Originally inspired by a prompt on the old khrkinkmeme but not posted there. It's too long and I'm too lazy.
I don't own Katekyo Hitman Reborn!
Italy is different. He keeps thinking that he'll eventually get used to the traveling and maybe not be so overwhelmed every time he gets dropped in a new country but then he gets there and he's like a little kid lost without his mother. He's been living in The United States for a few years now and he's almost as used to it as Japan… almost, but Italy isn't anything like either of them; at least Japan and the U.S. border the same ocean… on one side.
He's on vacation, taking some time off before the season starts and he burns out, like he could ever burn out from baseball, and he's come to Italy on the arm of a pretty actress that the tabloids have recently decided he's dating. He barely knows her but she's nice and both of their publicists think it's a good idea for them to be seen together. He's there to attend a premiere of her movie and he's excited enough but he doesn't always know what to do with himself without baseball and, despite what the tabloids claim and what his publicist would love to make true, he's just not interested.
He thinks, as the souls of his shoes scuff against the ground, that his publicist would have a heart attack if she were to see him now. He's in the wrong part of town and just by looking at the way the walls are crumbling and the not quite pleasant tang in the air, he knows it. The moral decay of the area sticks to bottoms of his shoes and invades his senses and he feels a blush creeping across his cheeks that bids him stay to the shadows even though no one has seemed to recognize him yet.
Ladies of the night leer at him from around corners, thrusting their ample bosoms his way and beckoning to him with their sensuality. He's seen hookers before, he's not that naïve, but he has to admit that even the sex trade in Italy must be different. There's something romantic about what he's doing, about how the women let their bodies do the talking and how they call to him in a language that he doesn't understand but that dances in his ears like a wind chime.
If he gets caught here it will probably destroy his public image; no one will fall for the dumb smile that he plasters on his face to avoid uncomfortable questions anymore. But, at the moment, he thinks that maybe that's okay. The thrill in his chest as he makes his way from one end of these slums to the other is enough to combat any concrete worries that he may have and it grows exponentially when he catches a flash of pale skin peeking out from the shadows directly in his path.
This is what he's been looking for, this is why he's here and not safe in his plush hotel room or pretending to woo a nameless actress whose movies he's never actually seen.
He slows down, his heart pounding so hard against his ribcage that he's sure the hookers can hear it. He's seen hookers before but he's never picked one up and he's not totally sure what the protocol for such a situation is. He thinks, briefly, about turning around and forgetting that he ever wanted to do this but the owner of the skin he's almost started drooling over has caught sight of him and he feels drawn to a set of piercing peridot eyes like a moth to a flame.
He stuffs his hands into his pockets as he approaches and he receives a smirk around the butt of a cigarette in exchange for his blush. He thinks he's found the most beautiful man in Italy almost immediately and the man's manner of dress tells him that he won't be insulting anyone when he puts forth his proposition. But there's something about this man that gives him pause and tells him the man won't settle for a handful of Euros and a rough fuck in the alley. This man is dangerous; blow his mind and take his wallet dangerous, and Yamamoto Takeshi has never been harder in his life.
"What are you staring at, freak?" The man spits when he's within hearing distance and tosses his cigarette to the ground, crushing the butt beneath the heel of his shoe.
Yamamoto opens his mouth to respond before he even realizes that the man has addressed him in Japanese and not the heady flow of Italian he's been bombarded with the past few days.
"Ahaha… nothing." Yamamoto looks away guiltily but then remembers why he's here and what's at stake and the uncomfortable throb in his pants and musters up the courage to move forward with his desires. His eyes grow dark with determination and he takes a confident step forward. "Actually… I was looking at you."
"Che. Of course you were." The man mutters, crossing his arms over his chest and staring Yamamoto down. He has silver hair and a slight build and Yamamoto is enthralled. He doesn't know if he has a type but he thinks this man is a perfect example of what it should be.
"What's your name?" He breathes and the man glares at him.
"My name isn't important. Do you have money?"
Yamamoto nods eagerly and reaches into his back pocket for his wallet. The man's shirt shifts over his shoulders when he moves, alternately exposing different expanses of his collarbone. It is so prominently visible beneath the thin straps of his almost translucent undershirt. His unbuttoned dress shirt hangs loosely off his shoulders and his pants sink low on his hips, held up by a tangle of thick black belts that are meant to tease. They bear a striking resemblance to the iron forged chastity belts that pop into Yamamoto's mind every time he hears the term and they make him ripe with the desire to get them undone and taste the fruit they're guarding.
