lysapadin: pen & ink painting of bamboo against a full moon (Default)
[personal profile] lysapadin
Title: The Family That Plays Together…
Characters/Pairings: Chrome/Gokudera, Yamamoto/Gokudera
Summary: Rule number one: Never take your eyes off the Mist.
Notes: Smut comma nothing but, to the tune of a Vongola orgy. …what? I asked for prompts on Tumblr a little while back, thirtysixsavefiles gave me Gokudera/anyone and "choice" and apparently the way that worked out in my head was Tsuna choosing not to choose.

~~~~~~~~~~


The Family That Plays Together…

The Tenth is the only reason it works, and that's because Tsuna doesn't know how to give up on anything. Or anyone. And when it's the Tenth asking, somehow everyone just seems to end up going along with it one way or another in the end. They just can't seem to help themselves, not even Hibari or Mukuro—

Takeshi makes a discontented sound and pulls his mouth off Hayato's cock. "Someone get over here and help me out with this guy, please? He's thinking so loud it's giving me a headache."

Hayato growls at him and sinks his fingers into Takeshi's hair. "Any kind of thinking gives you a headache, idiot."

Takeshi resists the downward pressure of his hand and lays one of his most amiably vacuous smiles on Hayato. "That's true, but you're still thinking too hard. Seriously, guys, a little help here?"

Mukuro lifts his head from where he and the Tenth and Hibari are tangled together in something that looks like one part brawl to one part foreplay. "Busy right now," he reports right before Hibari bites him and the Tenth utters a muffled groan. Hayato can't see Mukuro's other hand and imagines that that might have something to do with the sounds Tsuna is making.

Neither Lambo nor Ryouhei bother replying; they're too busy with each other, which might be for the best. Ryouhei is all but indefatigable and Lambo is a perpetual walking hormone. They're just about the only ones who can wear each other out—it takes two of any of the rest of them to take care of either one of them. Right now Lambo is riding Ryouhei like a pro, all lean, lithe lines and naked abandon, while Ryouhei flexes under him, driving a wanton little cry out of Lambo's throat every time he snaps his hips up against him.

Which just leaves Chrome, who's straddling Ryouhei's face and rocking against his mouth with unselfconscious abandon. (Ryouhei is like a machine, seriously.) She has her eyes closed and is smiling with dreamy pleasure, but she looks around when Takeshi sends up his cry for help. Her smile changes then, turns speculative.

Hayato gets a bad feeling about it when she and Takeshi make eye contact, and is confirmed in this when Takeshi cocks his head just so and grins at her.

"Hmm," Chrome says, right before she drops herself forward and prowls over to their corner of the bed. "Maybe I can help." She leans down and kisses Takeshi, who hums into her mouth the way he does when planning some piece of mayhem.

"Now wait just a damn minute—" Hayato begins, alarmed. Chrome's sense of humor is even worse than Takeshi's, which shouldn't even be humanly possible, and yet she manages it.

Chrome draws away from Takeshi's mouth and slants a feline smile at Hayato. "Hush," she says, sliding up his side and catching his mouth.

Takeshi chooses that moment to go back down on him. A paired assault like that just isn't fair. Hayato groans into Chrome's mouth, sliding an arm around her as Takeshi swallows him down. Chrome strokes her tongue against his and makes a low, pleased sound when he cups one of her breasts and slides his thumb over the tight bud of her nipple.

Takeshi hums around his cock; Hayato takes a moment between kisses to glance down at him and watch the way his cock is sliding between Takeshi's lips. Takeshi is watching him in turn, eyes crinkled at the corners on what would probably be a completely saccharine smile if his mouth weren't otherwise occupied.

Takeshi is something of a sap.

He's also a sneaky son of a bitch when he wants to be; he's gotten his fingers slick while Hayato was paying attention to Chrome. Now he slips his hand under Hayato and slides his fingers against him, slow and assured.

"Hey, now," Hayato says, or tries to—Chrome bites down on his lower lip as she trails her nails down his spine. The twinned, sharp sensations make him groan and forget about the liberties Takeshi is taking—not that Hayato is opposed, but there's such a thing as manners.

Not that Takeshi knows anything about those. He slides his fingers into Hayato while he's arching against the edge of Chrome's nails.

Hayato groans, sweat breaking out slick across his skin as he shudders between the pressure of Takeshi's mouth and his fingers, and he forgets about chastising Takeshi altogether. He tangles his fingers in Chrome's hair instead, kissing her again as he plays with her breasts, soft and sized just right to fit in his hands. Chrome makes a pleased sound as he slides his fingers over her curves—well, perhaps it's not so bad having her helping Takeshi out.

Takeshi flexes his fingers inside Hayato, sending a shot of sensation straight up Hayato's spine. Hayato groans to him, approving of that and the situation in general.

Of course, that's when the two of them decide to change things up on him. Hayato can't fault their strategy or their timing; he's relaxed and thoroughly distracted between the two of them. It doesn't even occur to him to object when Chrome spreads her fingers against the small of his back and presses about the same time Takeshi pulls back, leaving Hayato empty and wanting. It only seems natural to lean forward, sliding himself up onto his knees, maybe to follow after Takeshi and make him finish what he's started.

