This was not supposed to have happened, Squalo told himself distractedly, as Yamamoto Takeshi squirmed on his lap. He made an enthusiastic sort of sound as Squalo bit down on the tender skin just under his jaw. Yamamoto squirmed again, rubbing up against him in all the right places, and Squalo immediately lost track of what he was thinking. Higher thought processes had to give way before a rush of heat like that. Squalo closed his hand on Yamamoto's hip to pull him in tighter, rolling his hips up against Yamamoto's and growling a little against Yamamoto's throat.
Yamamoto groaned, pressing against him, and his hands scrabbled at Squalo's shoulders. Squalo didn't pay much attention to them at first, figuring that the kid was just trying to hold onto him or something, until his jacket caught at his arms, practically tying them together. It was enough to distract him from the warm weight of Yamamoto's thighs spread over his, anyway, and he said, "What the fuck are you doing?"
At least, that's what he meant to do; he got the first part out, but then Yamamoto's hands slid up under the shirt underneath Squalo's jacket, calloused and eager and totally fucking clueless about what the fuck they were doing. Squalo got distracted again, especially when Yamamoto ground against him. "The fuck?" he demanded, struggling the rest of the way out of his jacket. "Do I look like a fucking woman?"
"Hah, no?" Yamamoto offered, grinning at him like an idiot, eyes bright and his lips red and kind of swollen, as his hands slid up Squalo's chest, stroking over it.
"No, seriously, what the fuck?" Squalo complained. "You can't get to second base with a guy, for fuck's sake!"
Yamamoto blinked at him, big-eyed, like a fucking puppy or something. "Second base?" he said, rubbing a thumb back and forth across one of Squalo's nipples. "You really don't know anything about baseball, do you?"
Squalo hissed in outrage--it didn't have anything at all to do with the arc of heat that was running down his spine from the slow drab of Yamamoto's thumb--and leaned in and bit him again, holding Yamamoto's lower lip between his teeth and sucking on it. Yamamoto moaned, bright and open. "You fucking moron," Squalo told him, fingers working against Yamamoto's shirt--fuck, why the fucking fuck was the kid wearing a t-shirt, fuck--before he gave up and just pushed it up out of his way and closed his fingers on one of Yamamoto's nipples. "This is second base, dumbass," he said over the vibrant sound of Yamamoto's moan. Squalo was pretty sure that the kid hadn't actually heard a word he'd just said. Before he could get annoyed, Yamamoto rocked against him again, grinding their hips together, and Squalo lost track of the lesson due to the pressure against his cock, tight in his pants.
The kid was hard, too. He could feel it, pressing up against him as Yamamoto's hips moved in little jerks against his. The kid was flushed and panting, pushing against him. "Oh," he said, breathlessly, "oh, please," and rocked against Squalo again.
When he asked nicely like that, Squalo couldn't quite think of why not. He reached down between them, popping the button of his fly and pulling the zip, which was an enormous fucking relief right there.
The brat got the idea right away and pretty much got completely in Squalo's way as he reached down to help. Their fingers tangled together as Squalo tried to get Yamamoto's fly undone too, until Squalo growled at him and kissed him again, hard and demanding, to distract him. Yamamoto moaned into his mouth, and got his fingers out of Squalo's way. He brushed them against Squalo's cock instead, and holy fuck.
Squalo couldn't help groaning or bucking into that touch as lightning ran up his spine, and that just seemed to encourage the kid. Yamamoto stroked inquisitive fingers over the length of him and then curled his fingers around Squalo's cock, playing with it like it was his new favorite toy or something. Squalo groaned and swore as the brat's fingers teased at him until he finally got his hand into the brat's jeans and fit it around Yamamoto's cock.
Yamamoto moaned and sagged against him, going suddenly pliant. His lashes fluttered over his eyes as he sighed. "Squalo," he said, light and breathless. "Oh..." And his fingers stopped moving, which was completely fucking unfair, not that the brat seemed to have the first clue about the rules for this sort of thing.
"Damn it," Squalo said, aggravated, and pulled Yamamoto down against him, fitting Yamamoto's hips against his and wrapping his hand around the both of them. Yamamoto groaned again and turned his face against Squalo's throat, pressing clumsy open-mouthed kisses down the side of it as Squalo stroked their cocks together and listened to the husky, incoherent things Yamamoto was moaning against his skin. The kid didn't last long; he broke and arched against him with a ragged sound that went straight to Squalo's cock as his hips jerked against Squalo's fist and he came all over Squalo's fingers. It just about figured, Squalo thought, and tightened his fingers, driving up against his fist as Yamamoto gasped and shook and the movement of Squalo's fingers drove helpless little sounds out of his throat, until the heat finally tightened on him and scraped through him, too, merciless.
Yamamoto was leaning against him, limp, when Squalo started coming back to his senses afterwards. He was practically plastered against Squalo's chest, twining around him like a fucking kudzu vine, which was when Squalo realized that he'd lost his damn mind somewhere along the way. "What the fucking fuck," he said. "That wasn't supposed to fucking happen."
Yamamoto hummed something contented at him, clearly not paying a bit of attention to him.
"Fuck," Squalo said again, and shoved at Yamamoto. He succeeded in dislodging the brat eventually, but only with difficulty. And even after he did, the kid only leaned against him and looked up at him with a sleepy, sated smile, apparently completely unconcerned with the fact that he was totally disheveled or the fact that his cock was still hanging out of his pants, like he was just asking to be debauched. Again.
"Fuck," Squalo said, and then, "We are never doing that again. It was an accident, do you understand me?"
Yamamoto gave him a smile that was positively fucking saccharine and murmured, "Yes, Squalo."
"An accident," Squalo said, helplessly, because maybe it would stick.
Besides, calling it an accident was much better than what he suspected in his heart of hearts, which was that Yamamoto had totally planned the whole thing. And if that were actually true--which it manifestly wasn't--Squalo was pretty sure his pride wouldn't be able to stand it.