"Good." The man uncrosses his arms and trails a slender finger along the hem of his undershirt where it doesn't quite reach the waist of his pants. Yamamoto's eyes follow and his lips part slightly in hesitant anticipation.
When he turns, Yamamoto follows him, his nerves a mess of trepidation and tantalizing lust. They head down the alley, away from the slums, at a pace so slow Yamamoto almost can't take it.
"I don't come cheap." The man warns without looking over his shoulder. Yamamoto blushes again even though nobody can see it and fingers his wallet.
"I've got plenty of money." He says with only a slight waver in his voice.
"Unfortunately." The man grumbles and Yamamoto feels his stomach flip with nerves and confusion. He didn't know that prostitutes could afford to be so picky but the man's still leading him on somewhere, so maybe he's not that picky after all.
They keep walking deeper into the alley until the sordid scents of sex and debauchery begin to fade and Yamamoto's nerves begin to rise. Just as he's about to question the man's direction, he makes an abrupt turn and stops to unlock a door that Yamamoto would probably never have noticed if he'd been left to find his own way. The door is hidden by shadows and the overhead of a rickety staircase. It's nicer than most of the doors that they've passed so far, heavy and dark and safe, he thinks.
He hesitates for just a second, in the openness of the alley, but a sharp glance from those envy green eyes sets his heart pounding and his stomach twisting and when the man disappears into the darkness behind that door, Yamamoto is close on his heels.
"3,000.00€." The man says flatly, turning and running a slender finger under the hem of his shirt, lifting it just high enough to expose the planes of his pale, flat stomach.
Yamamoto's mouth goes dry from a combination of his arousal and the fear that he may not have that much money on him. A million thoughts run through his head as he pulls out his wallet and fumbles with the notes. He briefly realizes that this man is asking him for almost four thousand in American dollars but a quick glance at the man's scowling face and the way his pulse runs tells him that it's worth it, more than.
"If you don't have it, don't waste my time." The man growls and crosses his arms over his chest, glaring at Yamamoto with unwarranted anger.
It makes the ballplayer uncomfortable and a thought niggles at the back of his mind that this isn't how it should be. The unease doesn't stop him from frantically trying to come up with the right amount of money though. There's something about this man, something that Yamamoto can't ignore, that keeps him rooted to the spot.
"I've got it. I've got it." He protests, pulling out a wad of notes with a grin and holding it out to the silver haired man.
The man chews his bottom lip as if he was expecting Yamamoto to fail and doesn't quite know what to do now that he hasn't.
"Put it on the bedside table… over there." He points to a far corner of the dark room, where Yamamoto can make out a large, plush looking bed and the shadow of a small table next to it. He clears his throat uneasily but makes his way over to it, setting the money on the table top.
His back is to the man and he's glad for that because it means that he can't see Yamamoto's shaking hands. The situation is far more awkward than he thought it would be and he kind of wishes he'd had something to drink before embarking on this mission. A healthy buzz would have made this decision more sensible in the first place and would probably make his flagging erection a lot stronger at this point.
He hears the man shifting behind him and then a frustrated 'Che' and suddenly there's warmth at his back that he wasn't quite expecting.
"No kissing." The man hisses in his ear before forcefully turning him around and immediately attacking his neck with sharp teeth and warm lips.
Yamamoto grips his biceps and moans a little louder than he means to. His erection's interest is immediately piqued and he can feel it straining against his pant leg and pressing into the man's hip. His own hips buck wantonly forward as the man's tongue laps across the sensitive spot behind his ear.
"You're beautiful." He whispers into silver hair when the man's lips purse against his jaw. He knows the prostitute said no kissing and it's all he can do to keep from turning his head just so and capturing those alluring lips with his own. He thinks the man probably tastes like cigarettes and cinnamon. He doesn't know why, but he thinks it's definitely cinnamon.
"Don't talk." The man sounds impatient and that's okay because Yamamoto is too.
The man looks up at him sharply, reminding him of what he just said with his eyes. Yamamoto opens his mouth to say that he's sorry again and then remembers that he's not supposed to and just smiles sheepishly. The man rolls his eyes and looks down to focus on the buttons of Yamamoto's shirt. His fingers brush against Yamamoto's bare skin and send a ripple of pleasure across his body.
It crosses Yamamoto's mind that he should be doing more with his hands than keeping a death grip on the prostitute's shoulders but at the same time he's afraid to do anything wrong. He can tell that one false move will send this man away, probably with his money, and he definitely doesn't want that. As if reading his mind the man looks up and gives him a harsh look that only seems to accentuate his beauty. His pale, pale skin pulls across prominent cheekbones and thin silver brows arc across his forehead.
