Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/3932329.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Katekyou_Hitman_Reborn!
  Relationship:
      Gokudera_Hayato/Yamamoto_Takeshi
  Character:
      Gokudera_Hayato, Yamamoto_Takeshi
  Additional Tags:
      First_Time, Mutual_Pining, No_Plot/Plotless, Plot_What_Plot/Porn_Without
      Plot, Resolved_Sexual_Tension
  Series:
      Part 2 of Culmination
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-06-07 Words: 5777
****** Effortless ******
by tastewithouttalent
Summary
     "It doesn’t make any sort of logical sense, that after nursing a
     crush for years all Gokudera’s patience should evaporate at the first
     suggestion of reciprocation, but logic has apparently taken a holiday
     along with any sort of cool in his blood." All it takes is a kiss for
     Gokudera's self-control to evaporate.
The distance to Yamamoto’s apartment has never felt this far before.
It doesn’t make any sort of logical sense, that after nursing a crush for years
all Gokudera’s patience should evaporate at the first suggestion of
reciprocation, but logic has apparently taken a holiday along with any sort of
cool in his blood. He’s honestly impressed with himself for letting Yamamoto go
while they were still at the party, getting off the other’s lap to a chorus of
laughter and wolf whistles so he could track down the pants he lost to strip
poker earlier in the night before dragging Yamamoto out the door to a more
private location. There’s too much he wants to do, too much anxious fire in his
blood that demands outlet now that the fuse has been lit, and there’s some
panic there too, like if he doesn’t have everything right now it will fall
through his fingers, evaporate into nothing at all like so much of the other
promised good in his life.
“You live too fucking far away,” he hisses without turning around as they make
it past the second block, start on the third. Gokudera’s not jogging, at least
not deliberately, but he feels breathless, like there’s not enough oxygen in
the world this far away from Yamamoto’s mouth.
“Better my place than yours,” Yamamoto says, sounding like he’s gasping for air
and laughing at the same time, the way he hasn’t stopped smiling since Gokudera
pulled away from kissing him long enough to take stock of his expression.
Gokudera’s towing him by his hold on the other’s wrist, pulling hard enough to
prevent the possibility of Yamamoto’s hand actually entangling with his,
because he’s not sure he can handle that, here, in public, not when he feels
like he’s going to combust or implode around the adrenaline building pressure
in his chest.
“Don’t be stupid,” Gokudera snaps, not because he really has any point of
disagreement but just from self-defensive habit, prickly backlash to Yamamoto’s
cheer too deeply ingrained to easily let go. Habit runs both ways, though,
brings Yamamoto laughing bright and delighted, and then they are finally past
the last block, turning to round the corner of the apartment gate and moving
towards the door at the back of the complex.
Gokudera’s been here before, if rarely past the front door; the inside of
Yamamoto’s life has been a dangerous place before now, something he has tried
to avoid in desperate attempt to destroy the attachment that has refused to
fade with time, refused to migrate to an awkward childhood memory but has only
deepened and steadied until it’s hard even to believe that he is here, now,
with the taste of Yamamoto’s mouth on his tongue and the heat of Yamamoto’s
skin clinging to his.
He lets Yamamoto’s hand go as they approach the door, steps aside so the other
can unfasten the lock on the front door. With his arms crossed defensively over
the thin of his t-shirt it’s easier for the shadows around them to creep into
his mind, easier for his disbelief to gain traction on his rationality. He
doesn’t realize he’s biting his lip, doesn’t realize he’s hunching his
shoulders, and Yamamoto is just getting the door unlocked and pushing it open
when Gokudera blurts, “Are you really drunk or something?”
Yamamoto goes still with his hand on the door, turning to look at Gokudera’s
face like he hasn’t seen it before. His smile softens at the corners, starts to
fade into a flat line, and Gokudera can feel his stomach plummeting before
Yamamoto says, “No,” almost whispering it. “Are you?”
