pr0ntober: /prɔn • toʊ • bɜr/
» In which there is pr0n every day for 31 days.
Or as long as you can keep it up, hurr hurr.
Hallelujah! Bring it on!
Kicking it off with two drabbles in one post. Woo! Dedicated to na_no_nai! ♥
01. "Locked and Loaded"
There are men with guns chasing after them and bullets flying in all directions and dynamite to be loaded into his box weapon and countless other things to think about beside how annoying it is that Yamamoto can steer their getaway motorcycle through the last of the enemy blockades and straight into oncoming highway traffic like a goddamned salmon, like he was born for speeds beyond human reach on top of everything else. Gokudera can ride well, but not like this. Not turns so tight or zig-zags that make the heart squeeze or leaps at the crest of a hill when the world drops away and the wheels turn on nothing but air, spinning on the breath suspended in Gokudera’s lungs for a thousand beats of a hummingbird’s wings, his whole body convinced this is the end and they won’t survive—
The bike touches down again in a jarring swerve. Gokudera’s arms clamp around Yamamoto’s middle and Yamamoto adjusts for their combined weight and revs the engine higher, hotter, faster, faster. The night goes quiet, or maybe it’s the raging noise in Gokudera’s ears that drowns out all else as the city’s lights and traffic disappear behind them and the asphalt gives way to dirt-packed seclusion.
Yamamoto makes no move to stop, or to check on him, or to bother saying where he’s headed to now that the job is done. The road inclines and curves, Gokudera’s heart still throbbing in his chest like racehorses bursting through the gate even though they managed to get away clean, no sign of any further pursuit. Yamamoto’s heart drums calm and steady underneath Gokudera’s hands, fearless and irritating as usual.
So Gokudera leans forward and breathes into Yamamoto’s ear, the way he does in bed, just to mess him up a little. For the first time Yamamoto falters, a tiny jerk of the handlebars that he corrects almost instantly. Then Gokudera feels Yamamoto brace against him and tighten his grip on the bike, like he thinks he can resist. As Yamamoto zips them around each tight bend, Gokudera spreads his fingers over Yamamoto’s chest and rubs until Yamamoto’s nipples peak under his clothes. He tweaks them until Yamamoto’s neck turns red, and then he drops his hands and teases the hard lines of Yamamoto’s thighs, stroking outside, and then inside, and then centering in-between. Yamamoto’s jaw flexes, teeth clenched tight, but Gokudera knows just what kinds of moans he usually makes and lets his mind fill in the gaps while the night wind whips past. Yamamoto’s cock strains under Gokiudera’s hands, bulging against the fabric of his slacks until it must be uncomfortable, and still he drives on into the darkness, unwavering.
Gokudera knows Yamamoto’s body and rubs him in all the right places, grinds his hips in close until Yamamoto lets go of the bike and covers Gokudera’s hands with one of his. Yamamoto’s palm is sweaty, needy; he’s on the verge of coming undone and Gokudera’s cock hardens further in response. He swats the extra hand away and strokes Yamamoto’s hard-on faster, daring him to kick the motorcycle up into the next gear. Yamamoto hunkers down, thighs taut, flushed red to the tips of his ears while careening recklessly around every bend in the road, so dangerously close to the towering line of black trees. Gokudera circles his hips against Yamamoto’s rounded ass, working one of his hands up Yamamoto’s shirt and pinching his nipple. Yamamoto bucks and then releases inside his pants—shoulders hunched, eyes locked on the road and tongue caught between his teeth as he fights between the sensations of climax and the necessary concentration to keep them alive. The sight is so unexpectedly stimulating that Gokudera goes still in amazement, breathless, suffused with complex feelings.
Yamamoto rounds another corner and skids the motorcycle to an abrupt stop, the motor still running as he contorts to put both his hands into Gokudera’s hair and thrust his tongue between Gokudera’s lips for a series of kisses more dizzying than anything they’ve experienced prior. Gokudera arches into Yamamoto’s hips, stirs up more friction and rocks his pelvis harder and faster and he closes his eyes and spills in his pants too, urged on by Yamamoto’s thrill-seeking, unstoppable passion.
