Work Text:
Stealth is not Gokudera's suit, but Ryohei is even worse, Hibari is in Japan, Chrome is sick, and Gokudera and Yamamoto work well together. Before leaving, Gokudera had promised Tsuna he would do his best, avoid explosives and expletives, and get in and get out. They're on a recon mission on the Amalfi coast, winding their way through some vertical town built into hillsides populated by fishermen and a family that is possibly planning an assassination on Tsuna. Probably planning. Tsuna is not popular, outside the vast Vongola alliance, which means the majority of their missions these days revolve around snuffing out assassination attempts and political machinations. Gokudera and Yamamoto normally come in on the second stage, when people need killing, but here they are, now.
It's high summer, so hot that Yamamoto's neck burns between the curled edge of his hair and the collar of his shirt. They're not in suits; that would be obvious, among the simply dressed citizens. Instead, they're both in unbuttoned linen shirts over undershirts, khaki slacks, and sandals. Yamamoto is without his sword, just with a gun strapped to his ankle under the loose fabric of the pants, and he feels naked. Every once in a while they turn a corner and become blinded by the sun throwing itself over the water, visible here, and every time, Gokudera curses out loud.
"Stop that," Yamamoto whispers when it happens again. "We're trying not to draw attention to ourselves."
"I'm cursing in Italian," Gokudera points out, which is true: cazzo, merda, porco dio. Yamamoto is familiar with these curse words, and usually charmed by them, but not today.
"Keep it down, anyway," Yamamoto insists. They're walking close—men do this still, in this part of Italy, casual intimacy—and he's leaning to whisper in Gokudera's ear. "You have a distinct voice."
"You speak Italian with a Japanese accent."
"I'm not talking."
"Yes, you are. You're talking to me right now."
Yamamoto sighs and touches the back of his neck, then regrets that, because the pads of his fingers feel gross against his sweat-sticky skin. He remembers they did not wear sun screen. Gokudera has not started complaining about his skin burning, they've been dancing in and out of shade, but Yamamoto knows he'll start to, soon enough. He has a fair complexion, much fairer than Yamamoto's. His skin is sensitive, too. Yamamoto knows this, but they'd been in a rush this morning, the whole trip thrown together hastily. They were dropped off in the nearest big city, then made their way here through various vetted rideshares, bumpy roads, men with loud voices with fast hands who wanted to talk about everything. Yamamoto wanted to talk with them, too—not just for information, but because he likes getting to know people, and the stranger the people the better—but they spoke slang-filled and slurred in a way that Yamamoto found hard to keep up with. Gokudera, of course, remained silent and scowling and smoking the whole time, rarely throwing Yamamoto a line in assistance of translation.
"The last few days have me talked out," Yamamoto says, trying to keep things light.
Gokudera laughs. "As if!" he says, no, squawks, in that distinct voice. "It's easy to carry on conversations, when you're so stupid."
"How so?"
"Small talk. The weather, whatever." Gokudera gestures with one hand, the other one in his pocket, and Yamamoto can hear him fiddling with the lighter and the pack of cigarettes there. "Only stupid people care about that shit."
"The weather is important," Yamamoto says. Maybe he won't buy Gokudera aloe vera or kiss his nose, after all. "We should have worn sunscreen today."
"We're in long sleeves and pants. We'll be fine."
"Your face will get burnt."
"No, it won't."
Yamamoto does not persist; he knows it will, and he knows Gokudera will stretch himself out across the nearest hotel room they can find after all this is done, red high on his nose, his cheeks, and Yamamoto will have to source aloe vera in some Podunk pharmacy, and at least they're the same words, and he'll try hard to pronounce the ls as ls and not as rs, and whatever pharmacist waits on him will probably give him that blank, processing stare he's become so familiar with in this country, as the person he's talking to tries to make sense of what he's just said. Well, Yamamoto likes the challenge, and likes learning the language, and he steels himself with that, and the fact that, maybe, if all goes well, today, Gokudera will let him kiss the tip of his nose and maybe say poverino, if he's really, really lucky.
