118: Against a one-way mirror
Title: Boys in the Looking-Glass
Prompt: #118
WC: 1749
A/N: Oh hell, I made myself blush writing this. Upon rereading, I found my writing a bit uneven and slapdash (well, I suppose this is what I get for writing at ass o clock in the mornings of final weeks), but I had too much fun with it to not share.
FOR SOME MOOD MUSIC!!! aka this is what I grimly listened to on a loop when struggling through writing smut scenes.
Touch me - Cast of Spring Awakening
PDA (we just don't care) - John Legend
Yamamoto had always been a hands-on, public-display-of-affection sort of guy. Never thought twice about slinging an arm around a buddy, ruffling some kid’s hair, or patting a teammate on the bum. Gokudera, his if-you-call-me-your-boyfriend-I-will-fucking-castrate-you-with-a-rusty-razor boyfriend was less so, even if he was European, and Yamamoto had heard things about Europeans. He thought maybe Gokudera was just shy when they were in Japan, though it's true in the seven years they’d known each other, he’d never gotten away period with overly familiar behavior, even in private.
He thought maybe the no-PDA thing would change in Europe, where guys hugged and air-kissed all the time, so on their first free day in London, Yamamoto casually draped an arm around Gokudera’s shoulders as they rode the underground. Instead, the Storm Guardian immediately shrugged him off and glared, threatening to shove dynamite up somewhere inappropriate. The conductors on the Jubilee Line had given them a baleful look at the mention of explosives.
At the Tate Britain, they’d looked at paintings and other artsy stuff. When he was in the mood, Gokudera was the sort who could lose a whole day staring at dabs of paint on a canvas, though Yamamoto wasn’t sure exactly how he managed that without wanting to spork himself in the eye. He had gotten bored (naturally) as Gokudera contemplated the Millais Ophelia, so he’d dropped his chin down on Gokudera’s shoulder, and had been promptly shoved away. Still unfazed, he trotted after the Italian as they moved through the galleries, passing framed paintings of colorful geometric shapes, thin wobbly lines, and huge portraitures of old, dead folk. In front of a painting of Sara Siddons, Yamamoto noted how funny her small head looked on the full figure, prompting the Italian to comment acidly on his unsophistication. Then Yamamoto tried to hold his hand, and finally succeeded in irritating Gokudera to the point that Yamamoto found himself five minutes later hurrying after the other man out of the museum and onto the street.
“Don’t hang all over me,” Gokudera snapped when Yamamoto had finally caught up to him. “We have appearances to maintain.” He lit up, frustrated and cranky.
“Who’s going to recognize us here?” Yamamoto demanded. “I thought this was a date. Why can’t we act like it?”
“Are you stupid? We’re grown men! I don’t care if we’re in fucking bumfuck Antarctica, I’m not going to walk around arm-in-arm giggling and batting my eyelashes at you like some brainless idiot.” Gokudera stopped in front of a large, mirrored cube, pretending to ignore Yamamoto and read the object label to the side. His tall partner stuck his hands in his pocket and stared moodily back at their reflections in the mirror walls. He didn’t know what the hell it was, but he was able to catch Gokudera’s eyes in the reflection, when he couldn’t face-to-face.
“I didn’t mean it that way,” he said quietly. In the mirror, he refused to look away. “Just for today, I wanted to be close to you.”
They watched each other in the glass silently, Yamamoto willing Gokudera to give a little; he'd take whatever he could get.
Finally, Gokudera barked a short laugh and dropped his cigarette, crushing it under one heel; with the grim resignation of a soldier sent to the front lines, pulled open the door of the mirror and disappeared inside the cubicle. Yamamoto stood there, surprised and unsure. And then, Gokudera’s arm snaked out and fisted his tie. One jerk, and Yamamoto was stumbling through into the Bonvicini one-way mirror toilet.
Inside, he got a nasty shock; a modest stainless steel sink and toilet sat surrounded on all four sides by what appeared to be floor-to-ceiling windows. They were in a glass box with a john for company. For a moment he was jolted by panic and horrified embarrassment as a curious old lady peered intently across the far wall, blindly trying to see beyond the mirror surface.
“Oh my God,” Yamamoto squeaked, and then Gokudera stuck a hand down his pants. His partner started so badly they only narrowly missed an unfortunate incident involving hand jewelry and a certain body part. “What are you doing?!”