“What?” Gokudera snaps, familiar methods of communication telling him to be
aggressive, to lean in rather than show weakness, to get defensive rather than
admit how much the question hurts to even hear. “No I’m not drunk, you
think that’s why I kissed you?”
“You asked me first,” Yamamoto says, and they’re still standing on the front
step, the door open but neither of them moving inside.
“Of course I did,” Gokudera snaps, stepping in from force of habit, his fingers
finding a hold at the front of Yamamoto’s shirt as if there’s a target drawn
there for him. “It’s been years and you’ve never been the least bit interested
before, why would you suddenly start now?”
Yamamoto huffs an exhale, leans in so his face falls into shadow, so Gokudera
can’t clearly make out his expression. “You didn’t think I was interested?”
“Why the fuck would I think you were interested in me?” Gokudera spits,
adrenaline and the heat of the party turning into a burn now, and he’s going to
get sex or a fight, either one offering relief for the tension under his skin.
“You’re nice to everyone, you don’t treat me any differently than you do anyone
else, you’re just happy and cheerful and fucking sunshine, how am I supposed to
get interest from any of that?” He wants to hit Yamamoto, wants to kiss him,
wants to peel his clothes off him and bruise every inch of his skin as a brand.
“I thought you liked Haru.”
Yamamoto’s laugh is sharp, a burst in his throat that is as satisfying to hear
as it is shocked. It’s almost irritating, to hear one of the worst frustrations
of Gokudera’s life so easily brushed aside, but Gokudera is just starting to
growl, just starting to twist his hold on Yamamoto’s shirt tighter, when
Yamamoto tips his head back so Gokudera can see his reestablished smile.
“Gokudera, I’ve been in love with you since I was fourteen years old.”
Gokudera’s breath catches. There’s cool sweeping through him, easing away the
roughened edges of anger and leaving him stripped clean for the heat in its
wake, the rush of emotion that prickles in his eyes like tears and tightens his
throat so his exhale sounds like a moan instead of the cough of disbelief he
meant it to.
“God,” he gasps, and “Why didn’t you say something?” and they’re falling inside
more than stepping, Gokudera moving all at once because he has to get Yamamoto
past the door or they’ll never make it inside at all. Yamamoto follows, dragged
along by Gokudera’s fist at his shirt, and at least he has the presence of mind
to shut the door as they make it past the entrance because Gokudera is lost,
all his attention occupied in twisting his hand up under the other’s shirt and
pushing it high up his chest to bare the inches of tan skin he’s thought about
countless times.
“We wasted so much time,” he hisses, and the shirt has to come off but first
there’s Yamamoto’s skin to be dealt with, the smooth curve of his shoulder too
much temptation to resist. Gokudera leans in for that, presses his mouth to the
thin skin just over Yamamoto’s collarbone, and the heat in him isn’t fading or
steadying, it’s sparking higher, pounding in his head and fracturing his pulse
into desperate half-rhythms. A kiss isn’t enough, lips alone aren’t enough, and
he’s pushing a hand around to brace flat at Yamamoto’s back and biting down,
marking the fragile skin with the bruising imprint of his teeth like the
aggression will stand in for the years of not doing this.
It doesn’t help. The feel of Yamamoto’s skin giving way to shadowed shape of
his mouth just burns Gokudera hotter with anxious desire, even before he hears
the way Yamamoto gasps and falls so heavily against the door that it rattles in
the frame. Gokudera shifts his mouth an inch, bites again, and Yamamoto’s hands
are at his hips, now, urging him in closer until their knees bump and they
nearly both fall.
“Bedroom,” Yamamoto is saying, when Gokudera can pull back from his skin enough
to pay attention to anything beyond the desperate pace of the other’s
breathing. “The bedroom, Gokudera, please.”
“I don’t know where it is,” Gokudera snaps, but he get his mouth away from
Yamamoto’s skin, if at the cost of digging his fingernails in against the
other’s spine to leave his mark there too. “It’s your goddamn house,
idiot, you show me.”