They turn another corner on this impossibly long road. This mission has been a bust so far, no intelligence gathered, no time for breakfast, just the heat and Gokudera both getting under Yamamoto's skin. They're working their way through town, ears peeled for gossip—which would be a hell of a lot easier to listen for if Gokudera would shut up—and up to the ruins of a small castle from the time of the papal states, where one of the other family's capos is said to like to hang out. Once there, Yamamoto will cloak them with rain flames, but it's not worth spending so much energy until they're within earshot of the place.
"This fucking sucks," Gokudera says in Italian, voicing Yamamoto's thoughts. He pulls the lighter from his pocket—a black lacquer S.T. Dupont, expensive as hell, and personally engraved to boot. Yamamoto had told him to leave it behind, but Gokudera had insisted that nobody would notice. As if, Yamamoto thinks, looking it, ostentatious and catching the pure Italian sunlight nearly as bright as the sea itself. It reminds him of Gokudera when he first met him, at age 14, decked out in spiked jewelry and a million belts. Nostalgia, affection—things that would normally fill Yamamoto's chest so full it would hurt if Yamamoto didn't like the feeling, but today feel distant, even unwanted, because Gokudera is still fucking talking. "Fucking waste of time. We're here on Futa's most likely place for the di Marte family to hang out ranking, not the best areas for the di Marte to hang out ranking." Click, clack.
"What's the difference?" Yamamoto entertains, trying to keep his voice steady. Sometimes letting Gokudera go off on a tangent about an unrelated thing lets him calm down enough to bring him back to reality, instead of the angry, sucking vortex that is usually his mind, and sometimes if he calms down enough, he'll stay quiet.
"Most likely is not a one hundred percent chance. There's room for error." Gokudera flicks the lighter again, as if for emphasis. "Room for error is bad."
"Just focus," Yamamoto tells him. "So, there's nobody there. Good. We cleared it. One less place to go."
"Waste of fucking time," Gokudera insists. A childish tone starts to worm its way into his voice, his body language, like he's itching inside of himself. "And I'm hot. And hungry."
"And I'm not?" Yamamoto points out.
"I didn't even have coffee this morning." The childish tone verges on the edge of cloying.
"What a shame," Yamamoto says, knowing he's being dismissive, but that whine in Gokudera's voice and the irregular click of the lighter might drive him insane.
"You wouldn't know this, you tea-drinker—" Gokudera says this like a slur—"but coffee is an addictive substance, and you can suffer withdrawals. As I am, clearly, presently, doing."
"Gokudera," Yamamoto says, curtly. "Please."
A mistake; Gokudera does not like when people beg something of him. "This is a normal Italian conversation," he says. "In fact, I would say this is helping us blend in."
Yamamoto takes a deep breath. "I'm trying to listen to other conversations."
"Right, you have to focus. Because you don't speak Italian."
"Gokudera," Yamamoto says, stronger this time. "Now is not the time for this conversation." They've had it a million times, and like the swearing, Yamamoto normally entertains it: the cultural differences between them, Gokudera having the upper hand in the mafia world, Yamamoto the naïve newcomer, although not so much anymore. Ten years of this, and Gokudera still does not get tired of insisting Yamamoto eats spaghetti wrong, or mispronounces simple words, or forgets to greet others by clasping their hands and faking a kiss on the cheek. They'll have the conversation a million times more. Gokudera loves talking about the same thing, again and again, returning to subjects, reconsidering them. But now is really not the time. It's also not the time for Gokudera to keep playing with that lighter, but much like with the mafia, Yamamoto has had to learn to pick his battles.
They pass a small group of old men outside what seems to be a delicatessen, wearing low-brimmed caps and playing cards. These types of men tend to be one of the best groups of gossipers, and Gokudera is cursing and muttering beside Yamamoto, preventing Yamamoto from catching all of their conversation. Speaking fast, lots of slang, unusual accent. Yamamoto can maybe make out fifty percent of what they're saying. It seems to be irrelevant things—they're talking about one of their grandsons who is having an affair with the mayor's daughter, allegedly—but it still prickles under Yamamoto's skin, that he can't make it out, that he can't even try to make it out.
