Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/2634584.
  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, Developing_Relationship, Hand_Jobs, Inline_with_canon,
      Enthusiastic_Consent
  Series:
      Part 4 of Understanding
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-11-18 Words: 4127
****** Permission ******
by tastewithouttalent
Summary
     "Yamamoto’s been waiting for almost an hour by the time Gokudera
     stirs." Gokudera and Yamamoto's sushi date doesn't work out but they
     manage to salvage the evening anyway.
Yamamoto’s been waiting for almost an hour by the time Gokudera stirs. He knows
by now how Bianchi’s presence takes the other boy, knows that he’ll be out cold
for some undefined period of time before recovering suddenly and immediately
over the course of maybe five minutes. He was certain enough of his experience
with this to send his father back downstairs to man the restaurant while
Yamamoto took on the straightforward job of watching over Gokudera. There’s not
much to do, nothing Yamamoto can really do to help or make him more
comfortable, so he spends his time restraining his imagination, keeps his mind
focused on the moment and on Gokudera’s recovery rather than anything else. He
does a good job of it, too, enough that when Gokudera finally groans and rolls
sideways Yamamoto barely blushes with self-conscious heat at watching the other
boy at all.
“You awake?” he asks from the safe distance of a few feet away where he’s
placed himself. Gokudera lifts a hand to his face, shoves his hair back from
his features, and lifts his head to place Yamamoto’s position in the room
before he sits up and sighs.
“Guess so.” He sounds irritable, his voice rubbed raw with physical discomfort,
but some of the color is back in his face and his words are steady enough to
speak for his recovery. “How long was I out?”
“About an hour.” Yamamoto wants to reach out, wants to move in closer and reach
for Gokudera’s hand, wants to curl his fingers against the silver strands of
hair at the back of the other boy’s neck and lean in to press his mouth to the
pale smoothness of his skin. But he’s not sure if that’s allowed, doesn’t want
to push the point even enough to ask for permission, so he stays where he is
and keeps his hands loose in his lap and his eyes fixed carefully and
deliberately on Gokudera’s eyes instead of his mouth. “Are you feeling better?”
“Yeah.” Yamamoto can still hear the frustration under Gokudera’s words, the
sharp edge of anger cutting even though it’s not directed at him. “Not that
that does any good now, the day’s already ruined.”
“It’s not ruined,” Yamamoto protests as gently as he can.
“It is.” Gokudera looks up and fixes Yamamoto with the steel in his eyes that
means he’s frustrated and ready to lash out at anything. ‘Anything’ is usually
Yamamoto, frequently enough that the other boy can brace himself even before
Gokudera’s mouth twists into a frown. “You were supposed to have dinner with
me, not spend the afternoon nursing me back to health.”
He makes it sound like an inconvenience, as if there’s anywhere else the other
would rather be. It makes Yamamoto laugh, bright and sincere even as he knows
that will only further ruffle Gokudera’s injured pride. “It’s fine, we can have
dinner anytime.”
“But this was the first time,” Gokudera protests. He’s all but pouting as he
glares at Yamamoto from under the shadow of his hair. Yamamoto’s fingers itch
with the desire to push that shadow away, to tip the clear lines of the other’s
features up to the light. “And I got sick.”
“But you’re feeling better,” Yamamoto points out reasonably. “We could still go
downstairs and get something to eat.”
“Whatever.” Gokudera huffs as he tosses his hair back. “I’m not hungry anymore
anyway.”
Yamamoto laughs again. He can’t help it; it’s too easy when he’s with Gokudera
to feel as if all the gravity of the world is not quite touching him, like if
he jumps he might hover in midair a moment before floating back down to earth.
“I really just wanted to spend time with you.” He shifts his weight, kicking
one leg out straight and letting the other fall at an angle. “And I can still
do that now.”
When he looks back up, Gokudera’s frown is gone. He’s not smiling, either;
there’s just a focus in his gaze, an intent attention that leaves his mouth
soft and unconcerned as he stares at Yamamoto’s face. Yamamoto watches his lips
part, sees the shape of words form a moment before Gokudera says, “Where’s your
dad?”
“Downstairs,” Yamamoto answers without having to think about it. “In the
restaurant.”
There’s movement: Gokudera’s hand drawing into a loose fist against the floor,
his throat working on a swallow. “So it’s just us.”
Yamamoto gets a weird rush from the word, from the easy association implied by
‘us’ on Gokudera’s tongue. He’s still leaning against the wall, but all his
body is starting to draw tense with anticipation of something he can’t quite
pinpoint, with desperate hope for an unformed goal. “Yeah.”
