139. IN A WEDDING DRESS + WEDDING TUX IN A HOT AIR BALLOON
Title: Something Borrowed, Something Ridiculous
Author: saxondogs
Prompt: 139. IN A WEDDING DRESS + WEDDING TUX IN A HOT AIR BALLOON
WC: 1,866
Notes: In which I prove how pointless and nonsensical I can make things. And also, Gokudera has more mood swings than a manic depressive cat on crack. Also, bad language. And it's AU. Yeah, that's kind of important...
For not the first (nor last) time in his life, Gokudera cursed his sister and hoped to die. The twenty-year old college student gripped the gondola side and shook with nerves and utter fury.
“Calm down, Gokudera-kun, haha. It’s not that bad,” reassured the tall, pro-baseball player next to him.
“Yes,” Gokudera forced through gritted teeth. “It is that bad, you happy moron. In fact, it’s worse.” A pale pink strand of plastic hair flew into his mouth, and he released one lace-covered hand to grip at the slipping wig. Yamamoto patted his shoulder consolingly and waved to the onlookers far below them.
“Only another twenty minutes,” he reminded, his hand lingering on Gokudera’s shoulder. The bewigged boy tried to shrug it off.
“Hand off,” he hissed, and bared a smile that looked more horrible than blissful. “And if this lasts longer than twenty minutes, you better hope there’s still enough of you to get out of this damn basket!”
“Hahaha,” laughed Yamamoto and only inched closer. “Don’t worry, you are holding up very well. The dress looks nearly as good on you as it does on Bianchi-san.”
Clearly, this idiot had taken one too many bats to the head, because he had just verbally confirmed his own death-warrant, Gokudera concluded grimly.
If only, Gokudera thought, Bianchi had been eaten by wild and rabid squirrels when she was younger. If only she had never met the mysterious Reborn and fallen head-over-heels for the intriguing asshole. If only Reborn had not disappeared (not that Gokudera blamed him). If only she had not then met Yamamoto Takeshi, prodigy baseball player and all-around nice guy. If only Gokudera’s father, head of a Very Important and Socially Prominent Italian family, was not so intent on marrying off his daughter in a high-publicity wedding to the rising baseball star. If only Reborn had not shown up the morning of the intended nuptials and immediately prompted Bianchi to give chase, thus leaving behind a wedding with no bride. If only Gokudera’s father and Yamamoto’s publicist Haru were not abso-fucking-lutely insane, Gokudera might not have been forced to play in this outrageous deception featuring Bianchi’s wedding dress, a pink wig, Yamamoto in his tux, a ceremony, and a reception involving a hot air balloon drifting over the hordes of news reporters and spectators crowded on the cliffs along the coast.
If only.
“That’s it!” Gokudera cried, his rising panic and desperation bursting through his dam of tolerance.
“What- Gokudera-kun! No, wait!” Yamamoto lunged as Gokudera attempted to climb over the balloon basket and hurl himself to blessed death.
“No, don’t hold me back! Don’t hold me back!” shouted the Italian boy, struggling with the yards and yards of white lace and silk. “Curse my thrice-damned sister! I will not live like this, forced to crossdress and faux-married to a baseball idiot!! Goddamn what is with this stupid gown!” he added with a muttered growl, “I think the lace just ate my hand.”
Yamamoto took advantage of Gokudera’s frustrated distraction and pulled him back from the edge. The basket rocked, and the two of them tumbled into a corner, a bundle of dismayed shouts, silk, and limbs.
“Mmmff! Let go!”
“I’m trying- aha, ow please don’t kick me!”
“I’ll do more than kick if you don’t clear off right now!”
There were more fumbling, more jerking attempts to untangle themselves. Somehow, it only seemed to create more trouble. The spectators down below watched the shaking balloon basket and tittered, deliciously shocked and scandalized.
And then, just when Gokudera finally figured out which limbs were his, he felt something small and hard pushing insistently against the small of his back.
Gokudera froze in shock.
“You-you’re,” he spluttered, twisting around. When he caught the flush on Yamamoto’s face, shock turned into rage. “You’ve got nerve, to be turned on by this!”
“Sorry,” the athlete said with a nervous chuckle. “It’s distracting, you know, you on my lap, wiggling and all.”
“I do not wiggle!” Gokudera exclaimed, outraged. “And I do not want to be on your lap!” He struggled fiercely, trying to pry Yamamoto’s strong fingers from about his waist. Instead, to his horror, the man behind him pulled him tighter against his chest, and Gokudera felt a tentative nuzzle against his neck.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!” Gokudera shrieked.
“Um,” Yamamoto replied articulately. “Well. You smell really good, actually. What do you use?”