If Yamamoto was a thinker, and he isn't, he'd try to find some way of properly putting the feelings that this man has caused in him into words. He would try to do his emotions poetic justice and he would scour the Roman pantheon for the proper equivalent so that he could deify this man. But he isn't a thinker and so he's forced to make do with a healthy moan when the Italian's lips suck hard at his collarbone and a few breathy pants when the man's fingers find his zipper and deftly pull it down.
He remembers how his own fingers work then and he releases his grip on the Italian's biceps so that he can slide them through that soft, silver hair. He gasps when the man pulls him out through the fly of his jeans, slender fingers gripping his flesh gently but firmly enough to be felt. And Yamamoto definitely feels them. Yamamoto keeps his own fingers twisted in the man's hair when he begins to slide down the ballplayer's body to rest on his knees.
He looks up at Yamamoto expectantly and Yamamoto gazes down, flushed with lust and confusion.
"Condom?" The man spits out impatiently and awareness dawns on Yamamoto slowly. He'd been entirely too focused on the man's soft, supple lips so close to the exposed tip of his cock that he hadn't thought about protection at all.
He smiles and chuckles nervously when the man's eyes narrow; then reaches into his back pocket for one of the two foil packets that he'd stuck there that morning before leaving his hotel room. He hands it to the man with shaky fingers and he's relieved when the man takes without question. He doesn't think he'd be able to put it on right with the way his hands are trembling and he's only got the two.
The Italian lets go of his cock long enough to tear open the little foil package and Yamamoto whines with the sudden feeling of cool air on his over sensitive flesh but the man gives him a dirty look and places the lubricated latex glove on the tip of his erection, following it with his lips. Yamamoto gasps out loud and accidentally shifts his hips forward, thrusting his member past the man's lips. The man chokes just a bit but manages to keep his lips behind the roll of latex until it's all the way down to the hilt and Yamamoto's erection is practically tickling the back of the man's throat.
It takes the ballplayer's breath away, leaves him jelly-limbed and dizzy and if he could think about anything but the incredible warmth suddenly encasing him he'd wish they'd made it to the bed already but he can't think so instead he just feels and tries to focus on keeping himself upright. The man's eyes slide up to watch Yamamoto's face as he pulls back, sucking. Yamamoto licks his lips as if he can taste the cloudy haze of lust that he can see in the other's eyes.
The man flicks his tongue across the tip of the ballplayer's cock when his lips reach the base of the head, and swirls it around the latex encased flesh.
"Oh… oh fuck." Yamamoto wishes he could feel the wet muscle against his skin but somewhere deep within his lust addled brain he knows this is the best way. He can't stop himself from thrusting forward and the Italian growls and plants his hands on Yamamoto's hips but doesn't stop him from moving so Yamamoto keeps fucking his mouth in quick, short thrusts until he feels the heat of his orgasm beginning to coil in his belly.
It's like the man can see his impending crash in his face because the man pushes his mouth forward one last time and deep throats Yamamoto's erection with ease, swallowing around his cock and milking out his climax. Yamamoto shudders and nearly collapses but the Italian holds his hips steady until his shaking has passed. When the ballplayer starts to think that maybe he can stand without help, the Italian abruptly lets go and slides his mouth off of Yamamoto's cock. He pulls the condom from Yamamoto's sweat slicked skin and ties it off, tossing it to the floor.
When he looks up, Yamamoto wants to kiss him more than ever. The Italian's lips are swollen and red, like ripe berries that Yamamoto knows would taste sweet across his tongue. Sated, Yamamoto reaches down to fix himself but the Italian swats his hands away and reaches up to undo the button on his pants before roughly yanking them down to his knees. Yamamoto is taken by surprise but less so than when he's spun around and thrown, face first, onto the bed. It's soft and catches him like a giant pillow.
He feels the man rooting around in his pocket and he briefly worries that this is the part where he gets robbed and left behind but then the man's hand is gone and he can still feel the weight of his wallet against the back of his thigh.
It's when he feels the hot, heavy presence of the Italian behind him, erection pressing against the crease of his ass, that he realizes what's going on. The Italian's warm breath against his ear makes his body tremble and he feels himself beginning to harden again just in anticipation of feeling the Italian inside him. He hears the foil tear and almost wiggles his ass in anticipation.
The prostitute drags a finger up his crease and teases his entrance and Yamamoto tenses.
"Aren't you going to use lube?" He asks; his voice shaky and muffled by the comforter.
"Did you bring lube?" The man rasps against his back.