There’s a long pause. Yamamoto glances up from Gokudera’s lips, catches his
gaze on the grey-green of the other’s eyes, and that building anticipation
rises to a crescendo, stalling the comfortable rhythm of his breathing so he
has to fight to remember how to inhale. They stare at each other for a moment;
Gokudera looks expectant, like he’s waiting for a word or a movement from the
other, but Yamamoto has no idea what, only knows that whatever it is he’ll give
it as soon as he has direction.
Then Gokudera takes a breath, so deliberate Yamamoto can see the inhale shift
in his shoulders, and says, “I’m the one who kissed you last time, it’s your
turn.”
Yamamoto blinks, startled into motion in the moment before the heat hits his
blood. His mouth comes open around want and a response that doesn’t quite make
it to coherency before his throat chokes out a whimper of desire.
“Oh.” He moves forward from the wall, acting on the impulse of the implicit
suggestion of those words to close the gap between them. But Gokudera is still
glaring at him, he looks angrier now than he did a moment ago, and that catches
Yamamoto off-guard, stops him when he’s too close to even pretend to have any
other intention than his true one.
“Is this okay?” He’s balanced over his knees and one hand, the other stalled
halfway to touching Gokudera’s hair. “Can I kiss you?”
Gokudera’s mouth curves down, tightens into active anger for a moment; then his
cheeks flush hot and red, and some instinct in Yamamoto reads and interprets
that reaction even before the other snaps, “Goddamnit Yamamoto, yes, just do
it.”
The shape of his frown is still tight on his lips when Yamamoto fits his
fingers into the soft fall of the other’s hair and dips his head to catch
Gokudera’s mouth with his. For a breath there’s tension, irritation still
lingering at Gokudera’s mouth; then Yamamoto sighs, reflexive response to the
tension loosening along his spine, and Gokudera tips his head up as his lips go
soft and inviting. Yamamoto’s hand touches against the back of Gokudera’s neck,
his breathing falls into unconscious rhythm with the other’s, and when Gokudera
opens his mouth Yamamoto follows his lead instantly without needing to be told.
He doesn’t think through moving in closer. It’s just true that he’s too far
away, that he needs to shift his legs so he can fit one between Gokudera’s and
one against the other boy’s hip, and he’s not deliberately trying to angle for
friction, he’s just trying to lean in closer to the softness of Gokudera’s
shirt and the warmth of his mouth. But Gokudera hisses as he draws in nearer,
reaches out to close his fingers on the front of Yamamoto’s shirt and drag him
in, and the pressure is imprinting Gokudera’s fingers on the fabric but they’re
closer now, Gokudera’s pressed in against Yamamoto’s chest and Yamamoto has to
grab at the other’s waist to keep his balance. His head is starting to spin,
his sense of his surroundings narrowing down to just Gokudera’s fingers in his
shirt and Gokudera’s mouth warm against his, and then the other pulls harder
and Yamamoto’s balance goes entirely.
He’s gasping an apology even before they hit the ground. Yamamoto barely gets
his hand out in time to keep from dropping all his weight atop Gokudera, and
Gokudera’s knee is digging into his hip, the ache enough to speak of a future
bruise, but Yamamoto is distracted from the hurt by the flush high across
Gokudera’s cheeks, by the shadowed grey in his eyes. His mouth is still open
for the kiss interrupted by their fall, his legs are still angled in with
Yamamoto’s; his blush deepens as he meets Yamamoto’s gaze, his lips curve back
into a frown, and when he reaches out it’s to close his fingers in against the
back of Yamamoto’s neck and drag him in so near he can’t stare anymore.
It’s different this close. There’s the resistance of the floor at Gokudera’s
back keeping Yamamoto’s movements careful and gentle for fear of hurting the
other, but they’re pressed in against each other all the way from shoulder to
knee and Yamamoto’s skin is flushing hot, all the warmth of his body tangling
together with Gokudera’s until he can’t breathe for the heat. Gokudera is
shifting under him, barely moving at all, but they’re too close for the motion
to be anything but friction and sensation, and Yamamoto is taking a sharp
inhale and trying to fight off the flood of heat into his veins at Gokudera’s
leg digging into him when Gokudera hisses, and arches off the floor, and grinds
in against the other’s hip. Yamamoto isn’t sure if it’s the feel of Gokudera
hard against him that brings him up short, or if it’s the whine under the sound
of the other boy’s reaction that pulls him away, that forces him to blink and
stare down at Gokudera’s face as if there will be some sort of confirmation
there.
