Title: Cyclone
Yamamoto Takeshi/Hibari Kyouya
Hibari finally figures out what's going on and what he thinks about it.
Adult for smut. 4040 words.


The inside of the club room is dark and stuffy, just as it was a week ago. This time the only light that falls across the floor is the bar of sunlight, just the width of the door, that streams across the floor. It picks out the shape of the benches and the dust motes that spin through the air. Kyouya's shadow stretches away from him, attenuated and warped by the places it falls across the benches.

A second shadow joins his: Yamamoto's. Kyouya turns from his survey of the club room and looks. Yamamoto stands in the doorway; his sneakers dangle from one hand and his sword is in the other, and he lingers on the threshold, haloed by the light. Kyouya can't see much of his face, backlit as he is, but the way he holds his shoulders is careful.

Yamamoto Takeshi does not make assumptions, and Kyouya thinks he approves of this circumspection.

"There's a light switch." Yamamoto's voice is quiet. "If you want."

Kyouya shakes his head almost before he consciously decides to. His eyes are already beginning to adjust to the darkness in this stuffy room, will adjust even more once he's not staring into the sunlight. "No."

"All right." Yamamoto shifts on his feet, rocks back onto his heels and then up on the balls of them before he steps inside. His bare feet make no sound against the floor. He pulls the door to after him, until there is only a narrow line of sunlight to slice across the floor, barely wider than a blade. He's nothing but a darker shape against the stuffy dimness of the room at first, but then the details begin to emerge again—the lighter colors of his shirt and jeans, grey in the low light, the way he stoops to set his shoes and sword on the bench just inside the door, and how he rolls his neck on his shoulders as he stands straight again.

It's hot inside the building. Fresh sweat trickles down Kyouya's spine, but he steps closer to Yamamoto anyway and lays a hand against his shoulder. The t-shirt is damp under his fingertips and fits against Yamamoto's body like another skin. That thought recalls the way Yamamoto's bare shoulders looked with water sheeting over them, the muscles shifting with every flex of his wrist, and how they looked under his phys ed uniform as Yamamoto stood on the pitcher's mound. The memories twist hunger through Kyouya, a strange hunger that has everything and nothing to do with the tightness of his cock. He finds himself flattening his hand against Yamamoto's shoulder, feeling the smooth shape of his muscles, deltoid and trapezius beneath damp cotton. He knows now how Yamamoto's skin looks when it is bare, all sleek and fair where the sun doesn't touch it, and hunger twists through him again, reckless and dizzying.

Yamamoto's breathing turns deeper as Kyouya strokes his palm along his shoulder, and faster as Kyouya drops his hand to find the hem of his t-shirt and push it up. "Off," he says.

"Yeah, okay." Yamamoto's voice has gone husky. He reaches back and twists a hand in the collar of his shirt, tugging it over his head. He lets it drop on the bench and looks at Kyouya, who can see well enough now to see how he passes his tongue over his lips and how his hair stands up in damp spikes. Yamamoto sucks in a breath and his skin shivers when Kyouya lays his hands on his shoulders again, but he stays still as Kyouya explores the shape of them, matching touch to memory.

Touching isn't enough. It's satisfying to feel the shape of Yamamoto under his hands, more satisfying than Kyouya knows how to explain to himself, but it's not enough. He steps closer, close enough to feel the heat that rises off Yamamoto's body, and tastes his skin—salt on his tongue and the smell of sweat and faint lingering traces of soap as he runs his mouth along the line of Yamamoto's shoulder.

Yamamoto groans; the sound of it rumbles in Kyouya's ear as his breathing turns faster still. His hands open and close at his sides, but he holds himself steady while Kyouya smooths his lips along his shoulder, taking in the taste and smell of Yamamoto and the way his voice sounds as he groans. It's better, but still not enough—Kyouya wants more, wants to hold all that Yamamoto is, somehow. He tries his teeth against the smoothness of Yamamoto's trapezius. Yamamoto jerks against him as he bites down; his groan is loud. Shocking. Kyouya does it again, slides his mouth down and closes his teeth on Yamamoto's shoulder.