“Right,” Yamamoto says, “Right, yeah, of course,” and he’s moving, faster than
Gokudera expected, sliding free of Gokudera’s hold so for a moment the other is
left feeling weirdly bereft as Yamamoto moves past him. Then there’s a touch at
his wrist, fingers slipping down to interlace with his own, and any sense of
abandonment evaporates into anticipation, any protest turns into a desperate
growl on Gokudera’s tongue as he moves down the hall from the tug of Yamamoto’s
hand in his.
He doesn’t have time to take stock of the bedroom when they make it through the
doorway. Yamamoto turns on the light, which is more than they managed down the
main hall, but then Gokudera can see him, the ever-radiant gold of his eyes and
the tangled mess Gokudera’s fingers have made of his hair, and he can see
his neck, the bruised marks of his own teeth rising impossibly fast under
Yamamoto’s skin. It’s not satisfaction that burns through him as much as an
ache for more, desire that sends him stumbling in closer while Yamamoto is
still trying to belatedly kick his shoes free, letting the other’s hand go so
he can wind his fingers against the back of Yamamoto’s neck.
“Fourteen, huh?” When he leans in Yamamoto turns his head to the side, offers
his neck for Gokudera’s mouth, and it’s the submission of the angle that stalls
yet another bite, brings Gokudera’s lips against the salty heat of Yamamoto’s
skin less the rough edge of teeth with them. It’s a little bit the alcohol he
has had but mostly the rush of disbelief that keeps him talking, that brings
the words easy and unfettered without the self-consciousness they would
normally have had. “Three whole years you’ve been pining for me and you never
said anything?”
Yamamoto makes an anxious sound, a whimper that stalls in the back of his
throat. His hands are at Gokudera’s waist, rucking up his shirt until Gokudera
can feel the calluses on Yamamoto’s hands dragging friction over his chest.
“Gokudera,” he says, the name turning into a plea and a prayer and a moan all
at the same time, Yamamoto’s voice dropping lower and richer than Gokudera has
ever heard it.
“Fuck,” Gokudera says, and steps forward, the motion throwing their balance off
until Yamamoto has to stumble backwards, half-fall across the room towards the
bed in the corner. The hands at Gokudera’s skin catch at his back instead,
reflexive attempt to prevent the inevitable fall that only succeeds in dragging
Gokudera down with Yamamoto as they fall onto the mattress. Gokudera lands on
the resistance of Yamamoto’s body instead of the soft of the bed itself, but
the angle gives him the advantage of position, lets him get a knee up onto the
bed to brace himself in place while he grabs at Yamamoto’s shirt to drag it up
over his head.
“Do you have any idea how much agonizing you put me through?” he snaps,
continuing to speak while Yamamoto blinks himself into enough coherency to
struggle upright, lets his hold on Gokudera’s waist go so the other can strip
his shirt off and throw it aside. There’s a lot of skin thus exposed, all of it
warm and flushing under Gokudera’s touch, and Yamamoto is falling back to brace
himself on his elbows, tipping his head back and gasping a broken inhale as
Gokudera spreads his fingers wide, pushes sensation up over the smooth lines of
his chest like he’s always imagined doing. It’s as warm as he always thought it
would be, Yamamoto’s skin radiant like he’s glowing from the inside out, and
better even than his fantasies, better for the gasp of Yamamoto’s breathing and
the strength of his legs between Gokudera’s knees.
“You should have told me,” Gokudera snaps, dragging his hands away so he can
peel off his own shirt with as much speed as he applied to Yamamoto’s.
Yamamoto’s unfocused gaze drops from Gokudera’s face to his shoulder with the
shift, his lips coming open on a breathless whine, and Gokudera is surging
forward again, shoving Yamamoto back to lie flat on the bed so he can catch the
whimper in the other’s throat against his own tongue. There’s a hand against
his back and one up in his hair, and Yamamoto might be being gentle but
Gokudera isn’t. He’s digging his hand into the dark of Yamamoto’s hair, licking
at the other’s mouth until Yamamoto parts his lips enough to give Gokudera
access, and then it’s as bad as it was at the party, worse, because now they’re
pressed skin-to-skin and there’s nothing at all to stop Gokudera from acting on
all the impulses he’s pushed aside for the last several years.