Chrome catches his hips and holds him with a grip that's shockingly strong for someone with such delicate hands, which is when Hayato realizes he's forgotten Rule One: Never take your eyes off a goddamn Mist user. "What the—?" he starts, craning his head around to see what the hell Chrome thinks she's doing.

"Hush," she says again, sliding up and fitting herself against his back, breasts soft against his skin as she rocks herself into him.

Fucking Mists, never content with reality without trying to one-up it.

Hayato groans at the hard stretch of whatever unholy Mist—dildo—thing she's come up with, so thick he'd be tempted to ask what she's compensating for if he could just string two thoughts together long enough to do it. He can't, though, that's the thing, not when he's gasping with how full he is, panting at the ache in his muscles, Jesus goddamn Christ, has the woman no mercy?

The answer to that is no, of course, because Hayato has barely—just barely—started to be able to cope when Chrome rocks her hips back and then forward again, fucking him at an angle perfectly calculated to make him see stars when she sinks home. Hayato groans with it, tipping his head back, eyes squeezed shut against the raw-edged pleasure, which means he's also forgotten Rule Two: Never take your eyes off Yamato motherfucking Takeshi, either.

Takeshi reminds him of the reason for Rule Two's existence by sliding his palms up the insides of Hayato's thighs, spreading them wider against the bed so he can nudge in between them. He bites down on the side of Hayato's throat and sucks, just exactly where the mark is bound to show above Hayato's collar because Takeshi is an asshole like that. Hayato tries to say something to him about that, but Chrome flexes her hips against his, short and sharp, and it comes out as a strangled groan instead. At least Takeshi's right there where Hayato can grab onto his shoulders and hang on for dear life while Chrome fucks him, so hey, he's good for something.

He's also close enough that Hayato can feel the vibration of his mouth as he hums his pleased little mayhem hum again, not that Hayato can do much about it now. Or do much about the way he arches into the warm heat of Takeshi's hand as Takeshi slides it down his chest and over his stomach, lingers over his cock to give it a friendly squeeze, and then reaches lower and runs his fingers back behind Hayato's balls, stroking them over the place where Hayato's stretched so relentlessly open. "Nice," he says, openly appreciative, while Hayato swears at him and the way the easy strength of Takeshi's fingers feels on skin that's extremely sensitive just at the moment. "Hey, d'you think…?"

Hayato opens his eyes in time to see the thoughtful glance Takeshi throws Chrome, who says, "I think we can arrange that."

"Awesome," Takeshi says right before he crowds against Hayato like he's never heard of the fact that two objects can't occupy the same space at once. At the same time, Chrome fades back and draws Hayato along with her as the merciless stretch of his muscles eases down to something far less intense.

"What," Hayato says, off-balance, and then, "What?" as Takeshi catches his hands behind his knees and presses them up, and finally, "What the fuck?" when Takeshi grins at him and Hayato feels the head of Takeshi's cock nudging against him.

Then he can't think at all because Takeshi is pushing into him right alongside Chrome, and the stretch is so hard, so much that he can hardly bear it or the way every fiber of him is drawn taut and aching. Everything else is secondary to the way they're filling him, holding him open, from the sounds coming out of his throat and the ache in his lungs as he gasps for breath to the way Takeshi is groaning against his throat and Chrome herself is trembling against Hayato's back. It's too much sensation, too exquisitely intense to call pleasure or pain, and it leaves Hayato helpless to do anything but inhabit his skin and feel. He digs his fingers into Takeshi's shoulders, hears himself cry out something wordless when even that small movement changes their precarious balance and runs a shudder of response through him, and then the two of them begin to move.

Everything after that is an impressionist's blur of sensation: Takeshi's hands, broad and warm and holding Hayato spread open, Chrome's voice moaning soft against his ear, the way they feel sliding in and out of him—sometimes in sync, sometimes not, each variation its own kind of glorious torture—and the way Takeshi kisses him again and again, devouring Hayato's cries as they fuck him. He comes the first time when Chrome shifts his hips just so and their next strokes hit his prostate together, crying out as his body strains around the two of them, working helplessly against the way they hold him open. He comes again when Chrome slips her hand between his body and Takeshi's and grips his cock, almost too rough but not quite. Then she holds him there and doesn't let him come down again. Together they drive him to the edge of what's bearable as they fuck him, until Takeshi gasps and tenses against him, coming in hard pulses that Hayato can feel inside him, and he manages to moan, "Please…!"

The relief of coming down is as sensuous in its own way as such merciless pleasure is. Hayato shudders and sprawls against Takeshi, utterly wrung out, and only manages a few token moans as they ease him down. The most he can manage in the aftermath as he faceplants into the pillows is to wave a middle finger vaguely in Mukuro's direction when Mukuro says, "I'm impressed."

"So am I," Hibari says, sounding disgruntled to find himself agreeing with Mukuro.

"I hate all of you," Hayato tells them, hoping they can hear it since there's no way he's going to be able to muster the energy to raise his face out of the pillow enough to say it to their faces.

"Sure, sure," Takeshi says, patting the back of his head gently. "We love you, too."

And Hayato figures that, what with the pillow to hide his face and all, no one ever has to know how that makes him smile.

end

Comments are always lovely!

Profile

lysapadin: pen & ink painting of bamboo against a full moon (Default)
Lys ap Adin

Tags

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags