8: The Couch
Title: 9mm Kimber 1911(explicit)
Author: roxiezeke
Prompt: 8. The couch
Wordcount: 2398
***
"Yeah, supper's cool," Yamamoto said into his pink cellular device; it was cradled between his shoulder and his ear so he was talking with a bit of a strain. That and he had a bit of blood on his cheek that wasn't coming off, "Uh, yeah, I'll meet you there in uh," Yamamoto checked his watch which he had looted from his resent assignment, "40?" He grabbed some moist tissues and started to clean off his cheek. Finally the blood was coming off, "I'm in China Town," He laughed out, "So 40? Yeah, I can make it. I'll drive fast." Yamamoto tossed the tissue onto his passenger seat and smiled into his rear-view mirror, "Alrighty. See you then? I miss you."
Yamamoto laughed and flipped shut his loaner phone and stepped into his car, checking his appearance again in the flip down mirror. He fiddled with his hair for a moment and took off the pair of reading glasses he was wearing and hooked them up on his rear-view mirror. Never knew when he'd have to change his appearance. He pulled the keys out of his jeans and revved up his old car. The car hiccupped into life and his rough music started up. He sped right out of the parking lot with the dead body of a hooker in his trunk.
***
The restaurant was really tiny and a packed tight. But he spotted his date sitting at a window table with a menu splayed out in front of him. Yamamoto rushed over and sat down across from the Italian and stole a sip from his partners red wine, "What's the special?"
"Fuck if I know," The silver-haired male spat out at him with a disapproving sneer.
"Soup?" Yamamoto asked hopefully, peaking at the menu his partner had.
"It's the middle of summer. How the fuck could you want soup?"
The darker-haired male laughed merrily and said with a sloppy grin, "I don't know. But I think I want some."
"Summer. It's the middle of July and you want soup."
"Yeah."
"Fine, whatever. You know what, fuck. If you want supper in the middle of fucking July go right ahead and have fucking soup."
"What're you having?"
"I don't know."
***
People had a lot of blood in them. Yamamoto had known that from the start. But every time he hit some rich guy over the head with a hammer he was surprised as the blood splattered over him even after years in the profession.
It was out at an abandoned work shop. A real nice place too. Big parking lot and state-of-the-art equipment. If Yamamoto didn't love his current job he would maybe apply here. He was good with his hands and maybe it'd even pay well. Yamamoto snatched up a hammer from a stray workbench as he pressed his way in. He had his pair of bolt clippers in his other hand and he was planning to finish it off with them but things might go astray. Maybe.
The guy was still at his work bench and he didn't even hear Yamamoto come up behind him with the bolt clippers. He did, however, feel the metal on the back of his neck and he jerked forward. He whipped around to see Yamamoto standing there, his reading glasses in place and a strong frown on his face. Yamamoto cocked an eyebrow and smiled at him, ditching the bolt cutters and slamming the head of the hammer hard enough to score a homerun if he was swinging for a baseball game.
Blood splattered all up his shirt and on his face. He bent down and smashed the hammer against the side of the guy's cranium, just in case, and got even more blood all over himself. Yamamoto stood after his job well done and took off his glasses. He looked around the guys work bench and sat down. The guy was working on this real nice piece of wire work. Something that he would defiantly like. Yamamoto pocketed the art and shuffled around the rest of the desk and found a stash of tiny jewels. He'd take them in later to see if they were real or not.
His cell phone went off when he was half-bite into the guys midnight snack. He pulled out his pink loaner phone and flipped it open, "Hello?"
A smile crossed Yamamoto's face as he munched on a banana, "I'm just finishing something off, why?" Yamamoto held his cell phone between his shoulder and ear as he started to tear up the guys peanut-butter and jam sandwich into tiny bite sized pieces, "Yeah I can make it over. I'm just at that new metal-work shop. Yeah that one." Yamamoto popped a bit into his mouth and frowned at the taste. He swallowed it anyways, "See you then?"