Yamamoto shudders and reaches a hand backwards, flailing it through the air and finding Kyouya's shoulder with unerring aim despite not being able to see what he is doing. He holds Kyouya—just holds him, doesn't try to push him away as he pants—and his skin turns slick under Kyouya's mouth and fingers, sharp with the taste of fresh sweat. "Hibari-san," he says, voice gone hoarse. Kyouya likes the way his name sounds, spoken like that. "Please."

It's not clear what Yamamoto is asking for. Kyouya bites down on the point of Yamamoto's shoulder, right over the bone, and feels the way Yamamoto's body shivers against his own. Yamamoto flexes his fingers against Kyouya's shoulder, gasping for breath, and Kyouya wonders if maybe he doesn't know what he's asking for, either.

Kyouya slides his hands down, fanning his fingers out and following Yamamoto's ribcage, counting off his ribs. At one point, Yamamoto sucks in a breath, the sound of it faint—pained. Kyouya pauses there, resting his fingers against Yamamoto's skin, and presses again, curious. Yamamoto grunts. "Still sore," he says. Kyouya thinks about his tonfa slamming against Yamamoto's side a week ago and watching Yamamoto touch his ribs afterwards. This is the first Yamamoto has said or shown of that moment since.

He keeps going, following the line of Yamamoto's side as his ribs taper into his waist and then his hips Yamamoto's skin is soft there, just above the waistband of his jeans, smooth and slick with his sweat. He shivers beneath Kyouya's hands with each quick breath he takes and with every movement of Kyouya's mouth against his shoulder. Kyouya traces his fingers along Yamamoto's waistband, feeling the way his stomach expands and contracts with each breath. Yamamoto makes a sound, something like a strangled groan, when Kyouya flattens his palm against his stomach, just over the button of his fly where there is a fine scattering of hair, and grips Kyouya's shoulder more tightly. "Hibari-san." His voice is hoarse, full of—hunger, the same kind of hunger Kyouya feels twisting through himself. That edge of wanting, eager and faintly uncertain, decides Kyouya, or maybe the way Yamamoto continues to hold himself steady, still not presuming, does.

From this position, it's almost like undoing the button and zip of his own fly, almost like reaching inside to handle himself. Yamamoto groans when he does, low and wordless, and a shiver wracks him as Kyouya closes his hand around his cock, easing it out and stroking his fingers over the sticky-wet mess of it. Yamamoto leans back against him as he does, leans his head back and rests it against Kyouya's shoulder, and sighs out a breath as he rocks into the loose curl of Kyouya's fingers. He sighs Kyouya's name, shapes the syllables on a husky breath as Kyouya slides his fingers up and down, like fisting himself but not, and they hang in the air like a prayer.

It feels strange to take Yamamoto's weight like this, to have him leaning so trustingly against his chest and to have the bare line of his throat exposed and pale in the glow of sunlight coming in through the cracked door. It seems almost improper, somehow, or indecent to be able to turn his face and close his mouth over the place where Yamamoto's shoulder and throat meet, but Kyouya does it anyway. Yamamoto's skin tastes of salt. The air smells like him, sweat and musk as he groans and rolls his hips against Kyouya's hands. The beat of them is almost lazy, a slow slide of his cock through Kyouya's fingers that belies the quickness of his breathing and the sounds he makes, low in his throat.

Kyouya slides the pads of his fingers over Yamamoto's head, and Yamamoto groans. He changes his grip, slows his hand down and tightens his fingers, and Yamamoto shudders. He closes his teeth on the juncture of Yamamoto's shoulder and throat as he works his fingers against Yamamoto's cock, and Yamamoto comes. He arches in Kyouya's arms, groaning Kyouya's name as he spills himself over Kyouya's fingers, and is still panting when he relaxes against Kyouya after, all his body gone loose and lax.

Some part of Kyouya, the part that is angered when he sees people standing about, crowded together like sheep, protests the way Yamamoto lolls against him, letting Kyouya brace him as his breathing slows and steadies. Part of Kyouya is baffled by how easily Yamamoto does it. And part of him is simply satisfied by this, his handiwork, even as he considers the mess on his fingers and reaches for the tissues in his pocket to wipe them clean.