“Commercial soap! Get off!!”
“No,” Yamamoto replied simply. “This is for your own protection.”
Oh God, Gokudera thought, horrified. “Who’s going to protect me from you, you perverse fucker?!” he demanded, flailing uselessly and dislodging the pink wig from his silver head.
“I won’t do anything you don’t want me to,” Yamamoto reassured him, all while his long, tapered fingers were running up and down the front of Gokudera’s dress, tracing the silken embroideries way too intimately.
“Oh, you’ve already gone way beyond that,” Gokudera shot back, fingernails digging into Yamamoto’s arms. The baseball player winced, but didn’t let go. “All I wanted was to be an explosives expert, maybe work for the military, and stay the hell away from my insane family,” the college student moaned. “Why is that too much to ask-OH MY GOD YOUR FACE OFF MY NECK NOW.”
“You taste good too,” Yamamoto observed cheerfully, gave the developing hickey another lick, and despite himself, Gokudera shuddered before staring at Yamamoto.
“….Man, who the hell are you? Why are you not panicking? You are now married to a boy. And in a hot air balloon.”
Yamamoto paused, and then noted, “Yeah, well your sister ran off with an armed midget in a top hat. I figure I’ll keep it in perspective.”
Gokudera slumped upon hearing that, and sank into a mass of white frothy fabric. “I hate everyone. Fine. Do whatever the hell you want. It’s clear I’m getting no respect today anyways,” Gokudera snarled acidly.
“Great,” Yamamoto said enthusiastically, his hand diving for a certain part of Gokudera’s lower anatomy.
The basket rocked. The audience giggled.
“YOU PERVERSE FUCKER THAT’S IT YOU ARE GOING OVERMMMMMFFRGHGAAAHHH KEEP THAT TONGUE AWAY FROM ME-MNNNFFRFMM!!”
“Gokudera-kun, you really do look beautiful,” Yamamoto breathed against Gokudera’s lips, one hand slipping somewhere under the miles and miles of wedding gown.
“Y-you call me beautiful again and I’ll pour nitroglycerin down your throat,” rasped Gokudera, punctuating his words with a sharp backwards elbow-jab. Too bad Yamamoto was all hard, toned muscle. Ugh. “Seriously, hands off. Nnngh!”
“Finally,” Yamamoto murmured as his hands found the elastic boxer band and slipped inside with little preamble.
“Holy SHIT,” Gokudera shouted, and nearly choked on his next breath. “Oh my god you’re fucking serious.”
“Hahaha,” Yamamoto laughed, and Gokudera would have decked his face in for that stupid sound except hello, handjob.
“I’m not my sister, you bastard,” Gokudera managed hoarsely, even as a skilled hand was stroking him to hardness beneath the layers of his sister’s wedding gown.
“I know.”
“I’ve- we don’t even kn-know each other!”
Smiling, Yamamoto licked Gokudera’s ear. “Plenty of time in the future!”
“I’m not a girl!”
That did give the other man a pause, and Gokudera cursed himself for nearly groaning at the stop of movement.
“Well, good, since otherwise this wouldn’t work,” Yamamoto said, and threw in a little twist of his wrist that had Gokudera arching up, gasping.
“But- you don’t-”
Quite firmly, his lips were covered, and the words were wiped right out of his mind as Yamamoto cranked the kiss from hot up to mind-blowing.
When they emerged for breath seconds or maybe minutes, possibly even days later, Gokudera was flushed, panting, and completely disoriented. So, when Yamamoto asked if he could you know, and Gokudera just sort of gurgled incoherently, the baseball player took initiative and set about doing you know.
Except, the glazed look jumped ship off of Gokudera’s face as soon as he heard the tell-tale unzipping, and the next thing Yamamoto knew, Gokudera had bolted to the other side of the basket and was busy trying to climb one of the ropes attaching the wicker gondola to the balloon.
“Whoa, whoa whoa! Okay, okay! That’s a no, I get it! I get it!!” Yamamoto shouted, scrambling to his feet and holding his hands up in a placating gesture. “Come back down, it’s dangerous!”
“Of course that’s a no, you lackwit! Get away from me! Don’t come near me! Stay right there!” Gokudera demanded shrilly.
“Alright, I’m not moving. Come down, Gokudera-kun, it’s okay, we won’t do anything. I’ll just sit here, and you sit there.”
Ranting, Gokudera put one foot down into the basket. “What kind of cheap slag do you think I am anyways? Who the fuck puts out the first hour after meeting-WHOA.”