Yamamoto hung up and pocketed the phone again. He rose and looked down at the dead body briefly before leaving the shop with his bolt cutters and that hammer because it was really nice.
***
"Hey, do you know what's in this?" Yamamoto asked as he sat down, tossing the chunks of sandwich onto the silver-haired mans plate, "I couldn't figure it out."
Yamamoto just smiled at the glare he was dealt, "What am I, a chef?" the Italian swore before popping one piece into his mouth, "Tastes like peanut-butter and fish salt."
"Salt water?"
A sigh of exasperation, "Fuck, yes, salt water." The Italian swore at Yamamoto briefly before sighing, "So how did it go?"
"I got you something!" Yamamoto beamed, pulling the wirework art out of his pocket and giving it to the Italian, "He was working on it when I saw him." Yamamoto informed, smiling even as Gokudera started to bend the carefully placed wires just because he could.
"I got myself a cat." The Italian informed, "This bitch, hey, was fucking around so her husband called us up and she had a cat. I couldn't leave it there." The Italian said, kicking his feet up on the table. The silver-haired man made a sound of disapproval, "Thing eats like a fucker."
"Salt water fish?"
"What the fuck?" The Italian questioned, smacking the side of Yamamoto's head, "It eats cat food. Like normal cats. Its name is Uri."
"Melons then. You should feed it melons."
"No for Christ's sake the thing is eating cat food! End of story!"
***
The Italian didn't phone him for three days so the forth day of not calling Yamamoto called him. He was parked on an old highway bridge where he'd just dumped the body of a butcher and he had his pink loaner phone between his shoulder and ear again. "Uh, tomorrow, want to come to the graveyard with me?" Yamamoto knew he was short and choppy but he had a reason to be. The connection was bad, but then again, Yamamoto was far out from the city. The Italian said something and Yamamoto nodded in response, even if his partner couldn't see it. "Sure. Flowers would be nice," Yamamoto mused smoothly with a sigh. "Okay," And the line when dead.
Yamamoto leaned back on his car for a while until the smell of dead butcher really got to him. He sat himself down in his old car and cranked it to life. By the time he was closer to the city he couldn't even smell his pine air-freshener anymore.
***
By the time Yamamoto reached the grave site, his partner was already there with a bundle of what looked to be hand picked flowers, "Hey," Yamamoto breathed out with a half-smile.
"You're late," The Italian snapped, flicking the flowers in Yamamoto's direction, "And don't feed me some bullshit story like the florist took his time or whatever. I told you 1pm sharp."
Yamamoto blanked, his jaw dropped and his shoulders fell, "But the florist did take his time." He paused and looked at the silver-haired man's face; he bowed his head, "Sorry."
"Don't say sorry you fucker," The Italian swore, looking down at the graves. He softened his tone and flicked his hair out of his eyes, "It cost a lot to get them buried, hey?"
"A decent amount." Yamamoto said, putting the roses down by the headstone. He felt tears sink into his cheeks and he quickly rubbed them away but more kept coming despite his best efforts.
The Italian laughed, "An assassin crying. What are you, a pussy?"
"I know I know," Yamamoto chided, still trying to stop the tears but they wouldn't stop, "It's just-"
"They're your parents, I get it," the silver-haired man said with a shrug, putting his flowers down on the grave site before standing back up. He looked over at Yamamoto before yanking the crying assassin down by his tie and giving his an open mouth kiss.
The kiss was surprisingly tender, especially since it was coming from the Italian but Yamamoto wasn't going to complain. He put his hands awkwardly on his partners shoulders and said partner was fisting Yamamoto's shirt collar and Yamamoto was internally wincing as he heart some seams pop. It wasn't a very expensive shirt.
Yamamoto pulled away first. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked quickly away from his grave, "Uh, thanks," He muttered from behind his hand, eyeing the Italian who was simply standing there as if nothing had happened.
"Whatever."
"So how's Uri?" Yamamoto asked smally, looking back at the graves of his parent.
The Italian shrugged, "It killed a bird and left it on my pillow so I kicked it out." He said with a snarl, "Fucking bastard."