"Did you even hear what they said?" Yamamoto asks, unable to stop himself.
"The mayor's daughter is a whore." Gokudera waves his free hand again. "They're famous for that. Usual small-town shit. Nothing interesting."
"How could you tell, if you were talking over them?"
"Because I can." Then Gokudera grits his teeth and gets out a cigarette, lighting it in a flash, before Yamamoto has the chance to grab it. He brings it to his lips. The relief that spreads over his face, the way his eyes even roll a little back in their sockets, prickles under Yamamoto's skin, too.
"You are not smoking right now," Yamamoto says, both in disbelief and as a command.
"Why not?" Gokudera says, even though he knows the answer.
"The smell. And your DNA."
Gokudera takes another drag. "I'll keep the butt with me," he says. "Besides, Italian men smoke."
"You're too pretty to smoke," Yamamoto says, which is not a compliment. It didn't matter as much when a farmer was giving them a ride in his truck, surrounded by crates of lemon so fresh they still smell a little bit like citrus, but it matters now, when they might be closing in on the di Martes. "It'll draw attention."
Gokudera rolls his eyes. "According to you, everything I do draws attention."
"Because it's true." Yamamoto keeps his voice low and steady, even though he wants to shout. All day, they've been walking up these hills, on uneven cobblestone paths, so narrow their shoulders keep bumping into each other, like they're living in the fucking papal states era themselves. Yamamoto is fit, and has adjusted to the varying sea levels of the Italian cities, but he's hungry and he's tired, too, and he wants to focus on keeping his body in check and being aware of his surroundings, because all day, they've been walking past the curious eyes of villagers, women hanging laundry and men walking with fishing rods over their shoulders, and he wants to be able to pay attention to these things and not Gokudera throwing a temper tantrum at his side.
"The cigarette is helping me think."
"I'll help you think," Yamamoto says, because he's at his limit. They turn another corner; off this winding road is a dark alleyway that seems residential, the buildings crowding close together, casting shadows. Good; protect them, let them do this out of sight. Yamamoto grabs Gokudera by the hand and drags him inside.. He pulls the cigarette from Gokudera's mouth and ashes it on the wall, then leans forward to deposit it back into the pocket of Gokudera's pants, next to that stupid, expensive lighter.
"You're going to get these pants dirty," Gokudera complains.
"Yeah, I will," Yamamoto says. He gets Gokudera behind a protruding doorway—Yamamoto is rushing, getting this done quickly, but he stays aware of his surroundings, and can at least admire the impressive, old-style masonry—and pushes him against the wall.
"Real discrete," Gokudera is saying, glowering, but with his eyes lit up. "And you're worried about leaving DNA."
"I won't leave any," Yamamoto says. Then he grabs Gokudera by his smooth, clean-shaven face, holding either side, digging his thumb and fingers into the skin enough to hurt but not enough to leave marks. He thinks about kissing him, then decides against it. Instead, he pushes his knee between Gokudera's legs to open them, and then forces his leg upwards until he can push his knee into Gokudera's cunt and start to rub. "Get wet."
Gokudera laughs, much too loud, and Yamamoto moves his hand so he can cover his mouth with his palm. Even better; shut him up. Gokudera licks at Yamamoto's palm, which is helping Yamamoto get hard, between that gentle pressure and the way Gokudera has started to move his hips, grinding into Yamamoto's knee. With his other arm Yamamoto holds Gokudera's shoulders in place against the wall.
"Will you be quiet if I take my hand away?" Yamamoto asks, voice low, and Gokudera nods.
Before Yamamoto can take his hand away, Gokudera bites into his palm. Yamamoto almost curses; Gokudera bites hard, getting thin skin, right in the divots between Yamamoto's calluses, between his teeth. Gokudera has sharp teeth, teeth that Yamamoto swears have grown sharper over the years, like Uri's leeching flames into him, too. Sometimes Yamamoto bites the back of his neck and Gokudera arches into it like a cat in heat.
