So uh. Reborn. You're...you're kinda replacing Naruto as my favorite series. Stop being so awesome (except don't). Anyhow, the main reason I wrote this is because every single YamaGoku doujin I've downloaded features uke!!Gokudera in various states of ukeness, and...I wanted to see him top, for once. :D I hope everyone enjoys!
"What do you want, Gokudera?"
They're facing each other, breathing deep, nearly panting. He is up against a brick wall, part of some dilapidated old building (though most of their world is dilapidated and old-looking, these days), held in check by Gokudera's smaller body—he's never thought size mattered much, because how many times has Gokudera proven that it doesn't? Too many to count.
Gokudera snarls something in Italian, his native language, the language Yamamoto could listen to him speak for hours on end because it's so lyrical, even when the context isn't. He's picked up a few words here and there, and he can make out the gist of a sentence if it's delivered slowly, but Gokudera is talking so fast he only manages to catch "prick" and "retard" (or a variation of, in any case).
Yamamoto is used to the names. It's been years since middle-school, and Gokudera's gotten quite inventive—some of the names don't have a Japanese equivalent, and so far, Gokudera hasn't offered any rough translations, which makes Yamamoto wonder on occasion what exactly he's being likened to.
Not that he minds either way. Gokudera gave him those names, and he had to have put a decent amount of thought into them, which Yamamoto finds strangely endearing. He hasn't told Gokudera that, though.
"What do I want..." Japanese, again. Amazing, how easily he switches back and forth. "I know what I want."
Gokudera applies more pressure to Yamamoto's chest; the bricks chafe him through his suit jacket. (How did they wind up here? A fight. Always a fight. They bring out the best of the worst in each other, as far as Yamamoto is concerned. He sees a lot more than Gokudera realizes.)
His eyes follow Gokudera's hand as it wraps around his tie; when his head is yanked down a few inches to Gokudera's level, he isn't caught off guard.
"I want to fuck you."
Lips at his ear. Waiting there, for him to do something. Or say something. Yamamoto says nothing, breathes. He's waiting, too.
Encouraged by the silence, Gokudera continues, his voice a silken, razor-edged murmur.
"I want to fuck you hard enough to kill you." He gives the tie another hard yank. "I want to get your stupid face out of my head. How else do I do that? How else…"
"I won't stop you."
Frowning, a heavy crease between his eyebrows, Gokudera draws back to look at him.
"Don't provoke me, Yamamoto."
Gokudera only calls him by his name when he's serious, or pissed off. Judging from his tone, how soft it is, how gentle, Yamamoto knows he's serious. His choice of weapon suits his personality, because when he's angry, truly angry, he explodes. Yamamoto half-smiles, blood oozing from his split lip—Gokudera expended his anger earlier.
"That's it. That's what you really want, isn't it?"
Maybe there's some left.
Gokudera blinks, seemingly shaken by the insight Yamamoto rarely shows others, unless it'll serve a purpose. Granted, he was a genuine airhead as a kid, when his role in Tsuna's family was first impressed upon him (upon all of them…a ragtag group of misfits, so very, very young), but cheerful ignorance was a luxury he couldn't afford as a prominent member of the Vongola. Of course, that didn't mean his enemies needed to know he was smarter than they gave him credit for.
And while Gokudera isn't an enemy, Yamamoto usually steps lightly around him. He's more sensitive than he cares to admit, particularly where his position in the family is concerned—Yamamoto respects that.
Except this, whatever it is, whatever it leads to, has to happen. Yamamoto has to push so Gokudera will push back.
"I won't stop you," he repeats, his body relaxed, accepting.
Cursing in Italian, Gokudera grabs either side of Yamamoto's face and drags him in for a violent kiss, all teeth and tongues. He bites too hard, and aggravates Yamamoto's bleeding lip, but the swordsman doesn't protest. Nor does he flinch when Gokudera shoves his knee between his legs, spreads them apart, or when his fingers undo Yamamoto's belt, unzip his fly, drag his pants and his boxers down so that they pool around his feet.
This'll be messy, Yamamoto thinks. Messy and painful and good and over too quickly.
He doesn't care.
For Gokudera, he is perfectly willing to open himself up and let him plunder, because there is nothing he can take that doesn't already belong to him.
He just hopes, someday, Gokudera realizes that.
Until then, however, he has this (Gokudera's passion and anger and frustration, manifest in the fingers bruising his hips, the mouth on his throat, the cock inside him), he has Gokudera at his most vulnerable, his most beautiful (he's speaking only Italian now, his voice low and husky, and Yamamoto loves the sound of it).
"I won't ever stop you."
Yamamoto is a patient person. He'll wait forever, because he has this.