"Hey, do you think my parents could see the blood?"
"Huh?"
"On my hands, I mean, because I've got a lot." Yamamoto explained, holding out his hands palm up.
The Italian let out a puff of air and shrugged, "So do I. You don't see me wondering about any of that stuff."
"Yeah."
***
Yamamoto rarely got visitors that he didn't invite over. Once and a while one of his old teammates from high school would show up at his front porch and he'd let them in but at 10 to midnight Yamamoto was not expecting his doorbell to ring. He peeped through the eyehole once he made his way to the door and saw the silver-haired Italian standing there with a bottle of red wine, a six pack of some German beer, and a bottle of Baileys.
Yamamoto quickly unlocked his five door locks and ushered the man in, "What are you doing here, it's almost midnight."
There was a casual half-shrug on the Italian's part, "Because."
"Alright."
***
Yamamoto lay out a place for the silver-haired man on his couch complete with a blanket and pillow he had pilfered from a nice old lady that had been at the wrong place at the wrong time. The Italian didn't seem to mind as he lay down on the couch after his shower. He was towel drying his hair and Yamamoto was just watching from his coffee table. He was ringing together his fingers and when he opened his mouth to ask the Italian something but the Italian was faster.
"Move, you're in the way of the TV," He spat out, trying to push Yamamoto out of the way but Yamamoto grabbed his wrist and pulled it to his lips.
"Thank you for today," He murmured against the Italians wrist, moving up and kissing the palm, "You didn't need to come." He pulled a digit into his mouth and caressed it with his tongue. He closed his eyes and continued with his ministrations, lavishing the Italians hand with attention and care.
The Italian scoffed, but it wasn't very hateful, "I'm not going to marry you or anything."
Yamamoto pulled back and pushed him back onto the couch; he smiled down at the silver-haired man and said, "I've never expected you to."
The Italian looked away at the TV, then back up at Yamamoto and said distastefully, "You're more interesting" and pulled him down for another kiss. Yamamoto made a sound of surprise but he recovered quickly and pushed down towards his partner and ground their hips together.
There was a sharp intake of breath on both sides but the Italian recovered fastest and slid his hands down Yamamoto's shirt and managed to undo the mans belt and fly with only one hand. He had always been talented. Yamamoto had more issues with the Italian's belts so the man just swatted away Yamamoto and undid them himself, "Incompetent," Then he yanked Yamamoto back down to kiss him.
Yamamoto was panting as he ground himself down on the Italian and the Italian was pulling on his hair so hard Yamamoto thought he'd go bald. The silver-haired man never closed his eyes and he kept them pasted on Yamamoto's eyes and Yamamoto had to say that the Italian's eyes were so perfect that they were imperfect. "Keep eye contact," The Italian commanded, yanking on Yamamoto's hair again, "Don't look away,"
"Alright, alright," Yamamoto panted out as he cupped his own dick in his hand, "Yeah yeah, got it."
"You're still incompetent," He hissed out, pulling on Yamamoto's hair again before letting one hand go down between them to grasp Yamamoto's cock. He jerked his hand back and forth and Yamamoto gasped but didn't break eye contact.
Then the Italian did something, something, with his wrist that involved both his balls and his cock and Yamamoto arched forward, gasped out a name, closed his eyes and came.
"Gokudera!"
***
127 Easterber Street was a really nice house Yamamoto marveled as he walked up to the mansion thing. He had his 9mm Kimber 1911 in his pocket and he rang the doorbell once.
A sweet old lady opened the door with a bright smile, "Oh, what a strapping young man, please do come in."
Yamamoto smiled at her, pushed up his reading glasses and shot her in the windpipe. He waited until she stepped back and fell over before closing the really nice oak door and leaving the house behind him. He pocketed the gun, looked in his rear-view mirror and saw he had some blood on his forehead that wouldn't come off when his pink loaner phone vibrated in his breast pocket.
He flipped it open and held it to his ear, "Hey." A pause, "Yeah, supper's cool."
