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lysapadinTitle: Counterbalance
Pairing: Hibari, Gokudera, Yamamoto
Summary: In the suppression of one sense, the others sometimes become sharper.
Notes: Foranruik's prompt "Anyone/Yamamoto – blindfold." You may blame ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
andreaphobia for who the "anyone" ended up being. Adult for smut (and how!), blindfolds, and restraints. Seek ye plot elsewhere. 2158 words.
~~~~~~~~~~
Counterbalance
Takeshi can't see a thing, not even the edges of light around his eyelids or seeping in under the edges of the scarf tied around his eyes. He strains for a glimpse of something, anything, but all he gets are the flashes of color that go off behind his eyelids. After a while, those stop, too, and he's left with nothing to orient himself against the darkness except for the solid surface of the floor he's kneeling on. Even that starts to be suspect after a while and he starts to feel unmoored. Starts to wonder if even that is imaginary, too, if he's actually just floating in space and hallucinating his legs folded beneath him and the texture of the carpet that's imprinting itself against his bare knees. It's not unreasonable; the air in the room is warm on his skin, perfectly still. It takes every last bit of Takeshi's self-control to keep himself from reaching up and ripping the blindfold off his face to check and see if he's still real.
Another five minutes, he tells himself. Another five minutes and that's it, he's through with this game. He counts the seconds off to himself, one two three four, like a child counting the seconds between the flash and the crack during a thunderstorm, twenty-five twenty-six, except that even the lightning is imaginary here and the expected roll of thunder never arrives. One hundred six one hundred seven, that's the worst part, because he's stretching tighter with every second that ticks past, anticipating what happens next without knowing what it's going to be. One hundred sixty-five one hundred sixty-six, seriously, when he hits five minutes, that's it, game over. Two hundred twelve, two hundred thirteen...
He hits three hundred still sitting seiza, all alone except for the sound of his own breathing.
Okay. Five more minutes, this time for real, he means it.
Takeshi is counting off three hundred seconds for the third time when he hears the sound of the door sliding along its track behind him. It's a tiny sound, barely audible, but in this state where he can't see anything and is beginning to wonder whether he's been left all alone, completely alone, it's huge. He sits up straighter without even thinking about it, doing his best to follow the sound of feet crossing the floor. The floorboards under his knees vibrate with each step; though he strains his hearing to the utmost to hear something to tell him who's joined him, it doesn't do him any good. He can hear the barest sound of each step as it connects with the floor, but nothing else—not the whisper of cloth brushing against cloth or the creak of shoe leather as it flexes, nothing at all to give him any clue who it is that's joined him.
Takeshi can't quite help making a sound when the implications of that absence of sound snap into place for him. He goes taut, has to dig his hands into his knees with the effort of not reaching up for the scarf, not looking as the floorboards shift under him as the footsteps stop in front of him. He hears the sound of someone expelling a breath from between his lips and then—nothing. The seconds tick by in silence just like before, except that now there's someone standing over him and Takeshi has no idea what's going to happen now. That fact makes his breath come fast, till he has to open his mouth and suck in the air that way just to keep himself steady as he waits.
When fingers slide under his chin, it's like a revelation. Takeshi can't help the sound he makes or the way he leans into them, the first tangible proof that he hasn't been hallucinating the footsteps either. The fingers lift his chin; Takeshi lets them and makes another sound when he feels the thumb stroking over his lips, pressing against them. He's perfectly okay with that, parting his lips and letting it press between his teeth to rest against his tongue. He wraps his mouth around it, tongue playing over the pad of it, and hears the sound of a sigh above him, drawn out and slow.
The fingers under his chin slide along his jaw and the thumb slips free of his lips, tracing a damp path along his cheek, until the touch of those fingers turns into a hand cupping his jaw, holding it.
Something else brushes against his lips then, blunt as it slides along his lower lip, sticky and wet. When Takeshi passes his tongue over his lips, he tastes flatness and salt and has to moan in response to the sure knowledge of what this is, what he's being invited to do. He sways forward and closes his mouth around the head of the cock stroking against his lips and hears its owner gasp above him, the barest hitch of a breath catching in the throat, before the fingers against Takeshi's jaw tighten, holding him still.