“Sorry,” Yamamoto says when Gokudera pulls away, sounding so shaky it takes
Gokudera a moment to place what he’s responding to in the first place. “I
didn’t...I didn’t think you--”
“Yeah,” Gokudera cuts him off without waiting. He has to rock his weight back
so he can reach to push his shoes free, pulling himself away from the contact
with Yamamoto’s skin, but the movement presses him in flush with the other’s
hips, and from the choking inhale Yamamoto takes the change of position is more
than acceptable. “That’s because you’re an idiot.”
Yamamoto laughs past the heat fluttering his eyelashes, tips his head up so he
can offer Gokudera a glazed-over smile as the other pushes his second shoe free
to fall to the floor. “Guess so,” he says, and then he’s sitting up again, his
motion smooth and languid like he’s being pulled up by magnetism, a hand coming
out to curl around Gokudera’s waist as Yamamoto’s mouth lands at his shoulder.
There’s none of the starburst of almost-pain from a bite Gokudera is half-
expecting; it’s just a kiss, gentle and careful like Yamamoto thinks he’s going
to break, even when Gokudera twists his hand into a fist of the other’s hair
and drags past the point of pain.
“Gokudera,” Yamamoto breathes against him, sounding shattered, like his entire
conception of the world has given way, and Gokudera catches a breath and moves
all at once, twisting sideways so he falls to the mattress, the motion drawn
slow by his hold at Yamamoto’s hair and the other’s arm around him. For a
minute everything is swinging around, gravity inverting itself and Gokudera’s
knee digging in against Yamamoto’s hip; then it’s Yamamoto’s bed under
Gokudera’s shoulders, Yamamoto’s shadow falling over the pale of Gokudera’s
bare skin, and for just a moment Gokudera’s whole body flushes self-conscious
with the suggestion of the position.
Then impatience takes the place of his flush, sets his hands to shove at
Yamamoto’s shoulders to push him away. Yamamoto goes after a moment, his
expression drawing into lines of confusion even as he moves, and he’s just
starting to offer a faint questioning sound when Gokudera growls, “Take your
damn jeans off.”
It’s remarkable how fast Yamamoto’s expression goes hot and shadowed. Gokudera
can see the focus in his eyes flicker into heat, like he’s staring right
through reality and into a glimpse of the future, and when he lets his breath
go it turns into a groan as he pulls away to stand instead of lean in over the
bed.
Gokudera intends to follow his own advice, to struggle free of his own pants
while Yamamoto is doing the same and spare himself the awkwardness of an
audience. But Yamamoto moves faster than he expects, is unzipping his jeans
while Gokudera is just sitting up, and then he’s pushing the fabric off his
hips and Gokudera’s focus short-circuits on the visual of Yamamoto standing in
front of him in just boxers, boxers that are doing a spectacularly poor job of
covering the tension of his cock hard against the inside of the fabric. He’s
staring without meaning to, without having any option to do anything else, and
when Yamamoto looks up to see him he can hear the other’s self-conscious laugh
without having the ability to look at anything other than the flex of muscle in
his legs and the temptation against the front of his boxers.
“You want me to take everything off?” Yamamoto asks. When Gokudera looks up,
feeling hazy and adrift, Yamamoto has a hand up in his hair, ruffling the dark
strands across the top of his head and flushed with some combination of arousal
and nervousness. Gokudera realizes his mouth is open, shuts it at once, and
when he starts to blush it’s pure self-awareness, his body going awkward and
stiff under Yamamoto’s steady gaze.