Author: roxiezeke
Prompt: 8. The couch
Wordcount: 2398
***
"Yeah, supper's cool," Yamamoto said into his pink cellular device; it was cradled between his shoulder and his ear so he was talking with a bit of a strain. That and he had a bit of blood on his cheek that wasn't coming off, "Uh, yeah, I'll meet you there in uh," Yamamoto checked his watch which he had looted from his resent assignment, "40?" He grabbed some moist tissues and started to clean off his cheek. Finally the blood was coming off, "I'm in China Town," He laughed out, "So 40? Yeah, I can make it. I'll drive fast." Yamamoto tossed the tissue onto his passenger seat and smiled into his rear-view mirror, "Alrighty. See you then? I miss you."
Yamamoto laughed and flipped shut his loaner phone and stepped into his car, checking his appearance again in the flip down mirror. He fiddled with his hair for a moment and took off the pair of reading glasses he was wearing and hooked them up on his rear-view mirror. Never knew when he'd have to change his appearance. He pulled the keys out of his jeans and revved up his old car. The car hiccupped into life and his rough music started up. He sped right out of the parking lot with the dead body of a hooker in his trunk.
***
The restaurant was really tiny and a packed tight. But he spotted his date sitting at a window table with a menu splayed out in front of him. Yamamoto rushed over and sat down across from the Italian and stole a sip from his partners red wine, "What's the special?"
"Fuck if I know," The silver-haired male spat out at him with a disapproving sneer.
"Soup?" Yamamoto asked hopefully, peaking at the menu his partner had.
"It's the middle of summer. How the fuck could you want soup?"
The darker-haired male laughed merrily and said with a sloppy grin, "I don't know. But I think I want some."
"Summer. It's the middle of July and you want soup."
"Yeah."
"Fine, whatever. You know what, fuck. If you want supper in the middle of fucking July go right ahead and have fucking soup."
"What're you having?"
"I don't know."
***
People had a lot of blood in them. Yamamoto had known that from the start. But every time he hit some rich guy over the head with a hammer he was surprised as the blood splattered over him even after years in the profession.
It was out at an abandoned work shop. A real nice place too. Big parking lot and state-of-the-art equipment. If Yamamoto didn't love his current job he would maybe apply here. He was good with his hands and maybe it'd even pay well. Yamamoto snatched up a hammer from a stray workbench as he pressed his way in. He had his pair of bolt clippers in his other hand and he was planning to finish it off with them but things might go astray. Maybe.
The guy was still at his work bench and he didn't even hear Yamamoto come up behind him with the bolt clippers. He did, however, feel the metal on the back of his neck and he jerked forward. He whipped around to see Yamamoto standing there, his reading glasses in place and a strong frown on his face. Yamamoto cocked an eyebrow and smiled at him, ditching the bolt cutters and slamming the head of the hammer hard enough to score a homerun if he was swinging for a baseball game.
Blood splattered all up his shirt and on his face. He bent down and smashed the hammer against the side of the guy's cranium, just in case, and got even more blood all over himself. Yamamoto stood after his job well done and took off his glasses. He looked around the guys work bench and sat down. The guy was working on this real nice piece of wire work. Something that he would defiantly like. Yamamoto pocketed the art and shuffled around the rest of the desk and found a stash of tiny jewels. He'd take them in later to see if they were real or not.
His cell phone went off when he was half-bite into the guys midnight snack. He pulled out his pink loaner phone and flipped it open, "Hello?"
A smile crossed Yamamoto's face as he munched on a banana, "I'm just finishing something off, why?" Yamamoto held his cell phone between his shoulder and ear as he started to tear up the guys peanut-butter and jam sandwich into tiny bite sized pieces, "Yeah I can make it over. I'm just at that new metal-work shop. Yeah that one." Yamamoto popped a bit into his mouth and frowned at the taste. He swallowed it anyways, "See you then?"
Yamamoto hung up and pocketed the phone again. He rose and looked down at the dead body briefly before leaving the shop with his bolt cutters and that hammer because it was really nice.