Takeshi tries to slide away from those fingers, wanting to lean forward and take more, but a second hand descends on him, sliding over his cheek so that Takeshi's face is framed between two broad palms and the fingers curved around his jaw, holding him in place. It's either the gentleness in that grip or the fact that it's not letting him move that makes the sound rise up Takeshi's throat, hoarse. He makes another when he realizes that no, this really is all he's going to be allowed. He wants to feel that cock sliding between his lips, heavy on his tongue and nudging the back of his throat, but instead all he's being permitted is the softness of the foreskin stroking against his lips and the smooth skin of the head against his tongue.
Takeshi lifts his hands, seeking the hips that have to be somewhere in front of him, wanting to pull them forward. Someone's fingers wrap around his wrists before he can, capturing them in a grip like iron. Takeshi's eyes fly open behind the blindfold, shocked, because he never even heard the second pair of footsteps entering the room. But there's someone behind him, sure enough, and that someone takes ruthless advantage of his split second of surprise to pull Takeshi's hands down and back, twisting them behind his back and holding them there.
The hands caging Takeshi's face hold him still the entire time this is going on; the grip on his wrists is as steady as stone. The end result is that Takeshi is perched unsteadily between them, leaning forward on his knees and pretty much completely dependent on their hands to keep him from pitching forward onto his face.
That knowledge pulses through him and Takeshi groans, his cock throbbing tight and heavy between his thighs.
Thumbs stroke over his cheeks, soft as a kiss, and then the cock slides into his mouth, pressing a little deeper, silent hint and reward all wrapped into one. Takeshi moans again and devotes himself to it, wrapping his lips around the shaft of it and sliding his tongue over the head, tracing the slit and lapping away the slick of precum there, flicking his tongue back and forth against silky skin and hoping desperately for more.
Behind him, the grip on his wrists changes—two hands become one wrapped around his wrists, pinning them together at the small of his back no less securely than before. Takeshi shivers when he hears the click of a plastic cap being thumbed open, which is followed swiftly by the cool, slick feeling of fingers sliding down the cleft of his ass and stroking against him. He can't help the way his hips try to rock against that touch, but the fingers around his wrists tighten, the force of them maybe even enough to bruise, and he stills himself again.
His reward for that is the way long fingers push against him, the pressure steady against his muscles until his body gives way to them. The ache in his muscles is familiar and sweet and Takeshi moans, the sound of it muffled by the cock resting between his lips, and for a moment he forgets everything but the way those fingers feel as they press into him. Then the hands around his face tighten, reminding him that he has something else to pay attention to, and he gets back down to business, sucking harder to make up for his momentary lapse. That earns him the hiss of an indrawn breath and the slow weight of that cock sliding deeper into his mouth, filling it. Takeshi moans, wanting that, wanting more, even though he's poised between them and unable to do anything, not even whisper yes or please or more.
But maybe he doesn't have to. A thumb rubs itself back and forth over the line of his cheekbone, but the hands holding his face keep it steady as the cock slides out of his mouth and then back in again. Takeshi moans around it, relaxing his jaw and leaning into those hands, offering more and feeling the way it's accepted in the slow rhythm of the cock moving over his tongue. It feels just as good as the fingers moving inside him, methodical and ruthless as they stroke him open, till Takeshi feels almost like he's weightless, suspended in space.
When the fingers slide out of him, it leaves him feeling bereft and thumps him back down to something like reality. He moans, protesting, which gets him nothing but a snort, soft and unmistakable. Takeshi is vaguely surprised that the snort isn't followed by the edge of teeth against his shoulder. But perhaps Kyouya is preoccupied with other things; Takeshi can hear the sound of skin against skin from behind him, soft and wet, and the sound of deeper breathing, before Kyouya's grip on his wrists changes, pressing him forward on his knees even more as he fits himself against Takeshi's back.
It should ruin the spell to know for sure which of them is which, but somehow it doesn't. Maybe that's because Takeshi doesn't really have the space to think about it, not with Kyouya's cock sliding up into him and driving heat ahead of it. Not when Hayato holds his jaw steady and pushes into his mouth and keeps going until Takeshi has to swallow him down and his nose is pressed against Hayato's stomach. Or maybe he just knew from the first taste of Hayato's thumb sliding over his tongue, since Hayato's skin carries the traces of gunpowder and nicotine no matter how many showers he takes, or the way Kyouya's hands felt wrapping around his wrists, the strength of them and the calluses they bear perfectly, intimately familiar.