“Well we’re gonna have a hard time having sex if you keep your boxers on,” he
snaps, even though he had only meant jeans, even though the words stutter with
nerves on his tongue. It doesn’t seem to matter. Yamamoto’s eyelashes flutter,
his chin dipping down to cast his features into shadow as he gasps a breath,
and Gokudera has to look down in order to get his jeans open and to keep from
getting distracted by the friction of Yamamoto’s fingers catching at the edge
of his clothes.
It’s easier all at once. Gokudera tries not to think too much about it, moves
fast enough that he doesn’t have time to panic as he gets his pants open and
shoves them off his hips and down to his knees. The air catches cool at his
bare skin, doesn’t let him push aside the awareness of what he’s doing, of
how exposed he is, and for a minute desire and nervousness are evenly matched,
pounding panic through his veins until he doesn’t dare look up to see
Yamamoto’s reaction. The touch at his hair makes him jump, startles the strain
of nerves in him into a jolt of reaction, and when he looks up he’s ready to
lash out, knife-edged words rising to his lips in expectation of anything
Yamamoto could say.
He’s not expecting the kiss. Yamamoto’s mouth is on his before Gokudera can see
his expression, his fingers sinking into the tangled strands of the other’s
hair as he leans in to urge Gokudera back. His lips are soft, his tongue hot
against Gokudera’s mouth, and Gokudera is grabbing blind at Yamamoto’s
shoulders and falling back to sprawl over the bed. His angle is awkward,
lingering nerves making his motions jerky and stiff, but Yamamoto is fitting
against him as if they’re dancing, as if Gokudera’s movements are elegant and
graceful and practiced. Yamamoto’s knee slides between Gokudera’s, there’s the
slide and catch of skin-on-skin, and then he’s pressed in flush against the
other and Gokudera’s thoughts are going electric and out-of-control, like all
his senses are in a slow-motion explosion, until he almost doesn’t process the
pressure of Yamamoto’s thigh against his cock or the heavy press of Yamamoto’s
length against his hip.
“Oh,” Yamamoto says, a tiny high note of shock. His hand is at Gokudera’s hip,
is dragging in across, and Gokudera is just in the middle of taking a breath
when his fingers touch flushed-sensitive skin, drag out against the head of the
other’s length. “Gokudera, you’re…”
“So are you,” Gokudera manages without waiting for the end of the other’s
sentence, rocks his weight up to grind his hip against Yamamoto. The other’s
words cut off sharply, turn into a whimper and a reflexive jerk to press
himself down, and god he is hard, Gokudera can feel the hot spill of liquid
catching them together at that point of contact, but this isn’t how he wants it
to go, not after waiting all this time for something that he always thought was
impossible.
So “Yamamoto,” hard and fast, whip-quick so he can catch the other’s attention.
Yamamoto takes a breath, drags his gaze sideways, and Gokudera is speaking as
soon as he has gold eyes on his face, even if they’re heat-glazed out-of-focus.
“Don’t you have lube or something?”
Yamamoto blinks, stares at Gokudera like he doesn’t completely understand the
question. “What?”
“Lube,” Gokudera repeats, compensating for his self-conscious flush with
grating attention to the word. “Don’t you have any?”
“Oh,” Yamamoto says. When he blinks again some clarity comes back under the
shadow in his eyes, focus rising up out of the heat spread out over his
expression. “Yeah, yeah, one sec.”
Gokudera slides sideways as Yamamoto pulls away, moves to fit himself against
the wall like the stability will help cool the rush of adrenaline in his blood.
Yamamoto is stretching out over the sheets, reaching out to rummage through the
clutter near the head of the bed and leaving Gokudera free to stare at the line
his arm makes, wrist curving into shoulder and down along the plane of his
back, all the tanned gold of his skin on display with the careless grace
Gokudera has only ever caught a glimpse of under clothes before. It sticks in
Gokudera’s chest, pulls his breathing taut and strained, until he’s all but
gasping by the time Yamamoto comes back to offer a slippery bottle and a smile
bright with success.
