does, and
bends his head down to flick his tongue over Kyouya's fingers.
Oh.
Yamamoto's tongue is soft against his fingertips, startlingly warm; he keeps
his eyes on Kyouya's as he scours Kyouya's fingers clean. His lashes are still
wet, clumped together in spikes, and desire jolts through Kyouya like a fist to
the gut. It knocks the breath out of him and leaves him staring at Yamamoto and
the pink shard of Yamamoto's tongue as it slides along his fingers, and he is
dizzy with the way his pulse hammers in his ears and his cock throbs in time
with it.
Yamamoto's grip is loose; he holds Kyouya's fingers lightly as he laps at them.
Then he just holds them, his eyes steady as he watches Kyouya, before he parts
his lips and slides them over Kyouya's finger, drawing it into his mouth and
sucking on it.
Kyouya can't help the sound he makes, as hoarse as the ones Yamamoto was making
before. Yamamoto's eyes flicker and turn dark, and he draws back. His lips
shine red and wet, but he passes his tongue over them anyway and says, again,
"Let me...?"
"Yes," Kyouya says, though he doesn't know what he's agreeing to. Doesn't quite
care, either, as long as it means doing something about the hunger twisting in
his gut.
"Okay," Yamamoto breathes. He releases Kyouya's hand and reaches for his belt.
Kyouya notices that Yamamoto's fingers aren't quite steady, but he's too
lightheaded with arousal to make any meaning of that, especially once Yamamoto
gets the buckle undone and unfastens his slacks. Kyouya hisses then, relief
surging through him as that releases the pressure on his cock.
Yamamoto glances at him again, something about the way he does it almost...
searching, and settles a hand on Kyouya's hip. There's no reason for him to be
doing that, or for the way he hasn't done anything yet about getting his hand
on Kyouya's cock.
But then Yamamoto sinks to his knees, folding up in a single smooth motion and
balancing himself with the hand on Kyouya's hip. He has to tilt his head back
to look up at Kyouya, and it shows the line of his throat when he does. He
slips his other hand into Kyouya's underwear to find his cock. The breath
Kyouya sucks in through his teeth is so sharp that it cuts his throat; the
sensation as Yamamoto eases his cock out of his underwear is so immediate and
intense that he can't quite encompass it. All he can do is gasp as Yamamoto
strokes his fingers along the shaft—the calluses on Yamamoto's fingers are
water-softened, but they drag against Kyouya's skin until he shudders and
reaches out, half on instinct, to grip Yamamoto's bare shoulders. They're broad
and solid under his palms, still damp from his shower, and he's glad of their
support when Yamamoto leans forward and guides Kyouya's cock into his mouth.
More sensation than Kyouya can process slams through him, punching a groan out
of his throat. He digs his fingers into Yamamoto's shoulders, hunching over him
as Yamamoto slips his mouth down over the head of his cock. It's so hot,
shockingly so; fresh sweat prickles down Kyouya's spine as he pants for breath,
chest heaving with the effort of gulping in oxygen. He rolls his hips forward,
instinct driving him to seek more before he can even begin to assimilate just
how good Yamamoto's mouth, soft and wet, feels around him.
Yamamoto makes a sound as Kyouya does and curls his fingers around Kyouya's
cock, keeping him from pushing too deep. His eyes are wide and dark and he
gazes up at Kyouya as he sucks; the sudden pressure of that keeps Kyouya from
registering the way Yamamoto watches him on anything more than the vaguest of
levels. He makes another sound, his mouth vibrating around Kyouya, and
sensation ripples through Kyouya in response, drawing him to the edge of coming
just from that. Then Yamamoto runs his tongue over Kyouya's head, tracing it
along the underside and over the slit, and Kyouya comes apart, bucking into
that soft-slick touch and groaning as his pleasure strips him open. It leaves
him shaking after, weak-kneed and bracing himself on Yamamoto's shoulders as
the last echoes of the sounds he's made die away.
As he stares down at Yamamoto, stunned motionless, Yamamoto draws back, letting
Kyouya's cock slip free of his lips (red, and wet, and marked with the split
from before). Yamamoto's eyes never leave his, not even when he uncurls his
hand from around Kyouya's cock and lifts it to blot the corner of his mouth.
It dazes Kyouya, how easily Yamamoto has given him this, has offered it up
without a second thought, and leaves him off balance and unsure. He pulls away,
retreating from Yamamoto and the shaky, uncertain aftermath looming up (what
are they doing?). His shoes squeak against the wet tile as he does, unnaturally
loud, and Yamamoto is left with a hand extended, grasping empty air as Kyouya
restores his clothes to order. He is blinking, surprised, and opens his mouth
as if to say something.
Kyouya doesn't wait to see what it will be. He retreats, stalking out of the
clubhouse on rapid feet, unsettled and angry at feeling so, especially when it
refuses to dissipate with the distance he puts between himself and Yamamoto.
As he retreats to the sanctuary of his office, Kyouya has a disquieting
premonition that it will not be leaving him any time soon.
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