“This is what you want, right? To touch me in public,” Gokudera breathed, a husky rasp creeping into his tone, his mouth twisted into a sharp sneering leer. Green eyes flashed defiance and anger and lust from behind colorless lashes, and Gokudera’s lean, wiry body was pressing him against the mirrored wall.
“I- I don’t know if this is what I meant,” Yamamoto managed, then choked as Gokudera shut him up with the most obscenely lascivious kiss. He moaned, could feel himself hardening, even knowing that right now, yes, now, there was a couple laughingly waving and posing to their right, a kid making faces on their left, pigeons pecking alongside. His arms were pressed to the wall behind him, hands splayed against the cool surface and his squeezed his eyes shut, unable to repress a shudder as Gokudera pulled his belt loose, lazily drawing the fine Italian leather through the loops and unceremoniously shoving his pants down.
“Keep your eyes open,” Gokudera ordered harshly, pushing him up hard against the wall, making one observer standing less than two feet behind Yamamoto jump back nervously, laughing. “This is the closest you’ll get to a public relationship,” he continued, and rolled his hips.
Swallowing, Yamamoto could feel his heart racing, his face hot and flush. The curdling apprehension in his stomach was still there, but against him pressed Gokudera, heavy and pliant and eager and never had he been like this, even the few times they’d tumbled in anonymous hotel rooms. The Italian was full of salacious initiative; Yamamoto could almost be frightened, if he wasn’t so turned on. And even as what felt like half the human population ambled by them on all four sides, curiously looking at the mirror box, Yamamoto couldn’t help his quickening breath and the excited pace of his pulse jackhammering under his skin. And Gokudera, growling and running his tongue over his teeth like that…
Suddenly, Yamamoto groaned, snapping out of his daze. Gokudera made a noise of surprise as he was spun around and their positions reversed, Yamamoto shoving his partner’s back up against the wall and kissing so fiercely and needily Gokudera’s head thunked against the mirror, hair flattened out in thin silver threads. With an answering growl, Gokudera hooked a leg around Yamamoto, both arms encircling the Rain Guardian’s broad shoulders and wrenching their bodies even closer as he deepened the kiss.
One bony hand slid downwards, impatiently working at belt buckles and buttons and zippers, knuckles brushing tantalizingly against Yamamoto’s hard, naked erection and he had to break away and groan, shuddering.
“Don’t-stop-” Gokudera snapped, and his hand finally closed over him, lining them up. Yamamoto nearly cried at the sensation and pressed closer in, rutting helplessly against Gokudera.
“Four feet away,” Gokudera was whispering, warm breath in the shell of his ear. “That kid is taking a picture of this. He’s going to look at his pictures later, and see the mirrors and never know we were here. That woman thinks this is a vanity; she’s looking at you while fixing her lipstick.”
“How can you be so calm?” Yamamoto moaned, all frustration and high, tight lust. Gokudera grinned, fierce and sharp like a needle point of light, and licked his ear suggestively.
“Fuck me, Yamamoto. Do it in plain sight,” he drawled, his tongue flicking lightly against skin.
Yamamoto didn’t think; something in his brain was frying and sparking dangerously. He roughly turned Gokudera around and pushed him up against the glass so hard the whole structure quivered.
Outside, bystanders regarded them warily. An old man’s eyes widened, then narrowed as he guessed what was going on inside. Yamamoto didn’t care- he was fumbling a hastily located condom over his erection, hands shaking with urgency, Gokudera panting against the wall, his breath clouding over the glass and blurring the faces of passersby.
“Hurry the fuck up,” he snapped, voice thin and reedy. Yamamoto hurried. “Just do it.”
Other times, they took their time; slow stretching, plenty of lube, careful, tentative steps like following a manual. Right now, in front of a thousand strangers along the Thames, Yamamoto lined the tip up at the entrance and shoved in like a clumsy schoolboy.
Gokudera hissed, grit his teeth and Yamamoto clung to him, pressing his face against the back of the silver head, breathing harshly as he held absolutely still.
“….Go,” Gokudera finally said curtly, and Yamamoto almost sobbed in relief, his hips already snapping forward on instinct.
They moved with frantic energy, bucking against the glass wantonly, barely a centimeter of separation away from the rest of London’s streets.