Or maybe it just doesn't matter, not when he's caught on his knees and spread across the hardness of Kyouya's thighs as Kyouya fucks him and Hayato's cock slides in and out of his mouth. The two of them hold him between them, their hands keeping him balanced despite the precariousness of his position, and Takeshi is beyond caring about anything but the present moment and the pleasure twining through him.
Kyouya's fingers are tight around his wrists and on his hips; Kyouya's breath is hot against Takeshi's neck. Each time he rocks up against Takeshi, pleasure jolts up Takeshi's spine and drives a groan out of him. Hayato's hands hold Takeshi's head steady despite the way Kyouya moves behind him; he moves without faltering, the rhythm of his cock sliding over Takeshi's tongue in flawless counterpoint to Kyouya's thrusts. Takeshi loses himself in how good it feels, dissolves into the sensation washing through him until there's nothing left except for heat and trust and the security of their hands holding him up. It's more like an afterthought than anything else when Kyouya drops a hand between Takeshi's thighs to stroke his cock, because Takeshi is already undone. All the orgasm does as it ripples through Takeshi is spread the pieces of him across the floor while Kyouya's hips jerk against his and Hayato spills across his tongue, hot and salt-flat.
Takeshi loses track of whose hands are whose when they go to pick up the pieces of him afterwards, cleaning him up and guiding him into their bed. Eventually he becomes dimly aware that Kyouya is picking the knot of the scarf loose. Hayato is the one who takes it away in the darkness (and doesn't say a word about the places that are wet as he sets it aside). It's Kyouya who settles himself at Takeshi's back and Hayato who drapes his arm across Takeshi's chest, but they both whisper to him to go to sleep.
Takeshi closes his eyes again, sees the afterimages of their faces burning against the insides of his eyelids as they cradle him between their bodies, and does.
end
So okay, I can explain: I was having a bit of a writer's block and attendant crises of self confidence &c, so I asked my dwircle for prompts in a desperate attempt to get my writing mojo back. Uh. Yeah, I think it worked. (Go ahead, ask me how close this one got to being Everyone x Yamamoto, I dare you.) *coughs*
Anyway. Comments, as always, are a thing of joy forever! Comment here at Dreamwidth using OpenID, or at LiveJournal.
Pairing: Hibari, Gokudera, Yamamoto
Summary: In the suppression of one sense, the others sometimes become sharper.
Notes: For
anruik's prompt "Anyone/Yamamoto – blindfold." You may blame andreaphobia for who the "anyone" ended up being. Adult for smut (and how!), blindfolds, and restraints. Seek ye plot elsewhere. 2158 words.Counterbalance
Takeshi can't see a thing, not even the edges of light around his eyelids or seeping in under the edges of the scarf tied around his eyes. He strains for a glimpse of something, anything, but all he gets are the flashes of color that go off behind his eyelids. After a while, those stop, too, and he's left with nothing to orient himself against the darkness except for the solid surface of the floor he's kneeling on. Even that starts to be suspect after a while and he starts to feel unmoored. Starts to wonder if even that is imaginary, too, if he's actually just floating in space and hallucinating his legs folded beneath him and the texture of the carpet that's imprinting itself against his bare knees. It's not unreasonable; the air in the room is warm on his skin, perfectly still. It takes every last bit of Takeshi's self-control to keep himself from reaching up and ripping the blindfold off his face to check and see if he's still real.
Another five minutes, he tells himself. Another five minutes and that's it, he's through with this game. He counts the seconds off to himself, one two three four, like a child counting the seconds between the flash and the crack during a thunderstorm, twenty-five twenty-six, except that even the lightning is imaginary here and the expected roll of thunder never arrives. One hundred six one hundred seven, that's the worst part, because he's stretching tighter with every second that ticks past, anticipating what happens next without knowing what it's going to be. One hundred sixty-five one hundred sixty-six, seriously, when he hits five minutes, that's it, game over. Two hundred twelve, two hundred thirteen...
He hits three hundred still sitting seiza, all alone except for the sound of his own breathing.
Okay. Five more minutes, this time for real, he means it.
Takeshi is counting off three hundred seconds for the third time when he hears the sound of the door sliding along its track behind him. It's a tiny sound, barely audible, but in this state where he can't see anything and is beginning to wonder whether he's been left all alone, completely alone, it's huge. He sits up straighter without even thinking about it, doing his best to follow the sound of feet crossing the floor. The floorboards under his knees vibrate with each step; though he strains his hearing to the utmost to hear something to tell him who's joined him, it doesn't do him any good. He can hear the barest sound of each step as it connects with the floor, but nothing else—not the whisper of cloth brushing against cloth or the creak of shoe leather as it flexes, nothing at all to give him any clue who it is that's joined him.