***
"Hey, do you know what's in this?" Yamamoto asked as he sat down, tossing the chunks of sandwich onto the silver-haired mans plate, "I couldn't figure it out."
Yamamoto just smiled at the glare he was dealt, "What am I, a chef?" the Italian swore before popping one piece into his mouth, "Tastes like peanut-butter and fish salt."
"Salt water?"
A sigh of exasperation, "Fuck, yes, salt water." The Italian swore at Yamamoto briefly before sighing, "So how did it go?"
"I got you something!" Yamamoto beamed, pulling the wirework art out of his pocket and giving it to the Italian, "He was working on it when I saw him." Yamamoto informed, smiling even as Gokudera started to bend the carefully placed wires just because he could.
"I got myself a cat." The Italian informed, "This bitch, hey, was fucking around so her husband called us up and she had a cat. I couldn't leave it there." The Italian said, kicking his feet up on the table. The silver-haired man made a sound of disapproval, "Thing eats like a fucker."
"Salt water fish?"
"What the fuck?" The Italian questioned, smacking the side of Yamamoto's head, "It eats cat food. Like normal cats. Its name is Uri."
"Melons then. You should feed it melons."
"No for Christ's sake the thing is eating cat food! End of story!"
***
The Italian didn't phone him for three days so the forth day of not calling Yamamoto called him. He was parked on an old highway bridge where he'd just dumped the body of a butcher and he had his pink loaner phone between his shoulder and ear again. "Uh, tomorrow, want to come to the graveyard with me?" Yamamoto knew he was short and choppy but he had a reason to be. The connection was bad, but then again, Yamamoto was far out from the city. The Italian said something and Yamamoto nodded in response, even if his partner couldn't see it. "Sure. Flowers would be nice," Yamamoto mused smoothly with a sigh. "Okay," And the line when dead.
Yamamoto leaned back on his car for a while until the smell of dead butcher really got to him. He sat himself down in his old car and cranked it to life. By the time he was closer to the city he couldn't even smell his pine air-freshener anymore.
***
By the time Yamamoto reached the grave site, his partner was already there with a bundle of what looked to be hand picked flowers, "Hey," Yamamoto breathed out with a half-smile.
"You're late," The Italian snapped, flicking the flowers in Yamamoto's direction, "And don't feed me some bullshit story like the florist took his time or whatever. I told you 1pm sharp."
Yamamoto blanked, his jaw dropped and his shoulders fell, "But the florist did take his time." He paused and looked at the silver-haired man's face; he bowed his head, "Sorry."
"Don't say sorry you fucker," The Italian swore, looking down at the graves. He softened his tone and flicked his hair out of his eyes, "It cost a lot to get them buried, hey?"
"A decent amount." Yamamoto said, putting the roses down by the headstone. He felt tears sink into his cheeks and he quickly rubbed them away but more kept coming despite his best efforts.
The Italian laughed, "An assassin crying. What are you, a pussy?"
"I know I know," Yamamoto chided, still trying to stop the tears but they wouldn't stop, "It's just-"
"They're your parents, I get it," the silver-haired man said with a shrug, putting his flowers down on the grave site before standing back up. He looked over at Yamamoto before yanking the crying assassin down by his tie and giving his an open mouth kiss.
The kiss was surprisingly tender, especially since it was coming from the Italian but Yamamoto wasn't going to complain. He put his hands awkwardly on his partners shoulders and said partner was fisting Yamamoto's shirt collar and Yamamoto was internally wincing as he heart some seams pop. It wasn't a very expensive shirt.
Yamamoto pulled away first. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked quickly away from his grave, "Uh, thanks," He muttered from behind his hand, eyeing the Italian who was simply standing there as if nothing had happened.
"Whatever."
"So how's Uri?" Yamamoto asked smally, looking back at the graves of his parent.
The Italian shrugged, "It killed a bird and left it on my pillow so I kicked it out." He said with a snarl, "Fucking bastard."