"Idiot. Then I guess I won't be using it, will I?" The man bites Yamamoto's back through his shirt for emphasis and the ballplayer whines and pushes his chest further into the bedding.
The finger disappears for a second and Yamamoto can hear the man spit into his hand and then it's back and, thankfully, slick with saliva, pushing for entrance against him. It takes three fingers and an eternity of slow probing and finger fucking before the Italian seems to decide that Yamamoto is ready for his cock. Yamamoto had decided this many minutes prior. He's squirming on the bed, moaning, and thrusting his hips up against the man's fingers in an attempt to beg for more because his mouth can't quite form the words.
The man bunches Yamamoto's shirt up underneath his shoulder blades and licks a long line up his back as he pulls his fingers out and leaves the ballplayer whining and empty. Yamamoto loses his breath when he feels the man's member line up against him. His hands fist in the bedding and he moans long and low when the Italian begins pushing in. It burns but it's dull and almost pleasant. There's not enough lubrication on the condom but he's still slick with spit so the movement is smooth if not easy.
"Fuck. Tight." He hears the man grunt behind him, mouth hot and wet against his back.
A hand reaches around and worms between Yamamoto's hips and the bed to grip his cock and stroke and the gesture earns a keening sound from the ballplayer's throat. He can't decide whether to push back against the Italian's hips or thrust forward into his hand. A warning nip at the flesh above his spine stills him and allows the prostitute to set the pace.
"Harder, fuck. Harder." Yamamoto moans after what feels like a century of movement and the man still isn't hilted. He would be ashamed of how wanton he sounds if he had the faculties to be aware of it, as it is he's face down in a studio apartment just outside the slums letting himself be thoroughly fucked by a man whose name he doesn't know. Maybe wanton is the perfect way to sound.
He nearly sobs with relief and pleasure when the man heeds his pleas and begins thrusting, hard and deep. His hips slap against Yamamoto's ass every time he pushes in and his hand strokes the ballplayer's erection with a rough grip. When the Italian angles his hips just so and hits Yamamoto's prostate, the ballplayer comes violently and collapses against the bed, strength sapped. He clenches around the Italian's cock in his ass and the man barks a moan above him before hitting his own climax and releasing. He shudders and collapses against Yamamoto's back, wrapping his arms around the ballplayer's waist and panting shallowly against his skin.
They stay in this position until Yamamoto's thighs begin to ache and he shifts almost unconsciously. When the Italian slides off of him and pulls out, he musters just enough strength to drag his lower half onto the bed and pull up his pants. He is comfortably spent, sticky with sweat and semen, and numb with after orgasm bliss. He is only vaguely aware of a phone ringing in the background as he slips into the abyss of sleep.
The Italian prostitute slips the used condom from his flaccid member and ties it off. Picking up the previously discarded condom from the floor, he drops them both in the trash before pulling his cigarette pack from his pocket and shaking one free. He sidles to the far side of the room, the little kitchen area from where he can still see the sleeping Asian, and lights it. It's only then that he flips his phone open and answers it with obvious irritation.
"What?" He says in Italian.
"Hayato. Where are you?"
The man scowls. "None of your business, sis."
There's a feminine sigh on the other end. "Oh Hayato."
"What do you want, Bianchi?"
"Father wants you home. You know you have to play at that movie premiere tonight. He doesn't think you should be out roaming the town when you have such an important concert coming up."
"What if I don't want to play tonight? He can't make me." He pouts because there's no one to see him.
"Stop being so childish. That American baseball player you claim you can't stand will be there. You can get his autograph."
The man lets his gaze wander to the sleeping man again. His expression softens. "He's Japanese. He's just on an American team. And I don't give a fuck about baseball or him or his autograph, so fuck you."
"Well, maybe if you play with love in your heart he'll give you more than his autograph." Anyone else would be teasing him; Bianchi is serious.
"Che. Whatever. I'll be there in half an hour." He mumbles as he clicks the phone closed and watches the ballplayer's chest rise and fall with even breaths.
Gokudera Hayato's lips curl up with a hint of a smile as he crosses the room and watches Yamamoto's sleeping face. He bends down to softly brush his lips against the ballplayer's mouth and sighs, then he crosses to the door and pulls it open, leaving Yamamoto's money on the bedside table without ever touching it. When he leaves, he slams the door just hard enough to make sure the ballplayer wakes and with a smile on his face he makes his way down the alley toward his father's mansion, his fingers already dancing across the black and white keys of his piano in his mind.
When Yamamoto wakes, the only thing he is concretely aware of is the taste of cinnamon on his lips.