The wind had chosen that moment to give a little puff, which unluckily enough for our little bride, caught the heavy folds of fabric and sent Gokudera overbalancing along the wicker rail.
“Gokudera!” Yamamoto shouted, and dove after the other man. He managed to grab the skirt and on the upswing of the swaying basket, threw an arm around Gokudera’s waist and hauled him into the basket. They stumbled and clung to the sides as the basket rocked violently, then when the gondola had evened out some, exchanged wide-eyed looks.
“Thanks,” Gokudera muttered, bright red and slightly shaky. Yamamoto shook his head.
“No problem,” he said, faintly and tugged at his bow with a rattling sort of sigh.
There was another brief silence, and then Gokudera snorted. As the baseball player watched with growing incredulity, Gokudera huffed, then chuckled, his laughs growing louder and genuine as he bent over, holding his sides.
“You- you!” Gokudera managed, “You, jumping around, s-saving people and l-looking so fucking scared, all with your d-dick hanging out-!!” He stopped, unable to continue.
“Oh,” Yamamoto looked down, and with a bark of embarrassment, tucked himself back in and zipped up. “Excuse me.”
That only made Gokudera shake his head silently, tears streaming down his face as his body wracked with silent laughter.
“You look nice when you laugh,” Yamamoto said, smiling. Gokudera’s chuckles slowed, but the wall had been broken, and a lopsided smile lingered on his sharp face.
“You’re sick in the head,” he said. Yamamoto laughed and scratched his temple.
“Thanks, I guess. You’re not bad yourself.”
Gokudera shook his head and hefted the rumpled dress about him heavily.
“Look, let’s start over, because this whole situation has been a little too surreal for me.”
Yamamoto grinned. “Sure,” he agreed. Gokudera stuck out a hand.
“Gokudera Hayato, twenty years old, third year chemistry and physics double major at the U.”
“Yamamoto Takeshi, twenty-one. I play major league baseball, and I really, really enjoyed meeting you.”
His pale face colored, but Gokudera refused to rise to the bait. Instead, he pretended to look at his watch, and then did a double-take.
“It’s been twenty minutes already,” he muttered, and glanced over the side, where land was now a distant line of brown against the ocean. “…WHERE THE HELL ARE WE?!”
Yamamoto laughed and was immediately sucker-punched by his frantic companion. As far as first dates went though, the athlete thought this one counted as success.
---
AN:
...and now you all realize what kind of crude humor I like. Hurhurhur, penis.
Bonus, because I just couldn't imagine this prompt without any sort of visual accompaniment.
*
Gokudera: Oh shi-!
Author: saxondogs
Prompt: 139. IN A WEDDING DRESS + WEDDING TUX IN A HOT AIR BALLOON
WC: 1,866
Notes: In which I prove how pointless and nonsensical I can make things. And also, Gokudera has more mood swings than a manic depressive cat on crack. Also, bad language. And it's AU. Yeah, that's kind of important...
For not the first (nor last) time in his life, Gokudera cursed his sister and hoped to die. The twenty-year old college student gripped the gondola side and shook with nerves and utter fury.
“Calm down, Gokudera-kun, haha. It’s not that bad,” reassured the tall, pro-baseball player next to him.
“Yes,” Gokudera forced through gritted teeth. “It is that bad, you happy moron. In fact, it’s worse.” A pale pink strand of plastic hair flew into his mouth, and he released one lace-covered hand to grip at the slipping wig. Yamamoto patted his shoulder consolingly and waved to the onlookers far below them.
“Only another twenty minutes,” he reminded, his hand lingering on Gokudera’s shoulder. The bewigged boy tried to shrug it off.
“Hand off,” he hissed, and bared a smile that looked more horrible than blissful. “And if this lasts longer than twenty minutes, you better hope there’s still enough of you to get out of this damn basket!”
“Hahaha,” laughed Yamamoto and only inched closer. “Don’t worry, you are holding up very well. The dress looks nearly as good on you as it does on Bianchi-san.”
Clearly, this idiot had taken one too many bats to the head, because he had just verbally confirmed his own death-warrant, Gokudera concluded grimly.
If only, Gokudera thought, Bianchi had been eaten by wild and rabid squirrels when she was younger. If only she had never met the mysterious Reborn and fallen head-over-heels for the intriguing asshole. If only Reborn had not disappeared (not that Gokudera blamed him). If only she had not then met Yamamoto Takeshi, prodigy baseball player and all-around nice guy. If only Gokudera’s father, head of a Very Important and Socially Prominent Italian family, was not so intent on marrying off his daughter in a high-publicity wedding to the rising baseball star. If only Reborn had not shown up the morning of the intended nuptials and immediately prompted Bianchi to give chase, thus leaving behind a wedding with no bride. If only Gokudera’s father and Yamamoto’s publicist Haru were not abso-fucking-lutely insane, Gokudera might not have been forced to play in this outrageous deception featuring Bianchi’s wedding dress, a pink wig, Yamamoto in his tux, a ceremony, and a reception involving a hot air balloon drifting over the hordes of news reporters and spectators crowded on the cliffs along the coast.