Gokudera slumps into Yamamoto’s shoulder and pants into his suit jacket collar, punctuating each breath with an expletive. Yamamoto grins and offers to let him drive home, but Gokudera scoffs, groping for his handkerchief and shoving it down the front of his pants in an attempt to clean up some of the mess. Then he prods Yamamoto back into action and demands that he hurry up so they can report. Yamamoto wipes himself and buckles his belt. He steals one more tongue-kiss and then revs the bike into gear, speeding back the way they came and choosing a smaller fork that leads to a downward, lonely curve. Gokudera settles in for the ride, his fingers calmly interlaced over Yamamoto’s chest. Yamamoto’s pulse elevates. The city’s lights sparkle off in the distance.
Your final Japanese summer is this: lazy, humid breezes rolling up from the nearby sea, cool watermelon slices at dusk, and Yamamoto’s mouth on your knuckles, lapping the juice from your skin the way you gnaw on the last watermelon rind. His tongue glides over your calluses, flicks along the edge of each ring, sucks you into his throat until your fingertips suffuse and tingle with blood.
“Can you make a trip somewhere for me?” the Tenth asked you a week ago. “Take Yamamoto, and keep a lookout for the… Gi—uh, Giriardelia Family? Reborn says they could be a threat. Here’s an address where you can stay.”
Yamamoto moves his lips to your thumb, teeth etching a hungry line down to your wrist. He’s always been this way, wagging his tail, sniffing your crotch, whining to be fed even a morsel from your plate no matter how hard you kick him in the ribs. But now you’re stuck alone with him in this run-down beach house (courtesy of a friend of a friend of a friend of Moretti’s) where you give him the occasional handout in an effort to preserve your sanity. And sometimes you give him a reward, because the idiot is surprisingly good at servicing you, in any way you’ll accept him.
Tonight you pull your hand right out of his grasp just to see the hurt look on his face. And then you lie down on the uneven porch and put one arm behind your head, crooking your finger—“just this once, idiot, and don’t get used to it”—so he’ll clamber over you and put his warm, sticky skin on yours until you’re both drunk in pleasures like an engorged honeycomb.
You light up a cigarette when he’s in the shower, exhaling concentric rings into the twilight to the sounds of infinite cicadas. He comes back in a towel and takes the cig from you, dripping water everywhere. He puts it in his mouth and smokes you out of it, long drags that made him cough two days ago but now seem entirely effortless. What a goddamned fool. You yank off his towel and find he’s ready to go again, so this time it’s you who services him, tongue circling and cheeks hollowed, all so you can hear the embarrassing sounds of him losing it. Yamamoto at his most uncool. You never thought you’d like it this much, even though he always stops you before the end and won’t come in your mouth. He drops down to your level and kisses you, his tongue saturated with your tobacco brand, your tongue as deep in his mouth as it can go, and he comes just from that.
You’re undercover so you don’t worry about the number of showers you and he take in a day, two delinquent runaways wasting the summer and lulled into excess by the heat and the unrelenting waves. You earn some food money playing piano down at the one jazz bar. You watch Yamamoto’s baseball-callused hands learn to ash a cigarette and bridge-shuffle cards like a pro at the table in the back. You watch every lead on the Giriardelia Family come up empty and you just wait for the Tenth to call you home because there is no Giriardelia Family, just Ghirardelli chocolates sold in every train station and airport in the world, a mission in futility from a Boss who thinks you need some kind of happiness apart from him, and the idiot who might never leave your side now that he’s had a few meals. You play music for these strangers in this small seaside town, and think maybe it’s all just different chords for the same thing. The bar’s dim lighting, the clink of glasses all around, Yamamoto’s gentle palm resting on the nape of your neck as you walk back to the beach house, barefoot, endless sand between your toes.
Feel free to offer prompts as I will likely need them, lol. ^_____^