“Go-kudera,” Yamamoto huffed laughingly, helpless to stop himself. “I’m almost jealous of them outside; that policeman, you think he sees us? Pants around our ankles, you sliding against the glass? Gokudera, will they see us if the look close enough?”
The broken moans from under him were delicious and spiked hot in Yamamoto’s belly. He surged forward, again and again, uncaring of how much they were shaking the glass walls, not caring if onlookers were trying to see inside or hearing the long, drawn out notes of sex they made. Reaching around, he grasped Gokudera’s cock, fingers stroking and twisting. At his touch, Gokudera gasped a filthy curse and tensed as he came all over the one-way mirror.
Yamamoto slammed his hips forward, closing in on the end himself. Outside, a group of teens wandered by, pointing and laughing at the toilet. They jostled each other jokingly; finally, one tentatively approached the stall. The boy’s hands closed on the handle; his face was inches away, close enough for Yamamoto to see his hazel eyes, amused and sightless, completely unaware of the toilet occupants. And that was it. The orgasm hit him like a ten-ton boulder, his back bowing over Gokudera, mouth open in a silent groan. Gokudera shuddered against the wall, and the boy, close enough to kiss, to feel the warmth from inside the thin glass, nearly tripped on his own feet scrambling away. The boys laughed uproariously as the kid’s ears turned bright red; they moved off, and Yamamoto and Gokudera were left behind, sagging against the wall in a see-through cubicle.
“…Well.” Gokudera finally rasped, straightening his shirt and tie with pale, trembling hands, “Now will you shut up?”
----
I am pretty sure the cubicle isn't there anymore. Then again, I didn't visit the Tate Britain last time I was in London, so who knows? The toilet does exist in Switzerland. It seems like a lot of people really do at least fantasize about getting it on in there, if not actually doing so. Most people who try to use it end up being too nervous to pee/poo. They were thinking about putting one in Dallas, but decided against it. Why, yes I do find this toilet hilarious.
I won't lie. This piece makes me want to bury my head in the ground a little. Obviously, I will never be able to have kinky one-way glass sex ever in my life without my head spontaneously combusting from embarrassment.
Prompt: #118
WC: 1749
A/N: Oh hell, I made myself blush writing this. Upon rereading, I found my writing a bit uneven and slapdash (well, I suppose this is what I get for writing at ass o clock in the mornings of final weeks), but I had too much fun with it to not share.
FOR SOME MOOD MUSIC!!! aka this is what I grimly listened to on a loop when struggling through writing smut scenes.
Touch me - Cast of Spring Awakening
PDA (we just don't care) - John Legend
Yamamoto had always been a hands-on, public-display-of-affection sort of guy. Never thought twice about slinging an arm around a buddy, ruffling some kid’s hair, or patting a teammate on the bum. Gokudera, his if-you-call-me-your-boyfriend-I-will-fucking-castrate-you-with-a-rusty-razor boyfriend was less so, even if he was European, and Yamamoto had heard things about Europeans. He thought maybe Gokudera was just shy when they were in Japan, though it's true in the seven years they’d known each other, he’d never gotten away period with overly familiar behavior, even in private.
He thought maybe the no-PDA thing would change in Europe, where guys hugged and air-kissed all the time, so on their first free day in London, Yamamoto casually draped an arm around Gokudera’s shoulders as they rode the underground. Instead, the Storm Guardian immediately shrugged him off and glared, threatening to shove dynamite up somewhere inappropriate. The conductors on the Jubilee Line had given them a baleful look at the mention of explosives.
At the Tate Britain, they’d looked at paintings and other artsy stuff. When he was in the mood, Gokudera was the sort who could lose a whole day staring at dabs of paint on a canvas, though Yamamoto wasn’t sure exactly how he managed that without wanting to spork himself in the eye. He had gotten bored (naturally) as Gokudera contemplated the Millais Ophelia, so he’d dropped his chin down on Gokudera’s shoulder, and had been promptly shoved away. Still unfazed, he trotted after the Italian as they moved through the galleries, passing framed paintings of colorful geometric shapes, thin wobbly lines, and huge portraitures of old, dead folk. In front of a painting of Sara Siddons, Yamamoto noted how funny her small head looked on the full figure, prompting the Italian to comment acidly on his unsophistication. Then Yamamoto tried to hold his hand, and finally succeeded in irritating Gokudera to the point that Yamamoto found himself five minutes later hurrying after the other man out of the museum and onto the street.
