It was embarrassing—the way he flushed so warm so quickly with something as simple as a kiss. It didn't matter that Yamamoto had been branded a traitor; the two of them had belonged to each other in a different sort of a way for a lot longer than that. Even now, Gokudera was reluctant to admit that as he savored the taste on his tongue, stronger than the smoke, while slim fingers plucked at buttons and belt. He couldn't look at Yamamoto even as he heard the shift of fabric and watched the movement from the corner of tired eyes. Not until his gaze was beckoned by the word tattoo, and his own trousers were around his ankles to leave him in socks and grey boxer-briefs, did he drag his eyes up from the floor.
Ironically, he had never quite had the stomach for the needle himself. Never quite felt the same urge, either, although he always suspected that Yamamoto harbored far more of a masochistic streak than they ever acknowledged in the bedroom or otherwise. The tattoo had been a labor of...maybe not quite love. Pride, perhaps? Regardless, the end result was a testament to the kind of patience and perseverance that Gokudera, shamefully, lacked. Deep black and intricate, it was a picture that could practically slither off of all that golden skin, onto the floor or out into the air, all fangs and curled fronds. Gokudera stood, not just to run a rough and curious hand along its twisting back, but to trace the new marks across Yamamoto's along the way. In particular, his thumb caught in that bullet hole, puckered scar tissue now, but still too close for comfort all the same.
"Don't know why you'd go out of your way to mark yourself as an outcast like this," he muttered, fine nose pressed now between sharp shoulder blades while his hands followed the line of Yamamoto's hips. "Looks good, though."
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Ironically, he had never quite had the stomach for the needle himself. Never quite felt the same urge, either, although he always suspected that Yamamoto harbored far more of a masochistic streak than they ever acknowledged in the bedroom or otherwise. The tattoo had been a labor of...maybe not quite love. Pride, perhaps? Regardless, the end result was a testament to the kind of patience and perseverance that Gokudera, shamefully, lacked. Deep black and intricate, it was a picture that could practically slither off of all that golden skin, onto the floor or out into the air, all fangs and curled fronds. Gokudera stood, not just to run a rough and curious hand along its twisting back, but to trace the new marks across Yamamoto's along the way. In particular, his thumb caught in that bullet hole, puckered scar tissue now, but still too close for comfort all the same.
"Don't know why you'd go out of your way to mark yourself as an outcast like this," he muttered, fine nose pressed now between sharp shoulder blades while his hands followed the line of Yamamoto's hips. "Looks good, though."