Yamamoto stirs as he does, clearing his throat. It sounds loud in the quiet of the club room. "Hibari-san." He shifts the hand on Kyouya's shoulder, sliding it up and touching Kyouya's hair, slipping his fingers into the strands that cling to Kyouya's skin. Kyouya stills at the gesture, which feels strange to him, curiously intimate. "What," he begins, and stops when he realizes that he doesn't know how to frame the rest of the question.

Yamamoto rubs his fingers against Kyouya's nape, the movement deliberate. "Can it be my turn now?" he asks. Whimsical as the question may be, his tone is quiet. Serious. Kyouya cannot see his face, precisely, but he doesn't need to in order to know that Yamamoto isn't smiling.

It gives him pause. He doesn't say anything (doesn't know what it is he wants to say). Yamamoto doesn't say anything else. He stays where he is, leaning against Kyouya and stirring his fingers through the damp hair lying against Kyouya's neck, and waits once again for Kyouya to decide.

How, Kyouya wonders, how did Yamamoto Takeshi learn to be so subtle? And he closes his eyes for a moment before he says, "Yes."

Yamamoto sighs, all the breath running out of him in a rush. "Thanks," he says, soft, and doesn't move, not yet. He runs his thumb along Kyouya's nape. The nail drags along Kyouya's skin, a delicate scrape that makes Kyouya's breath come short in his throat all unexpectedly.

Then Yamamoto draws his hand away and turns, right in the circle of Kyouya's arms. He fits himself close again, insinuating as a cat. His expression is still and watchful; he studies Kyouya with the same attention Kyouya has seen him give an opponent on the battlefield or from the pitcher's mound before he lifts his hands. He settles one on Kyouya's shoulder, resting his thumb against the side of Kyouya's throat and rubbing against it slowly, and curves the other around Kyouya's jaw. The touch is a light one, careful, and Yamamoto waits and watches as if he wants to see whether Kyouya will object to this liberty with his person.

It should be too much—too much closeness, too much heat in this stuffy room—but Kyouya finds, to his own surprise (and perhaps to Yamamoto's, as well), that he can bear it after all. He watches Yamamoto watching him and then nods. Yamamoto smiles then, but it's not one of his broad grins. This smile is small, just the faintest curve of his lips, as intimate as the fingers he's cupped along Kyouya's jaw.

Kyouya raises his eyebrows when the pressure of Yamamoto's fingers against his jaw changes, but he lifts his chin anyway and lets Yamamoto kiss him. He settles his hands against Yamamoto's back, sweat-slick beneath his hands, and Yamamoto presses their mouths together. He's slow about it, moves his lips against Kyouya's almost lazily, little nudging strokes that feel like the turn of a spool winding some thread tight. He slides his tongue along Kyouya's lips and sucks on the bottom one, the pressure of his mouth strangely gentle, and rubs his thumb back and forth along the curve of Kyouya's collarbone. He's close enough that Kyouya can see his eyes, even in the gloom of this room, and can see that Yamamoto is watching him as each shallow kiss draws Kyouya more taut.

It's too much, too close, should be unbearable, but Kyouya does not pull away from the fingers that cup his jaw or the softness of Yamamoto's mouth, though he doesn't know if he can explain why he doesn't. Maybe it's the way hunger twists through him, throbbing heavy and tight in his gut, or maybe it's because Yamamoto has asked, each time.

He asks again, this time by shifting the hand resting against Kyouya's shoulder and settling it against his chest, just above the top button of his shirt. He leaves his fingers there, the weight of them so light as to be nearly imperceptible, and waits, watching Kyouya as he draws away from his mouth just a bit. He's still close enough that Kyouya can feel the little stir of Yamamoto's breath against his lips, especially when he nods and Yamamoto exhales softly, like he's surprised and pleased.

Kyouya thinks that Yamamoto's fingers are not quite steady as he begins to unbutton Kyouya's shirt. (He's not sure his own hands are steady, either, but they are pressed flat against the small of Yamamoto's back, just above the loose drape of his jeans, so it doesn't matter.) Yamamoto is slow, methodical. Deliberate. He watches Kyouya as he moves his hand down Kyouya's chest, until Kyouya's shirt hangs open. The air in the club room is too hot for this to afford much relief, and even if it were cooler, Yamamoto is standing too close—Kyouya can feel the heat of him still, rolling off Yamamoto and pooling between them.