Gokudera takes the bottle, pushes himself up until he’s leaning against the
wall, can press his shoulders against it to steady himself while he shifts his
weight up over his knees. Yamamoto is curling in around him, his hand fitting
in at Gokudera’s hip and his mouth returning to the line of the other’s
shoulder like he can’t stand to breathe without the friction at his lips.
“Move back,” Gokudera protests without pushing back at all. The bottle comes
open under his fingers, the liquid spilling cool across his hand and Yamamoto’s
chest both from how close they’re pressed together. “I can’t do this if you
don’t let me go.”
“I can do it,” Yamamoto volunteers into Gokudera’s shoulder, his hand sliding
around to press against the other’s spine. “If you want.”
Gokudera scoffs, the sound tearing shaky and rough in his throat but still at
least approximating the tone he’s aiming for. “No way.” His fingers are cool
from the liquid but the angle is familiar, at least, the tension in his legs
and the way his wrist has to twist to fit against himself. “Have you ever done
this before?”
Yamamoto shakes his head, offers “No,” and Gokudera can feel a knot of
irrational tension he didn’t know he was carrying give way, loosen so he can
take a deep breath again. It’s absurd, to have hoped that he’d be the first, a
stupid thing to attach importance to, but he’s smiling anyway, easing a finger
inside himself and letting his breath go as he relaxes against the faint burn
of the stretch. Yamamoto makes a sound against his shoulder, pulls away by an
inch so he can tip his chin down, and Gokudera knows he’s watching but it
doesn’t result in the cringing self-consciousness he expected it to. It flares
him hot, instead, Yamamoto’s appreciation audible in his breath and hot in his
gaze, until Gokudera’s thrusting in deeper in response, angling his legs a
little wider so Yamamoto can watch the motion. The friction aches under his
skin, trembles through his legs, and Gokudera is sure Yamamoto can hear the
gasp of his breathing but he’s not finding it in him to care very much. He’s
too busy reaching out, closing his free hand at the line of Yamamoto’s shoulder
to brace himself as he draws back so he can fit a second finger inside.
Gokudera can feel the thought hit Yamamoto, the tension of some unspoken
anxiety collect in the skin under his fingers. The steady slide of his fingers
stalls, the heat in him chilling with panic, and when Yamamoto says “Gokudera”
with his voice taut with concern it’s all Gokudera can do to snap “What?” with
any semblance of coherency.
“I don’t--” Yamamoto stalls, takes a breath, looks up to meet Gokudera’s eyes.
“I don’t have any condoms.”
“Fuck,” Gokudera spits, but it’s relief and not anger. He pushes in deeper,
brings the ache of desire right back up under his skin. “Don’t scare me, I
thought you wanted to stop.”
Yamamoto’s forehead creases in confusion. “But--”
“It’s my first time too,” Gokudera says all at once, blurting it out fast like
the confession it is. “Okay? You don’t have anything to worry about.”
Yamamoto blinks, looks down to where Gokudera is pressing his fingers as far
into himself as he can reach. “Really?”
Gokudera’s chest is tight, something between the heated press of his fingertips
and the ache of unrequited desire turned reciprocated, anticipated satisfaction
and bittersweet hurt for wasted time. “Yeah, other than like this,” and it’s
softer, warmer than he intends, gentle as the fingers sliding over Yamamoto’s
shoulder. “Don’t you ever touch yourself, idiot?”
He’s not surprised by Yamamoto’s shocked headshake, is mustering a grin even as
the heat in his stomach starts to pool into an ache, the leading edge of
pleasure turning into the hurt of unfulfilled desire. “You should,” he
suggests, sliding his hand in against the back of Yamamoto’s neck to pull him
into a kiss, this one gentler than those before, just the damp slide of their
lips together before Gokudera eases his fingers free and moves to lie flat on
the bed again. “I’ll show you someday.”
