Title: Untitled
Rated: R
Pairing: YamamotoGokudera (8059)
Summary:Written for a friend with this request at the LJ comm khranon: “Jealous, monogamous Yamamoto; oblivious/apathetic, polygamous Gokudera. Something of a passive-aggressive uke fic; I think it’s very odd that the uke is usually seen as the naive or innocent partner who has no sexual desire of his own to speak of, so here’s one for the promiscuous uke!”

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He stumbled in at three in the morning, a strip of pale abdomen and the sharp cut of his hipbones visible above his jeans. A half smoked cigarette hung at a precarious angle from swollen lips. He pressed his back to the door and sought Yamamoto’s gaze past the squares of moonlight that patterned the area rug.

Yamamoto rose from his recline and crossed the room, the shadows sliding like sinuous coils across his skin and the rumpled folds of his shirt. Gokudera shifted his feet, legs falling open, the top button of his jeans undone. Something twisted in Yamamoto’s gut, his breath caught halfway between a sigh and gasp as Gokudera tilted his head. Pale hair spilled across his cheekbone in frosty silver strands, the slope of his neck marred with dark smudges that would slit open the soft spot in Yamamoto’s chest and bleed him dry if he let them.

“Where have you been?” he asked. His voice was flat with just a hint of injected curiosity. The question was automatic and expected, routine, just as Gokudera’s response was a practice in indulgent repetition.

“What do you care?” The end of his cigarette flared bright in the darkness, before his lips parted and a dim haze of smoke rose to blur the lines of his face.

Yamamoto leaned close, nose nudging aside the fall of hair beside Gokudera’s ear. He smelled musky and a bit sour, like the cloying press of overheated bodies. Sweet, like the slow burn of cloves. Bitter, like the meticulous deconstruction of an old dream, or the memory of one.

His smile was brittle and the corners of Gokudera’s lips tightened in response. “I’m sorry. I was worried.”

Gokudera snorted and he removed the cigarette from his mouth with slender fingers, bone white and frail. “Idiot. Go to bed.”

A warm hand wrapped around Gokudera’s wrist, thumb rubbing small circles into thin skin. A gentle tug and then Gokudera had a fist full of dark hair and his lips were bruising, painfully acute, burning—or that might have been Gokudera’s cigarette searing a hole through his jeans or his heart. Either way, Yamamoto clung back, pulling him across the room until his legs hit the sofa and they tumbled backward, Gokudera landing on top of him with a muffled grunt and a muttered insult.

Lips passed down his neck and nipped at his collarbones, carving open skin, exposing bone and sinew and other tender things to the devouring heat of Gokudera’s touch. He watched the way Gokudera’s brows furrowed and the way his eyes and hands moved with restless pursuit, as if searching for an answer to a question Yamamoto wasn’t privy to yet, if ever.

He clung to the narrow curve of Gokudera’s waist and buried his face in his neck, lips fastening to the purple blemish already there. He sucked harshly, ignoring Gokudera’s derisive laughter, and claimed the mark as his own.