"Hey, do you think my parents could see the blood?"
"Huh?"
"On my hands, I mean, because I've got a lot." Yamamoto explained, holding out his hands palm up.
The Italian let out a puff of air and shrugged, "So do I. You don't see me wondering about any of that stuff."
"Yeah."
***
Yamamoto rarely got visitors that he didn't invite over. Once and a while one of his old teammates from high school would show up at his front porch and he'd let them in but at 10 to midnight Yamamoto was not expecting his doorbell to ring. He peeped through the eyehole once he made his way to the door and saw the silver-haired Italian standing there with a bottle of red wine, a six pack of some German beer, and a bottle of Baileys.
Yamamoto quickly unlocked his five door locks and ushered the man in, "What are you doing here, it's almost midnight."
There was a casual half-shrug on the Italian's part, "Because."
"Alright."
***
Yamamoto lay out a place for the silver-haired man on his couch complete with a blanket and pillow he had pilfered from a nice old lady that had been at the wrong place at the wrong time. The Italian didn't seem to mind as he lay down on the couch after his shower. He was towel drying his hair and Yamamoto was just watching from his coffee table. He was ringing together his fingers and when he opened his mouth to ask the Italian something but the Italian was faster.
"Move, you're in the way of the TV," He spat out, trying to push Yamamoto out of the way but Yamamoto grabbed his wrist and pulled it to his lips.
"Thank you for today," He murmured against the Italians wrist, moving up and kissing the palm, "You didn't need to come." He pulled a digit into his mouth and caressed it with his tongue. He closed his eyes and continued with his ministrations, lavishing the Italians hand with attention and care.
The Italian scoffed, but it wasn't very hateful, "I'm not going to marry you or anything."
Yamamoto pulled back and pushed him back onto the couch; he smiled down at the silver-haired man and said, "I've never expected you to."
The Italian looked away at the TV, then back up at Yamamoto and said distastefully, "You're more interesting" and pulled him down for another kiss. Yamamoto made a sound of surprise but he recovered quickly and pushed down towards his partner and ground their hips together.
There was a sharp intake of breath on both sides but the Italian recovered fastest and slid his hands down Yamamoto's shirt and managed to undo the mans belt and fly with only one hand. He had always been talented. Yamamoto had more issues with the Italian's belts so the man just swatted away Yamamoto and undid them himself, "Incompetent," Then he yanked Yamamoto back down to kiss him.
Yamamoto was panting as he ground himself down on the Italian and the Italian was pulling on his hair so hard Yamamoto thought he'd go bald. The silver-haired man never closed his eyes and he kept them pasted on Yamamoto's eyes and Yamamoto had to say that the Italian's eyes were so perfect that they were imperfect. "Keep eye contact," The Italian commanded, yanking on Yamamoto's hair again, "Don't look away,"
"Alright, alright," Yamamoto panted out as he cupped his own dick in his hand, "Yeah yeah, got it."
"You're still incompetent," He hissed out, pulling on Yamamoto's hair again before letting one hand go down between them to grasp Yamamoto's cock. He jerked his hand back and forth and Yamamoto gasped but didn't break eye contact.
Then the Italian did something, something, with his wrist that involved both his balls and his cock and Yamamoto arched forward, gasped out a name, closed his eyes and came.
"Gokudera!"
***
127 Easterber Street was a really nice house Yamamoto marveled as he walked up to the mansion thing. He had his 9mm Kimber 1911 in his pocket and he rang the doorbell once.
A sweet old lady opened the door with a bright smile, "Oh, what a strapping young man, please do come in."
Yamamoto smiled at her, pushed up his reading glasses and shot her in the windpipe. He waited until she stepped back and fell over before closing the really nice oak door and leaving the house behind him. He pocketed the gun, looked in his rear-view mirror and saw he had some blood on his forehead that wouldn't come off when his pink loaner phone vibrated in his breast pocket.
He flipped it open and held it to his ear, "Hey." A pause, "Yeah, supper's cool."