“Okay,” Yamamoto agrees, no hesitation anywhere in his face or voice or
motions. He’s just sliding down to follow Gokudera, trailing him like this is
where he was meant to be, like he never wants to be anywhere else. The thought
makes Gokudera smile in spite of the frantic adrenaline thudding in his pulse,
the lightheaded rush saying this can’t be real, this can’t be about to happen,
this has to just be a really intense fantasy.
Then Yamamoto smiles, shuts his eyes so he can press his nose to Gokudera’s
hair and breathe in, and this can’t be a dream, Gokudera would know the reality
of that smile anywhere. The thought makes him laugh, even if the sound is faint
and weak with nerves, and when he shifts his legs wider Yamamoto is right
there, fitting in between them like this is their hundredth time and not the
first.
There’s still some coordination required. Gokudera has to fit his hand down
between their hips, reach out to grip slippery fingers against the impossible
heat of Yamamoto’s length while he gets his leg up around Yamamoto’s waist and
tips himself up off the bed. Yamamoto is breathing hard just from the touch of
his fingers, spilling slick against Gokudera’s already-slippery hold, but
Gokudera can hardly fault him for that when his own stomach is wet with pre-
come of his own, his cock so hard he’s pressing against himself every time he
shifts his weight. Yamamoto goes still as Gokudera lines them up, breathlessly
silent as he stares down at Gokudera’s face, and it’s not until Gokudera has
them as close to ready as he will ever be that he dares to look up.
Yamamoto’s eyes are wide, so dark there’s almost no gold to be seen at all,
just the black of his pupils blown wide in anticipation of pleasure. His mouth
is half-open, lips parted on the speeding rhythm of his breathing, and Gokudera
feels the rush of heat hit him like a physical impact, blowing the air out of
his lungs and his intended permission off his lips.
It doesn’t matter. He’s arching up, instinctive pleading that doesn’t need
coherency to be understood, and Yamamoto is leaning in, close enough to press
his lips to Gokudera’s as he rocks forward to thrust against the bracing hold
of Gokudera’s fingers. There’s heat, pressure in spite of Gokudera’s careful
preparation; then Yamamoto’s sliding in, slick and wide and hot, and Gokudera
is arching clear off the bed without any intention at all. His thoughts are
sparking incoherent, his throat drawing tight around the rush of his exhale so
it drags into a moan, and Yamamoto is still moving, stretching him wide and
flushed and aching all up his spine.
“Oh,” Yamamoto’s breathing, whimpering shocked appreciation over Gokudera’s
mouth, and Gokudera is on fire and he’s electrified and it’s not enough, it’s
too much and it’s not nearly enough, he wants it all at once. He drags his hand
down Yamamoto’s back, tightens his legs and scratches his nails against the
other’s spine, and when he leans up it’s to hiss “Harder, Yamamoto” before he
presses his mouth to the dark prints of his mouth on Yamamoto’s skin.
“Gokudera,” Yamamoto breathes, sounding wrecked and lost, and Gokudera can feel
the other’s hand bracing against the bed, his fingers forming into a fist to
hold them steady before he does as told and thrusts forward all at once.
There’s a rush of sensation, heat and friction far greater than what Gokudera
has ever managed with his own fingers, but Yamamoto’s going deeper, too,
hitting nerve endings Gokudera can’t reach alone, pressing in until Gokudera
jerks at a burst of sensation, his legs around Yamamoto’s waist sliding loose
as his cock twitches and spills pearly droplets over his stomach.
“Fuck.” He can’t see straight, can barely remember where he is; there’s
Yamamoto’s hand over his shoulder, the desperate gasp of Yamamoto panting into
his shoulder, but mostly it’s just heat, the hot ache of Yamamoto moving inside
him and the haze of disbelief burning off his thoughts until he is sure that
this is happening right now, these are Yamamoto’s hips pressing against the
inside of his legs and the soft of Yamamoto’s hair under his fingers and
Yamamoto’s shoulder bruising to the shape of his teeth. It’s hard to let his
hold against the other’s back go, even for the worthy goal of jerking himself
off; it’s only the desperate raw edge of heat that convinces him, brings his
hand into motion before he has decided to let go. Yamamoto is pressed so close
they’re catching together at every point of contact, shared body heat turning
them both slick with sweat, but there’s still space for Gokudera to get his
hand between them, to close his fingers tight on the heat flooding in waves
into his cock.