Takeshi can't quite help making a sound when the implications of that absence of sound snap into place for him. He goes taut, has to dig his hands into his knees with the effort of not reaching up for the scarf, not looking as the floorboards shift under him as the footsteps stop in front of him. He hears the sound of someone expelling a breath from between his lips and then—nothing. The seconds tick by in silence just like before, except that now there's someone standing over him and Takeshi has no idea what's going to happen now. That fact makes his breath come fast, till he has to open his mouth and suck in the air that way just to keep himself steady as he waits.
When fingers slide under his chin, it's like a revelation. Takeshi can't help the sound he makes or the way he leans into them, the first tangible proof that he hasn't been hallucinating the footsteps either. The fingers lift his chin; Takeshi lets them and makes another sound when he feels the thumb stroking over his lips, pressing against them. He's perfectly okay with that, parting his lips and letting it press between his teeth to rest against his tongue. He wraps his mouth around it, tongue playing over the pad of it, and hears the sound of a sigh above him, drawn out and slow.
The fingers under his chin slide along his jaw and the thumb slips free of his lips, tracing a damp path along his cheek, until the touch of those fingers turns into a hand cupping his jaw, holding it.
Something else brushes against his lips then, blunt as it slides along his lower lip, sticky and wet. When Takeshi passes his tongue over his lips, he tastes flatness and salt and has to moan in response to the sure knowledge of what this is, what he's being invited to do. He sways forward and closes his mouth around the head of the cock stroking against his lips and hears its owner gasp above him, the barest hitch of a breath catching in the throat, before the fingers against Takeshi's jaw tighten, holding him still.
Takeshi tries to slide away from those fingers, wanting to lean forward and take more, but a second hand descends on him, sliding over his cheek so that Takeshi's face is framed between two broad palms and the fingers curved around his jaw, holding him in place. It's either the gentleness in that grip or the fact that it's not letting him move that makes the sound rise up Takeshi's throat, hoarse. He makes another when he realizes that no, this really is all he's going to be allowed. He wants to feel that cock sliding between his lips, heavy on his tongue and nudging the back of his throat, but instead all he's being permitted is the softness of the foreskin stroking against his lips and the smooth skin of the head against his tongue.
Takeshi lifts his hands, seeking the hips that have to be somewhere in front of him, wanting to pull them forward. Someone's fingers wrap around his wrists before he can, capturing them in a grip like iron. Takeshi's eyes fly open behind the blindfold, shocked, because he never even heard the second pair of footsteps entering the room. But there's someone behind him, sure enough, and that someone takes ruthless advantage of his split second of surprise to pull Takeshi's hands down and back, twisting them behind his back and holding them there.
The hands caging Takeshi's face hold him still the entire time this is going on; the grip on his wrists is as steady as stone. The end result is that Takeshi is perched unsteadily between them, leaning forward on his knees and pretty much completely dependent on their hands to keep him from pitching forward onto his face.
That knowledge pulses through him and Takeshi groans, his cock throbbing tight and heavy between his thighs.
Thumbs stroke over his cheeks, soft as a kiss, and then the cock slides into his mouth, pressing a little deeper, silent hint and reward all wrapped into one. Takeshi moans again and devotes himself to it, wrapping his lips around the shaft of it and sliding his tongue over the head, tracing the slit and lapping away the slick of precum there, flicking his tongue back and forth against silky skin and hoping desperately for more.
Behind him, the grip on his wrists changes—two hands become one wrapped around his wrists, pinning them together at the small of his back no less securely than before. Takeshi shivers when he hears the click of a plastic cap being thumbed open, which is followed swiftly by the cool, slick feeling of fingers sliding down the cleft of his ass and stroking against him. He can't help the way his hips try to rock against that touch, but the fingers around his wrists tighten, the force of them maybe even enough to bruise, and he stills himself again.
His reward for that is the way long fingers push against him, the pressure steady against his muscles until his body gives way to them. The ache in his muscles is familiar and sweet and Takeshi moans, the sound of it muffled by the cock resting between his lips, and for a moment he forgets everything but the way those fingers feel as they press into him. Then the hands around his face tighten, reminding him that he has something else to pay attention to, and he gets back down to business, sucking harder to make up for his momentary lapse. That earns him the hiss of an indrawn breath and the slow weight of that cock sliding deeper into his mouth, filling it. Takeshi moans, wanting that, wanting more, even though he's poised between them and unable to do anything, not even whisper yes or please or more.