“Don’t hang all over me,” Gokudera snapped when Yamamoto had finally caught up to him. “We have appearances to maintain.” He lit up, frustrated and cranky.
“Who’s going to recognize us here?” Yamamoto demanded. “I thought this was a date. Why can’t we act like it?”
“Are you stupid? We’re grown men! I don’t care if we’re in fucking bumfuck Antarctica, I’m not going to walk around arm-in-arm giggling and batting my eyelashes at you like some brainless idiot.” Gokudera stopped in front of a large, mirrored cube, pretending to ignore Yamamoto and read the object label to the side. His tall partner stuck his hands in his pocket and stared moodily back at their reflections in the mirror walls. He didn’t know what the hell it was, but he was able to catch Gokudera’s eyes in the reflection, when he couldn’t face-to-face.
“I didn’t mean it that way,” he said quietly. In the mirror, he refused to look away. “Just for today, I wanted to be close to you.”
They watched each other in the glass silently, Yamamoto willing Gokudera to give a little; he'd take whatever he could get.
Finally, Gokudera barked a short laugh and dropped his cigarette, crushing it under one heel; with the grim resignation of a soldier sent to the front lines, pulled open the door of the mirror and disappeared inside the cubicle. Yamamoto stood there, surprised and unsure. And then, Gokudera’s arm snaked out and fisted his tie. One jerk, and Yamamoto was stumbling through into the Bonvicini one-way mirror toilet.
Inside, he got a nasty shock; a modest stainless steel sink and toilet sat surrounded on all four sides by what appeared to be floor-to-ceiling windows. They were in a glass box with a john for company. For a moment he was jolted by panic and horrified embarrassment as a curious old lady peered intently across the far wall, blindly trying to see beyond the mirror surface.
“Oh my God,” Yamamoto squeaked, and then Gokudera stuck a hand down his pants. His partner started so badly they only narrowly missed an unfortunate incident involving hand jewelry and a certain body part. “What are you doing?!”
“This is what you want, right? To touch me in public,” Gokudera breathed, a husky rasp creeping into his tone, his mouth twisted into a sharp sneering leer. Green eyes flashed defiance and anger and lust from behind colorless lashes, and Gokudera’s lean, wiry body was pressing him against the mirrored wall.
“I- I don’t know if this is what I meant,” Yamamoto managed, then choked as Gokudera shut him up with the most obscenely lascivious kiss. He moaned, could feel himself hardening, even knowing that right now, yes, now, there was a couple laughingly waving and posing to their right, a kid making faces on their left, pigeons pecking alongside. His arms were pressed to the wall behind him, hands splayed against the cool surface and his squeezed his eyes shut, unable to repress a shudder as Gokudera pulled his belt loose, lazily drawing the fine Italian leather through the loops and unceremoniously shoving his pants down.
“Keep your eyes open,” Gokudera ordered harshly, pushing him up hard against the wall, making one observer standing less than two feet behind Yamamoto jump back nervously, laughing. “This is the closest you’ll get to a public relationship,” he continued, and rolled his hips.
Swallowing, Yamamoto could feel his heart racing, his face hot and flush. The curdling apprehension in his stomach was still there, but against him pressed Gokudera, heavy and pliant and eager and never had he been like this, even the few times they’d tumbled in anonymous hotel rooms. The Italian was full of salacious initiative; Yamamoto could almost be frightened, if he wasn’t so turned on. And even as what felt like half the human population ambled by them on all four sides, curiously looking at the mirror box, Yamamoto couldn’t help his quickening breath and the excited pace of his pulse jackhammering under his skin. And Gokudera, growling and running his tongue over his teeth like that…
Suddenly, Yamamoto groaned, snapping out of his daze. Gokudera made a noise of surprise as he was spun around and their positions reversed, Yamamoto shoving his partner’s back up against the wall and kissing so fiercely and needily Gokudera’s head thunked against the mirror, hair flattened out in thin silver threads. With an answering growl, Gokudera hooked a leg around Yamamoto, both arms encircling the Rain Guardian’s broad shoulders and wrenching their bodies even closer as he deepened the kiss.