Yamamoto leans forward, so he can dip his head and talk in Gokudera's ear. "Now you've done it." Gokudera shivers, the corner of his lips quirking. "Hey," Yamamoto says, slapping the side of his face, perfect amount of pressure to sting him but not to make him scream or leave a mark. "You can think with more than just your pussy, can't you?"
"Oh, like you can," Gokudera says. "You're the one who pulled me into an alley and ravished me. Once a jock, always a jock, thinking with your dick—"
Yamamoto slaps him again.
Gokudera's eyes flash; Yamamoto takes the split-second, Gokudera's tongue going to probe inside of his own cheek, feel the pain out from the inside, to lean in. He rolls Gokudera's hair away from his face with his head and then takes Gokudera's earlobe into his mouth, a mix of salt from sweat and metal from his earrings, and sucks on it as he stops grinding his knee into Gokudera's pussy. This cuts off whatever Gokudera might have said next and he whines, a low keening sound, so sweet, nothing like the sour, childish tone of earlier, until Yamamoto undoes Gokudera's fly and gets his hand inside the hem of his underwear. He reaches down, down, until he finds Gokudera's hole, which is wet around the entrance. Yamamoto slips two fingers inside easily, letting his hand split so he can thumb at Gokudera's dick. His hand molds to the shape of Gokudera's cunt like they were made to fit together. Damn it all; Yamamoto loves him, loves him so fucking much, loves him enough to do this, loves him enough that if they're caught by the di Marte, Yamamoto will just kill them all, just for the crime of being able to see Gokudera like this.
Yamamoto crooks his fingers against Gokudera's walls, keeping the pressure hard on his dick. It's not fair, Yamamoto thinks, for him to be this tight and wet, like he's been waiting for this all day. Gokudera thrusts his hips into his touch for a few seconds, and then he's saying, speaking against Yamamoto's sweaty neck, his fingers looped in the front of Yamamoto's pants, "Are you gonna fuck me or what?"
Yamamoto lets go of Gokudera with the arm across his shoulder so he can push his own pants down, not even past his thigh, just enough to free his dick. He's fully hard, not just from feeling and tasting Gokudera, but from the thrill of it, the anticipation, and most of all, the desire to fuck Gokudera back into a form of submission. Fuck him until he's no longer smart; fuck him stupid. Gokudera can wait a second longer, after all Yamamoto's been waiting all day; he brings his two fingers to Gokudera's mouth, not even having to force him, until Gokudera takes him down his throat. Mindful of the intention to not leave DNA, Yamamoto doesn't let them all the way in, doesn't let Gokudera gag and choke and spit on them, though he would very much like to. Then he takes his fingers out of Gokudera's mouth, wipes them in Gokudera's hair, and grabs Gokudera around by the heft of his thigh, hitching his weight up, so Yamamoto can angle the head of his dick and slide in.
Like with his fingers, he slides in so easily; he always slides in so easily, even though his dick is big and thick (and Gokudera loves it, tells him as much) and Gokudera, though no longer a starving teenager and on testosterone for years, is still slim and smaller than him. When they fuck doggy, Yamamoto can feel his dick through Gokudera's tender stomach. When they're like this, standing up, he feels like he's spearing Gokudera on it. The way Gokudera moans and twists and then settles, sinking, his eyes going hazy, his mouth slack, looking even more blissed out than when he takes that first hit off a cigarette, his arms holding around Yamamoto's neck to keep himself anchored, goes straight to Yamamoto's belly, spilling heat, pulling up from his balls. Gokudera's pussy contracts around Yamamoto's dick, and then he's whispering in Yamamoto's ear, "Not enough."
"Not enough?" Yamamoto says back. He's speaking more to the wall than to Gokudera, but he knows his low, hard voice is hitting Gokudera in the cunt by the way he's twitching on his dick. Even now, when Yamamoto's thinking about how much Gokudera loves it when Yamamoto fucks him, Gokudera has to pretend like Yamamoto can't do it right, like he's doing Yamamoto a favor by letting him grope around him like teenagers under the bleachers, and not like Yamamoto can, has, will, and will again, fuck him for hours until he's all bones and no brains. "Fine."
