A/n: Artsy 8059 smut is to follooooow. X3
He hates that goddamn look in his eyes. That bright smile, paired with that little, flippant "Yo". The aggravation makes his teeth grind, fingers itching for a cigarette to calm his nerves. He's always been this way—too kind, too naïve, too warm. He'll never make it a day in the real world. What kind of guy can make it in the mafia if he uses the dull edge of his sword to attack?
What might aggravate him most is the way that everyone gravitates to him. He's a friend to all. He's not sure if Yamamoto has any real enemies. (Hibari doesn't count, because honestly, that kid hates everyone. He's probably more socially retarded than anyone in the world. Save for Mukuro. Now that is a nutcase.) Every growled insult washes off the idiot's back. It makes Gokudera's blood boil, but he can't get why.
Maybe that's it. Maybe it's the frustration that he'll never get him. Seemingly the most easily pegged guy in the room, shoved into simple categories—warm-hearted, simple-minded jock—and he can't really get him. There's something that isn't spoken. Something is there, waiting to be found.
Gokudera isn't one to back away from a puzzle. He's got the brains to solve it, so he gravitates towards this puzzle. This Yamamoto Takeshi. The bane of his existence.
He's been trying to figure him out for a long time now. At times he silently seethes at this conundrum of a man. At times he quietly contemplates, cigarettes finding his lips in a constant rotation. Every observation is a step closer towards his answer, but just when he thinks he's got it, it slips through his fingers. It's like getting to the end of a thousand piece puzzle, only to find that that last sky piece went missing. It's incomplete. Maybe that's why he keeps watching.
Through this secret contemplation, Gokudera doesn't notice Yamamoto getting closer. Ever so slowly, with an odd grace, the man he loathes begins to appear at his side. He's there when he begrudgingly accepts his presence, there when he wants to kill him, there when he couldn't care less. But all the same, he's there. When did that happen? When did they become the patented pair?
Then he gets closer. He's not just there, but he's touching him. Innocent as the slight touches might be, they still shake him. Those murmured, joking observations into his ear during class that cause little shivers down his spine. That unnecessary hand on his elbow at the crosswalk, seemingly keeping him from walking into traffic, lingering too long. He doesn't want it. He tells himself that he only puts up with it to help solve his puzzle.
He wasn't prepared for this moment. Perhaps his permission meant something different to Yamamoto? That's the only way to explain the fingers curled around his jaw, the lips hovering over his, the dark eyes far too close to his own. He's asking permission, and Gokudera isn't pushing him away. Is this another piece to solving the puzzle?
Yamamoto's lips descend, capturing his, warm and soft and seemingly, for that moment, timid. Gokudera's eyes are still open, fighting the urge to close, to give in to this foreign feeling, watching dark lashes flutter over the taller one's cheeks. He's kissing him, and Gokudera feels another of those unfortunate shivers down his spine. Yamamoto takes this as a sign, be it intentional or not from the smaller form, and presses his lips slightly harder, the fingers of his free hand moving to the small of his back. Gokudera lets out a soft, slightly startled noise, brain screaming to get him to stop, but body rebelling. His eyes finally close, hiding searching, confused eyes, giving in to this feeling. He's learning more about his puzzle in this brief moment than he has in weeks.
Something soft and wet brushes against his lips, and Yamamoto makes a deep noise in his throat. He wants more. Gokudera's loosing his mind, because he's not telling him no. His lips part, their tongues touching tentatively, eliciting a slight gasp from both. The kiss suddenly takes a sharp turn, that low noise in Yamamoto's throat turning into something more of a growl, suddenly taking more, not asking. Gokudera finds himself pushed back, the baseball idiot's body leaning down onto his, tongues sliding in a slow, sensual dance. He doesn't hate it. His body is definitely telling him he likes it.
Nimble fingers slide under his shirt, moving over his stomach, riding up the material. Gokudera's body arches slightly, making an embarrassing half-moan into Yamamoto's mouth. He wants it. At this moment, there are no second guesses. The skin his fingers trail burns pleasurably, shooting straight to the pit of Gokudera's stomach, a coiling heat. When did he start wanting this?
He finds himself bare before he can figure how it happened, an equally bare, hot body pressed against his, hands roaming. His hips are bucking, voice mumbling, murmuring words that aren't important, ones that he'll never remember. All he can think of is this moment—this electricity passing between them. When something slides inside him, he's taken by surprise—Yamamoto planned ahead, that sly bastard.
The slick finger slides in and out of him, more foreign than the wet tongue dancing in time with his own. His hips buck, unwarranted, unintentional, but moving of their own volition, screaming out his need with his body, if not with his voice. The intrusion gets thicker, fingers added, teeth nipping and biting at his lips. He wants to cry out, wants to run away, but more so he wants to figure this out—this heat, this desire pulling him closer.
The fingers slide out, accompanying an embarrassing half whimper from the Italian. Just when he was really starting to enjoy it, the pleasurable digits disappear. A low, husky voice murmurs into his ear, something about 'if it hurts I'll stop' and 'relax'. The words are lost in his brain, the thrum of the blood in his ears drowning them out. His hands are moved to slide around Yamamoto's neck, knees lifted gently. Something nudges him, hard and pulsing. A warning? It's too late. The searing pain shoots through his body, making him arch, a cry in his throat. The movements stops, Yamamoto buried to the hilt inside of his body, near shuddering at the tight heat, holding himself back. Gokudera pants slightly, wincing, trying to work out the pain from the pleasure, muscles contracting slightly and relaxing slowly.
Yamamoto takes this as his sign, capturing bruised lips in a feverish kiss, rocking his hips back and pushing forwards. Their cries are almost in harmony, bodies moving in time with each other. Each thrust brings both closer to the edge, their bodies' hot, charged, air heavy and electric. There is a hunger in Yamamoto's eyes, unknowingly mirrored in his partner's. Gokudera tries to hold back the wanton, heady noises ripping from his throat, but it's no use. This feels too good. He's loosing control, slowly but surely. Suddenly, the puzzle is far from his mind.
When it's over, the two are the picture of spent debauchery. The sweat gleams on their skin, bodies tangled in a mess. Yamamoto murmurs quiet, tender things, and Gokudera closes his eyes, content to let himself be held by the arms around him. He thought this would fill in the pieces, but it's only causing more questions—but his lids are heavy, and dreams are calling, the warm form next to him a siren call for sleep. Perhaps he's found a puzzle that can't be solved, and perhaps he'll keep it that way.
a/n: Posted here after putting on hitmanreborn at LJ. Finally, I get out a Reborn fic, after all these months!