One bony hand slid downwards, impatiently working at belt buckles and buttons and zippers, knuckles brushing tantalizingly against Yamamoto’s hard, naked erection and he had to break away and groan, shuddering.
“Don’t-stop-” Gokudera snapped, and his hand finally closed over him, lining them up. Yamamoto nearly cried at the sensation and pressed closer in, rutting helplessly against Gokudera.
“Four feet away,” Gokudera was whispering, warm breath in the shell of his ear. “That kid is taking a picture of this. He’s going to look at his pictures later, and see the mirrors and never know we were here. That woman thinks this is a vanity; she’s looking at you while fixing her lipstick.”
“How can you be so calm?” Yamamoto moaned, all frustration and high, tight lust. Gokudera grinned, fierce and sharp like a needle point of light, and licked his ear suggestively.
“Fuck me, Yamamoto. Do it in plain sight,” he drawled, his tongue flicking lightly against skin.
Yamamoto didn’t think; something in his brain was frying and sparking dangerously. He roughly turned Gokudera around and pushed him up against the glass so hard the whole structure quivered.
Outside, bystanders regarded them warily. An old man’s eyes widened, then narrowed as he guessed what was going on inside. Yamamoto didn’t care- he was fumbling a hastily located condom over his erection, hands shaking with urgency, Gokudera panting against the wall, his breath clouding over the glass and blurring the faces of passersby.
“Hurry the fuck up,” he snapped, voice thin and reedy. Yamamoto hurried. “Just do it.”
Other times, they took their time; slow stretching, plenty of lube, careful, tentative steps like following a manual. Right now, in front of a thousand strangers along the Thames, Yamamoto lined the tip up at the entrance and shoved in like a clumsy schoolboy.
Gokudera hissed, grit his teeth and Yamamoto clung to him, pressing his face against the back of the silver head, breathing harshly as he held absolutely still.
“….Go,” Gokudera finally said curtly, and Yamamoto almost sobbed in relief, his hips already snapping forward on instinct.
They moved with frantic energy, bucking against the glass wantonly, barely a centimeter of separation away from the rest of London’s streets.
“Go-kudera,” Yamamoto huffed laughingly, helpless to stop himself. “I’m almost jealous of them outside; that policeman, you think he sees us? Pants around our ankles, you sliding against the glass? Gokudera, will they see us if the look close enough?”
The broken moans from under him were delicious and spiked hot in Yamamoto’s belly. He surged forward, again and again, uncaring of how much they were shaking the glass walls, not caring if onlookers were trying to see inside or hearing the long, drawn out notes of sex they made. Reaching around, he grasped Gokudera’s cock, fingers stroking and twisting. At his touch, Gokudera gasped a filthy curse and tensed as he came all over the one-way mirror.
Yamamoto slammed his hips forward, closing in on the end himself. Outside, a group of teens wandered by, pointing and laughing at the toilet. They jostled each other jokingly; finally, one tentatively approached the stall. The boy’s hands closed on the handle; his face was inches away, close enough for Yamamoto to see his hazel eyes, amused and sightless, completely unaware of the toilet occupants. And that was it. The orgasm hit him like a ten-ton boulder, his back bowing over Gokudera, mouth open in a silent groan. Gokudera shuddered against the wall, and the boy, close enough to kiss, to feel the warmth from inside the thin glass, nearly tripped on his own feet scrambling away. The boys laughed uproariously as the kid’s ears turned bright red; they moved off, and Yamamoto and Gokudera were left behind, sagging against the wall in a see-through cubicle.
“…Well.” Gokudera finally rasped, straightening his shirt and tie with pale, trembling hands, “Now will you shut up?”
----
I am pretty sure the cubicle isn't there anymore. Then again, I didn't visit the Tate Britain last time I was in London, so who knows? The toilet does exist in Switzerland. It seems like a lot of people really do at least fantasize about getting it on in there, if not actually doing so. Most people who try to use it end up being too nervous to pee/poo. They were thinking about putting one in Dallas, but decided against it. Why, yes I do find this toilet hilarious.
I won't lie. This piece makes me want to bury my head in the ground a little. Obviously, I will never be able to have kinky one-way glass sex ever in my life without my head spontaneously combusting from embarrassment.