Gokudera is staring straight at him, holding his gaze even as his face goes the
darkest red Yamamoto has ever seen it. His hair is tangled against the floor
and his mouth is still open, he’s breathing as hard as if he’s been running
instead of lying still, but he still manages a shaky huff at whatever
unthinking expression is painted across Yamamoto’s face.
“I’m gonna have to walk you through this whole thing,” he says more than asks.
The fingers fisted in Yamamoto’s shirt pull away, skim down across the other’s
waist and hip instead, and when he pushes his palm in against the front of
Yamamoto’s jeans it’s the other boy’s turn to gasp, to duck his head under the
first rush of responsive pleasure in his blood. Gokudera isn’t even touching
him properly, there’s too much fabric interrupting the contact for Yamamoto to
feel anything besides the pressure, but the friction is a promise even before
the button slides loose, and his heart is beating out of control when Gokudera
drags the zipper down with more force than is necessary.
“Do you want me to be more clear than this?” he’s saying. Yamamoto can barely
hear him for the rush of blood in his ears, for his pulse pounding so hard he
can’t think straight. There are fingers pushing at his clothes, a rough touch
working his jeans and boxers down off his hips, and the cool air against bare
skin should probably be a shock but it just feels like relief.
Gokudera’s fingers close on his hip and squeeze hard enough to bruise, hard
enough to scrape his fingernails against Yamamoto’s skin. “I want this.” His
voice is shaking and his cheeks are still crimson when Yamamoto can force his
vision back into focus, but his fingers are going gentle and dragging sideways,
and he’s brushing out lines of heat in the wake of his touch.
“Oh,” Yamamoto says, simple understanding of an idea that’s really not all that
complicated anyway, and Gokudera’s fingers close around his length.
He’s oddly delicate with his touch, all the careful deliberation Yamamoto has
seen in the elegance of his hands brought to bear here without the aggressive
frustration of which Yamamoto is usually the recipient. It’s easier to inhale
once Gokudera starts moving, easier for Yamamoto to fit his breathing around
the pattern of the other’s movements. With the burn of anticipation fading into
the warmth of satisfaction Yamamoto can collect the fringes of his thoughts
again, can clear his vision enough to recognize the strain of desperation in
Gokudera’s eyes.
It’s still more than he dares, to assume agreement as Gokudera did, but he does
shift his weight sideways so he can let Gokudera’s hair go, can reach down
instead to brush against the edge of the other boy’s shirt where it’s riding up
around his waist. Gokudera’s eyelashes flutter, he swallows so hard Yamamoto
can hear the sound, and for once Yamamoto doesn’t truly have any doubt at all
about the answer when he asks, “Is this okay?” as he slides his fingers down
over bare skin.
Yamamoto almost expects Gokudera to snap at him for asking. He’s become so used
to the other boy’s irritation it seems nearly normal, now. But Gokudera doesn’t
lash out at him, doesn’t voice any sort of complaint, and when Yamamoto glances
up from his mouth to his eyes Gokudera’s not even looking at him; he’s staring
past his shoulder at the ceiling with the vague unfocused look that says all
his attention is elsewhere.
“Yeah.” The word is soft and so quiet Yamamoto wouldn’t be able to hear it if
he weren’t so near. Gokudera’s voice is shaking more than his own; as Yamamoto
drops his hand farther to catch at the front of Gokudera’s own jeans the other
boy lets his hold go to grab at Yamamoto’s shoulder like he needs to ground
himself to reality. Yamamoto doesn’t mind the loss of sensation; he’s focused
in on the movement of his own hand, on the way he can feel the flat of
Gokudera’s stomach tremble in response to every slide of his fingers. His gaze
slips away from the glazed anticipation in Gokudera’s eyes, sliding down to the
sharp sweep of collarbone just visible against the top edge of the other’s
shirt and catching there, where he can see the flutter of Gokudera’s unsteady
breathing as Yamamoto gets his pants open and pushes his clothes aside. There’s
a hitch of breath as he accidentally brushes his fingers over flushed skin, an
almost-hiccup of air he can see as clearly as he can feel, and he’s blurting,
“Sorry” before he’s thought through the shape of the apology.
Yamamoto has tried on a multitude of different scenarios in his head, settings
and positions and locations all jumbled together, but this is different than
any of them. He’s never imagined Gokudera so flushed, never thought to consider
the other boy would be as overheated and desperate as he is himself, never
imagined Gokudera shivering under just the touch of his hands. But that’s
exactly what’s happening: Gokudera is clinging to his shoulder more like it’s a
reference point than to guide Yamamoto’s movements, and when Yamamoto hesitates
in a brief rush of indecision Gokudera doesn’t smoothly take the lead and tell
him what to do. He blinks fast, gasps for air like he’s drowning, and when
Yamamoto brings his gaze up from Gokudera’s collarbones to his eyes he can see
the shiver of frightened uncertainty in the other’s expression.
So “It’s okay,” is what he says, “Just relax,” as if he knows what he’s doing,
and when he lets his weight drop down to press their hips together it’s his
hand pinned between them, his fingers that pull Gokudera’s cock in flush
against his own. Gokudera jerks at the contact like he’s been shocked, drags at
Yamamoto’s shirt till it’s twisting half-off his shoulder, but his cheeks are
still red and warm, and his mouth is open on his breathing instead of on a
protest, and Yamamoto can feel the rush of responsive heat in the hardness
against his fingers.
He can’t remember how to breathe. Rational thought is out of the question,
strategy and planning both scattered under the flood of adrenaline in his
veins, and in the end the only thing left to him is the same thing he always
relies on. Intuition is purring suggestion, pointing out that what feels good
for himself probably applies to Gokudera too and recommending that he move his
hand slow over them both. He tries that, carefully to gauge Gokudera’s
reaction, sliding his fingers up just an inch to test. Gokudera closes his
mouth so hard Yamamoto can hear the click of his teeth, shuts his eyes and
screws up his face in an expression that isn’t quite a grimace and isn’t quite
pain; his back arches sharply off the ground, the angle of his hips dragging
friction over Yamamoto’s palm and his own cock at once, and Yamamoto chokes a
tiny sound of appreciation that is more than drowned out by Gokudera’s hiss.
“Sorry,” Yamamoto gasps, his head trying to backtrack while his body screams
for more. He looks away from Gokudera’s expression, stares at the floor instead
while he starts to loosen his grip so he can pull his hand away. “I’ll--”
Fingers close over his, squeezing so tightly Yamamoto can feel the ache in his
knuckles, but the pressure is digging into sensitive skin, too, alleviating the
desperate ache for a moment so he can take a deep breath.
“Don’t,” and Gokudera is sitting up, angling himself off the floor on one
elbow, pushing himself so close his forehead bumps Yamamoto’s. “Don’t be an
idiot, don’t stop.” His voice is rough, low and grating over the insult, and
his breath is hot on the other’s mouth until Yamamoto can’t help but tip his
head up to reach for that heat with his lips.
“Okay,” he says, and draws his hand up the rest of the way. Neither of them
pull away, this time. Gokudera’s mouth is still so close Yamamoto can taste the
other’s faint moan against his tongue, and when he tips his chin in for more
Gokudera’s opening his mouth preemptively, sliding his tongue in past
Yamamoto’s lips to brush against the inside of his mouth. Yamamoto opens his
mouth wider, shuts his eyes to focus on the taste and feel and sound of
Gokudera under him, and when he moves his hand again he doesn’t think about it
at all. Gokudera is trying to track his movements, his hand drawing a beat
behind Yamamoto’s like a counterpoint, but he’s breathing faster too, air
coming harder and harder to him until he has to pull away and gasp instead of
kissing. Yamamoto doesn’t mind, is past caring about specifics; Gokudera is
leaning into him, pushing up from the floor so his shoulders bump Yamamoto’s
with every motion of the other’s hand, and half the sensation flooding Yamamoto
with heat is from Gokudera’s hold, and when he takes a breath the air burns
warm in his lungs from the radiance off their skin.
“Ah,” Gokudera chokes, the sound catching high in his throat. Yamamoto opens
his eyes, forces his attention back onto the other’s face so he can see the
focused tilt of Gokudera’s head, can see the edge of white teeth as he bites
his lower lip. “Fuck, Yamamoto, I--”
“Are you close?” Yamamoto asks, although he doesn’t need the confirmation.
Gokudera’s cheeks are flushed hot, his mouth opening on a desperate inhale as
Yamamoto watches, and if he glances up to glare at the other it’s only for a
moment before his eyes shut again, before his face goes taut with focus.
“What do you think,” he snaps, but the words lack any fire. He’s rocking up
into their hands, the motion of his fingers finally falling into rhythm with
Yamamoto’s. “I swear if you stop I’m--”
“I’m not going to stop,” Yamamoto cuts him off. He can’t look away from the
tension along Gokudera’s lips, can’t stop staring at the intense attention in
the line between his eyebrows. “Don’t worry.”