But maybe he doesn't have to. A thumb rubs itself back and forth over the line of his cheekbone, but the hands holding his face keep it steady as the cock slides out of his mouth and then back in again. Takeshi moans around it, relaxing his jaw and leaning into those hands, offering more and feeling the way it's accepted in the slow rhythm of the cock moving over his tongue. It feels just as good as the fingers moving inside him, methodical and ruthless as they stroke him open, till Takeshi feels almost like he's weightless, suspended in space.
When the fingers slide out of him, it leaves him feeling bereft and thumps him back down to something like reality. He moans, protesting, which gets him nothing but a snort, soft and unmistakable. Takeshi is vaguely surprised that the snort isn't followed by the edge of teeth against his shoulder. But perhaps Kyouya is preoccupied with other things; Takeshi can hear the sound of skin against skin from behind him, soft and wet, and the sound of deeper breathing, before Kyouya's grip on his wrists changes, pressing him forward on his knees even more as he fits himself against Takeshi's back.
It should ruin the spell to know for sure which of them is which, but somehow it doesn't. Maybe that's because Takeshi doesn't really have the space to think about it, not with Kyouya's cock sliding up into him and driving heat ahead of it. Not when Hayato holds his jaw steady and pushes into his mouth and keeps going until Takeshi has to swallow him down and his nose is pressed against Hayato's stomach. Or maybe he just knew from the first taste of Hayato's thumb sliding over his tongue, since Hayato's skin carries the traces of gunpowder and nicotine no matter how many showers he takes, or the way Kyouya's hands felt wrapping around his wrists, the strength of them and the calluses they bear perfectly, intimately familiar.
Or maybe it just doesn't matter, not when he's caught on his knees and spread across the hardness of Kyouya's thighs as Kyouya fucks him and Hayato's cock slides in and out of his mouth. The two of them hold him between them, their hands keeping him balanced despite the precariousness of his position, and Takeshi is beyond caring about anything but the present moment and the pleasure twining through him.
Kyouya's fingers are tight around his wrists and on his hips; Kyouya's breath is hot against Takeshi's neck. Each time he rocks up against Takeshi, pleasure jolts up Takeshi's spine and drives a groan out of him. Hayato's hands hold Takeshi's head steady despite the way Kyouya moves behind him; he moves without faltering, the rhythm of his cock sliding over Takeshi's tongue in flawless counterpoint to Kyouya's thrusts. Takeshi loses himself in how good it feels, dissolves into the sensation washing through him until there's nothing left except for heat and trust and the security of their hands holding him up. It's more like an afterthought than anything else when Kyouya drops a hand between Takeshi's thighs to stroke his cock, because Takeshi is already undone. All the orgasm does as it ripples through Takeshi is spread the pieces of him across the floor while Kyouya's hips jerk against his and Hayato spills across his tongue, hot and salt-flat.
Takeshi loses track of whose hands are whose when they go to pick up the pieces of him afterwards, cleaning him up and guiding him into their bed. Eventually he becomes dimly aware that Kyouya is picking the knot of the scarf loose. Hayato is the one who takes it away in the darkness (and doesn't say a word about the places that are wet as he sets it aside). It's Kyouya who settles himself at Takeshi's back and Hayato who drapes his arm across Takeshi's chest, but they both whisper to him to go to sleep.
Takeshi closes his eyes again, sees the afterimages of their faces burning against the insides of his eyelids as they cradle him between their bodies, and does.
end
So okay, I can explain: I was having a bit of a writer's block and attendant crises of self confidence &c, so I asked my dwircle for prompts in a desperate attempt to get my writing mojo back. Uh. Yeah, I think it worked. (Go ahead, ask me how close this one got to being Everyone x Yamamoto, I dare you.) *coughs*
Anyway. Comments, as always, are a thing of joy forever! Comment here at Dreamwidth using OpenID, or at LiveJournal.
no subject
Date: 10 April 2011 16:42 (UTC)Everyone x Yamamoto?!?!?! That's a must-read!!!
no subject
Date: 10 April 2011 18:19 (UTC)Well, we'll see if Yamamoto turns up with the actual bunny for that one. I'm not going to put it past him. :3