Yamamoto says his name. His voice is hushed. Kyouya can feel Yamamoto's palm hovering a scant distance over his skin. He doesn't move, doesn't pull away from Yamamoto (even though there is a part of him standing apart, baffled by his own willingness to permit this, as it has been ever since the afternoon he first approached Yamamoto Takeshi).

He shivers in spite of himself when Yamamoto finally closes that last little distance and lays his hand against his skin, just above his hip. He digs his fingers into Yamamoto's back in response, as if that can ground him against the way it feels to have Yamamoto's hand against his bare skin, hot like a brand. Yamamoto draws a breath as Kyouya flexes his fingers, but he holds still. Waits. (Yamamoto, Kyouya thinks, is remarkably good at that.)

"Can I?" he asks when that first immediate rush of sensation eases. The words stir the air against Kyouya's lips. He can't help wondering what Yamamoto will say if he says no. (And part of him doesn't wonder at all; part of him is already certain that Yamamoto will accept that, would accept it even if Kyouya were to step away and leave again, and will still come back, because Yamamoto seeks the edge, studies it, pursues it.) But he doesn't.

Yamamoto lowers his hand from Kyouya's jaw and slips it under the edge of his shirt. His palms are warm against Kyouya's skin, damp, though that could be the sweat that slicks his skin. (Kyouya doesn't think it is, not entirely.) He rests his hands at Kyouya's waist and slides them up Kyouya's body, over his ribs. Kyouya can feel the tracks Yamamoto's hands leave on his skin, tingling like a strike, thinks that later he will be able to look at his reflection and see them on his skin like the bruises Yamamoto has left on his body each time they have fought. (Will they fade in time as the bruises do, or stay there, engraved on him like ink? Which would be better?) Yamamoto goes slowly, careful with his hands as he moves them over Kyouya's ribs and chest, but even so the touch of them is almost more than he can stand. How, he thinks, how could Yamamoto have permitted himself to be touched like this, so open and so easily, when the slow drag of Yamamoto's fingers down Kyouya's chest makes the breath stutter in his throat? (But he knows the answer to that; Yamamoto has already given it to him.)

Yamamoto touches him the way he was touched himself, just a few minutes ago, like he wants to learn every part of Kyouya's skin. He watches Kyouya as he skates his hands over Kyouya's chest. He must be able to feel the way each slow pass ratchets Kyouya tighter, until he has to open his mouth to draw breath, until each gulping breath of stifling air he takes in still isn't enough to keep his head from swimming with the way his cock throbs and sensation washes up and down his spine. Yamamoto passes his tongue over his lips then. "Can I?" he asks as he settles his hands against Kyouya's hips again. "Please?"

It should be strange that he sounds so hungry, wanting this, or Kyouya suspects that it should be, but it isn't. It just seems right, and so Kyouya says yes.

It takes him a moment to understand why the pressure of Yamamoto's hands changes, pushing against him until he takes a half-step back, before he recalls the benches that run the length of the room. He takes a breath and another step backward, though part of him rails against letting Yamamoto take this liberty. But Yamamoto keeps pace with him, rubbing his thumbs against Kyouya's waist just above his hips, and looks at him in a way that outweighs the indignity of permitting himself to be steered like this.

When Kyouya's knees bump against the bench, Yamamoto doesn't try to press him down against the broad, slatted surface. (It goes to show; Yamamoto is much more intelligent than he pretends to be.) He pauses there for a moment, gazing at Kyouya, and leans forward to brush their mouths together again. He keeps going, bending and tilting his head to nuzzle against Kyouya's jaw. Kyouya hears the sound that comes out of his own throat when Yamamoto slides his mouth along the underside of it; it sounds as though it comes from a long way away, muffled by the sound of his own harsh breathing. Yamamoto's mouth feels scorching hot against his throat, soft where his lips part for the wet slide of his tongue, and Kyouya hears his pulse roar in his ears in response.

Yamamoto licks the hollow of Kyouya's throat, keeps going, follows the line of Kyouya's sternum down, and Kyouya sits, folding himself down to the support of the bench without entirely deciding to do so. Yamamoto just moves with him, crouching at his knees and leaning over his lap without a trace of self-consciousness, and kisses Kyouya's stomach. His breath tickles across Kyouya's skin and the soft brush of his tongue makes Kyouya's breath hitch in his throat, or maybe it's the way Yamamoto lays his hands on Kyouya's knees, the weight coaxing them apart so Yamamoto can shift himself closer.

Kyouya lets him do it, breathes faster as he leans back on his hands and curls them around the bench slats, varnished sticky-slick beneath his palms. Anticipation strings him taut; the last time, he hadn't understood Yamamoto's intentions. This time he does. "Do it," he says when Yamamoto settles his hands on Kyouya's thighs, hot through the fabric of his slacks, and pauses that way. His voice sounds harsh against the hush, but Yamamoto just looks up, smiling soft and private, and nods as he undoes Kyouya's slacks.

It feels just as good as Kyouya remembers it being when Yamamoto closes his fingers around his cock and strokes it, one long slide up and down again that drags raw sensation through him. He groans and sinks his teeth into his lip, biting down hard enough that the split place begins to sting again, until the sharpness of that feeling pushes back the first overwhelming need to come again. Yamamoto's gaze flickers between his face and his cock as he strokes Kyouya again, absolutely intent, before he bends over Kyouya's lap and brushes his mouth against his cock.

Kyouya says something, or tries to, but the sense of it garbles in his throat as Yamamoto smooths his lips against him, soft as a kiss, and slides his tongue over him to lap at his head. The sensation of it is maddeningly delicate. Kyouya lifts his hips, seeking something more than that, and slides his cock between Yamamoto's lips. He groans with the softness of Yamamoto's mouth, and Yamamoto groans too, or Kyouya thinks he does. The sound is distant, obscured by the pulse pounding in Kyouya's ears and the need twisting knots in his gut. Yamamoto lets him roll his hips up and slide his cock through the circle of Yamamoto's fist and between his lips to fuck his mouth, quick, short jerks back and forth. Kyouya pants with the pleasure of it until even the sharpness of his teeth against his lips and the metal taste of his own blood can't keep him from coming apart. It snaps him tight as a bowstring, racing through him like a strike of lightning and scouring him raw in its wake, snatches his breath and scatters his thoughts, and leaves him gasping and shaken after.

Yamamoto stays where he is as Kyouya sags, supporting himself on arms that tremble as he slumps in on himself. He lets Kyouya slip free of his mouth as Kyouya stares down at him, dazed; as Kyouya blinks and tries to bring himself to order again, he settles back on his heels. He rests a hand on Kyouya's knee, but the pressure is light. Poised. As Kyouya begins to be able to think again, all his thoughts moving languidly, he realizes that Yamamoto is waiting again.

It takes him longer to decide what it is Yamamoto is waiting for this time, but it comes to him as he surveys the alert way Yamamoto balances on his toes, the little space he has given Kyouya, and the way he takes care not to rest his hand too heavily on Kyouya's knee—Yamamoto is ready to move out of his way if Kyouya decides to get up. If he decides to leave.

Oh, Kyouya thinks, looking down at Yamamoto's watchful expression. Oh.

He senses the way Yamamoto tenses when he uncurls a hand from the edge of the bench—tenses like he's ready to roll backwards at a split second's notice—but sees him still again when he settles his fingers on top of the hand that rests on his knee. Yamamoto's lips move as he begins to shape a question, one that stays unvoiced and silent as Kyouya closes his fingers around Yamamoto's. He keeps them there, wound loosely with Yamamoto's.

Bit by bit, Yamamoto leans forward again, the tension slipping out of his posture until he has come to rest against Kyouya's knee. The look in his eyes is tentative, even so, until Kyouya dips his chin, nodding. Then he just sighs and settles closer, another of those small, private smiles touching his mouth as he turns his hand up and brushes his fingertips against the inside of Kyouya's wrist.

It's too hot for this, too hot to let Yamamoto lean against him in this sweltering room that smells of stale sweat and sex, but Kyouya doesn't feel the need to move from this spot. Neither, apparently, does Yamamoto, and they stay there for a long time.


And that is just about that. *dusts hands and grins* Comments are lovely!