“Fuck,” Gokudera says again, bright and clear. His hand jerks out-of-pattern,
his grip against Yamamoto draws suddenly too-tight. “Ah, god,” and he’s gasping
in relief, all the tension in his body going slack as he thrusts up into their
hands and comes. His mouth falls open, his lips go soft with satisfaction, and
when Yamamoto ducks in to kiss him he can feel the shivering pleasure rippling
through the other’s body.
Yamamoto slows the movement of his hand, loosens his grip as Gokudera’s
reflexive trembling starts to fade. He’s ready to slide away, to roll back onto
the floor and finish himself as quickly as he usually does; the warm relaxation
across Gokudera’s face is enough even just to see that he doesn’t think it’ll
take him more than a minute. But when he shifts his weight sticky fingers grab
at his wrist, drag his hand away entirely, and when he blinks at Gokudera the
other boy is glaring at him again, the calm at his mouth pulled tight into a
frown.
“What are you doing?”he snaps as he lets Yamamoto’s hand go. His cheeks are
still red and going darker as Yamamoto stares, but he doesn’t look away from
the other’s eyes.
“I was going to finish,” Yamamoto tries to explain. “Since you’re --”
“No way,” Gokudera growls. “You don’t get to be all cool and composed.” He’s
going crimson, now, but then there’s a touch at Yamamoto’s cock, sticky-warm
fingers closing around him, and his blush becomes the least of Yamamoto’s
concerns. “If you get to see me come then I get to get you off too.” He’s
biting his lip again, his gaze finally dropping from Yamamoto’s eyes to his
mouth like he can’t bear to see the other’s reaction, but Yamamoto doesn’t
mind. Gokudera’s fingers are tight on him, tighter than his own grip usually is
and superheated with the novelty of the sensation, and when he starts to stroke
over him in earnest Yamamoto’s bracing arm starts to shake until he’s not sure
he can hold himself up.
“Gokudera,” he pants, the name drawing warm with familiarity in his throat.
“You don’t...have to.” Gokudera slides his thumb up sideways, presses in so it
slides slick across the head of Yamamoto’s cock, and language leaves Yamamoto’s
head completely.
“You think I don’t know that?” Gokudera’s forehead bumps Yamamoto’s again, the
flutter of his eyelashes catches Yamamoto’s hazy attention. “I want to.”
“Okay,” Yamamoto says, the sound skipping into a groan in his throat, and
Gokudera moves his thumb again and all Yamamoto’s body starts to tremble in
anticipation. He takes a breath, long and deep like he’s bracing himself, and
the separate pieces of sensation across his skin -- Gokudera’s fingers on his
cock, Gokudera’s breathing fast against his neck, even Gokudera’s leg pressed
against his knee -- draw together into a single point, pulling impossibly tight
for a moment before it all washes out into him. He doesn’t realize he’s gasping
a moan until he notices the afterimage of the sound, doesn’t process that
Gokudera keeps stroking over him through the ripples of pleasure; there’s just
warmth, bone-deep satisfaction pouring heavy into his body and blood until it’s
a struggle to stay upright and more of one to bring his eyes back into focus.
He’s well-rewarded for his effort when he does. Gokudera is staring at him like
he’s never seen Yamamoto before, all his expression suffused with the warm
relaxation of pleasure and his eyes softer than Yamamoto has ever seen them.
He’s not biting at his lip anymore; his mouth is open on unvoiced surprise, his
lips damp with borrowed moisture from Yamamoto’s own mouth and his skin still
flushed pink. He goes darker as he sees Yamamoto watching him, pulling his hand
away and looking at the other boy’s shoulder instead of his face.
“What is it now?” he growls, but the words lack a bite; they sound warm with
friction instead of cold on rejection.
“I want to kiss you,” Yamamoto says.
Gokudera goes scarlet, color spreading out across his entire face as he
carefully doesn’t meet Yamamoto’s eyes. “Fine.” He blinks, takes a breath,
looks back up. His eyes are greener than Yamamoto has ever seen them before,
soft and warm even though he’s still frowning. They’re both still for a moment;
then Gokudera huffs and leans in to catch Yamamoto’s lips with his. He lingers
for a second, his mouth hot on the other’s, and even when he pulls back it’s
hardly far enough to count.
“You don’t have to ask permission every time,” he says. “Idiot.”
It’s hard for Yamamoto to kiss Gokudera with how wide he’s smiling, but he
manages anyway.
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