Yamamoto makes a sound, anxious and nearly apologetic, and Gokudera starts
stroking, fast and harder even than Yamamoto is moving, too desperate for
satisfaction to demonstrate any kind of patience now. He can feel Yamamoto
starting to tremble against him, tension collecting in his shoulders and the
bracing strength of his arm, and he’s only barely started to slide over himself
before there’s heat rushing over him in waves, a premonition of pleasure
forming itself in his mind. Yamamoto is thrusting hard into him, it feels like
he’s going deeper with every motion of his hips, until Gokudera can imagine he
can feel the pre-orgasmic heat tightening the other’s cock harder and hotter
inside him.
“Fuck,” he blurts, and he can’t see straight and he can’t think and he has no
idea what he’s going to say before he says it. “Yamamoto, fuck me, I’m gonna--”
“Gokudera,” Yamamoto breathes, that same starstruck moan he had before, and the
sound hits Gokudera like a thousand explosions at once, tips him over the edge
before he can even think of holding back. He’s crying out, groaning a sound so
rough it sounds pained, coming all across his fingers and his stomach and the
close-pressed heat of Yamamoto’s chest. Yamamoto moans over him, the noise
turning into almost a plea, jerks and loses his rhythm, and he’s coming too,
Gokudera can feel the waves of heat inside him as clearly as the shivering
pleasure running through Yamamoto’s body.
They are both still for what might be minutes, what feels like hours. Gokudera
is the one to move first, in spite of the shaky instability of his legs and his
sense that the whole world is a little bit hazier and lighter than it once was.
Yamamoto has his head pressed against Gokudera’s shoulder, as heavy as if he
never intends to move it again, and it’s not until Gokudera pushes at his hair
and offers a half-hearted, “Get off me, I can’t breathe,” that he rolls
sideways to sprawl across the bed himself. Gokudera was planning to get up, to
go wandering through the apartment in search of a shower and maybe a glass of
water, but then Yamamoto is lying flat and blinking a heat-hazed smile up at
the ceiling, and the temptation is too much. They ends up right back where they
started except for their inverted positions, all Gokudera’s weight resting
solidly across Yamamoto’s hips and his hands skimming over the lines of
Yamamoto’s shoulders. The movement gets him a blink, a dreamy smile just for
him, and when Yamamoto’s hands wander up his back to pull him in closer
Gokudera doesn’t protest in spite of the sticky heat at his skin and the half-
pleasant ache spreading through his legs.
Yamamoto’s hands urge him close, until their skin is pressed together as
closely as they can get, careless of stickiness and sweat alike. His lips catch
at Gokudera’s cheek, his breath ruffling hair, and when he says, “Gokudera,”
like the start to a sentence Gokudera knows what’s coming.
“Don’t,” he orders, digging his fingers into Yamamoto’s shoulder to underscore
his point. “If you try to tell me you love me right now I swear I will lose all
respect for you.”
There is a pause. Then, “How much respect did you ever have for me, though?”
and Gokudera groans, turns his head so he can hide his flush against Yamamoto’s
shoulder as the other laughs.
He doesn’t actually say it, in the end. It doesn’t really matter. Gokudera can
feel it in the trailing fingers against his back, in the heavy relaxation
knocking Yamamoto calm and more languid than the other has ever seen him. And
he can feel it himself, in the satisfaction so strong in his own chest it feels
like an ache, joy so intense it overwhelms any sense of measurement he has ever
had for the emotion before.
It ought to be strange, to finally be so close to the person he has wanted from
a distance for so long. The only thing that is strange is how easy it is to
relax into contentment, as if he has always belonged here, but for once,
Gokudera isn’t going to argue.
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