Yamamoto starts fucking into Gokudera the way he wants to do it, rough and with rhythmless, chasing nothing but the feeling of Gokudera's hot cunt squeezing around his dick. Even hotter, today, with the heat, and they're both sweating under their clothes, enough to let stains blossom, probably, and Gokudera is trying to reach into Yamamoto's touch, to grind his dick against Yamamoto's pelvis when they meet, because he can say whatever he likes but Yamamoto has known him long enough to know what he really likes, but Yamamoto tightens his grip on Gokudera's thigh so he can keep him in place. Get him to be still, for once, so Yamamoto can just feel him and fuck him and give him nothing in return, not now, because he knows just his dick is enough.
He's right, just his dick is enough, because Gokudera's grip tightens around Yamamoto's neck and his breath hitches. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah, fuck me," and he's speaking Japanese, something private and small just for Yamamoto's ears, his distinct voice soft, "just there, hit my pussy, fuck." He leans his face into Yamamoto's shoulder, and Yamamoto noses into his hair, smelling his expensive shampoo, his cologne. Gokudera starts to whine, the purest, sweetest of all of Gokudera's whines, distilled to perfection, and Yamamoto throws his other arm around the back of Gokudera's shoulders so he can hold him close and get him off the wall, supported just by Yamamoto and his strength and the connection between them, of his dick buried deep, up to the balls, in Gokudera's cunt, so that Gokudera is practically sitting on it.
"Gonna come?" Yamamoto whispers into Gokudera's hair. "Gonna come for me?"
"Yeah," Gokudera says, all fight finally emptied from his voice. "What I needed," he says, and it's that, small and soft and private, just for them. Yamamoto can feel him taking some of Yamamoto's shirt in his mouth, those sharp teeth scraping against Yamamoto's shoulder, to bite, as his body and his cunt clenches. He's biting hard on the fabric, Yamamoto can feel the tension in his teeth and in his pussy, and then he's coming, his back arching into the feeling of Yamamoto's brutal thrusts. Every wave of his orgasm is a grip around Yamamoto's dick, begging him to come, too. The only thing missing, Yamamoto thinks, is Gokudera's tits; he has them even further hidden under a shirt under his undershirt, and with the sweat and the urgency, Yamamoto has no time to get his hand up there. He's thinking about it, though. Thinking about how nice it would be to bite and tweak his nipples, leave him whining and squirming and overstimulated, getting him to come again, until Gokudera can't think of anything but the feeling, until Gokudera is reaching and whining for Yamamoto to fuck him and come in him again, and again, and thanking him for it.
That thought pushes Yamamoto over the edge, gets him to come. He buries himself deep into Gokudera, and buries his nose into his neck, sucking skin usually hidden from his hair hard, this time hard enough to hurt and to bruise. A reminder. Something Gokudera can press on to calm himself down, later. Gokudera shudders in his arms, trying not to get farther away from the touch but farther into it. Fuck, Yamamoto thinks, how he wishes they were truly alone, somewhere else; he wants so badly to destroy Gokudera and then put him back together.
For now, though, this is it: he's fucked Gokudera and they're pulling up their pants and Gokudera is not even complaining that Yamamoto came in him raw, and the shitty smirk is off his face, and he's giving Yamamoto a smile that has none of his sharp teeth but just his pleasant, pliant lips.
Everything goes to shit but it is not Gokudera's fault. The di Marte had some sort of sensor type—which is good intel, at least, something to consider—and saw them coming from miles and miles away, probably even before they fucked in the alley. They lay the trap in the castle ruins and Yamamoto and Gokudera walk right into it. And the whole time he and Yamamoto are shooting them down, Gokudera's feeling the bruise throb on the back of his neck and, even more than that, Yamamoto's come slipping and sliding out of his pussy, around in his underwear, smearing, getting him hot again; Gokudera's feeling satisfied.