If only.
“That’s it!” Gokudera cried, his rising panic and desperation bursting through his dam of tolerance.
“What- Gokudera-kun! No, wait!” Yamamoto lunged as Gokudera attempted to climb over the balloon basket and hurl himself to blessed death.
“No, don’t hold me back! Don’t hold me back!” shouted the Italian boy, struggling with the yards and yards of white lace and silk. “Curse my thrice-damned sister! I will not live like this, forced to crossdress and faux-married to a baseball idiot!! Goddamn what is with this stupid gown!” he added with a muttered growl, “I think the lace just ate my hand.”
Yamamoto took advantage of Gokudera’s frustrated distraction and pulled him back from the edge. The basket rocked, and the two of them tumbled into a corner, a bundle of dismayed shouts, silk, and limbs.
“Mmmff! Let go!”
“I’m trying- aha, ow please don’t kick me!”
“I’ll do more than kick if you don’t clear off right now!”
There were more fumbling, more jerking attempts to untangle themselves. Somehow, it only seemed to create more trouble. The spectators down below watched the shaking balloon basket and tittered, deliciously shocked and scandalized.
And then, just when Gokudera finally figured out which limbs were his, he felt something small and hard pushing insistently against the small of his back.
Gokudera froze in shock.
“You-you’re,” he spluttered, twisting around. When he caught the flush on Yamamoto’s face, shock turned into rage. “You’ve got nerve, to be turned on by this!”
“Sorry,” the athlete said with a nervous chuckle. “It’s distracting, you know, you on my lap, wiggling and all.”
“I do not wiggle!” Gokudera exclaimed, outraged. “And I do not want to be on your lap!” He struggled fiercely, trying to pry Yamamoto’s strong fingers from about his waist. Instead, to his horror, the man behind him pulled him tighter against his chest, and Gokudera felt a tentative nuzzle against his neck.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!” Gokudera shrieked.
“Um,” Yamamoto replied articulately. “Well. You smell really good, actually. What do you use?”
“Commercial soap! Get off!!”
“No,” Yamamoto replied simply. “This is for your own protection.”
Oh God, Gokudera thought, horrified. “Who’s going to protect me from you, you perverse fucker?!” he demanded, flailing uselessly and dislodging the pink wig from his silver head.
“I won’t do anything you don’t want me to,” Yamamoto reassured him, all while his long, tapered fingers were running up and down the front of Gokudera’s dress, tracing the silken embroideries way too intimately.
“Oh, you’ve already gone way beyond that,” Gokudera shot back, fingernails digging into Yamamoto’s arms. The baseball player winced, but didn’t let go. “All I wanted was to be an explosives expert, maybe work for the military, and stay the hell away from my insane family,” the college student moaned. “Why is that too much to ask-OH MY GOD YOUR FACE OFF MY NECK NOW.”
“You taste good too,” Yamamoto observed cheerfully, gave the developing hickey another lick, and despite himself, Gokudera shuddered before staring at Yamamoto.
“….Man, who the hell are you? Why are you not panicking? You are now married to a boy. And in a hot air balloon.”
Yamamoto paused, and then noted, “Yeah, well your sister ran off with an armed midget in a top hat. I figure I’ll keep it in perspective.”
Gokudera slumped upon hearing that, and sank into a mass of white frothy fabric. “I hate everyone. Fine. Do whatever the hell you want. It’s clear I’m getting no respect today anyways,” Gokudera snarled acidly.
“Great,” Yamamoto said enthusiastically, his hand diving for a certain part of Gokudera’s lower anatomy.
The basket rocked. The audience giggled.
“YOU PERVERSE FUCKER THAT’S IT YOU ARE GOING OVERMMMMMFFRGHGAAAHHH KEEP THAT TONGUE AWAY FROM ME-MNNNFFRFMM!!”
“Gokudera-kun, you really do look beautiful,” Yamamoto breathed against Gokudera’s lips, one hand slipping somewhere under the miles and miles of wedding gown.
“Y-you call me beautiful again and I’ll pour nitroglycerin down your throat,” rasped Gokudera, punctuating his words with a sharp backwards elbow-jab. Too bad Yamamoto was all hard, toned muscle. Ugh. “Seriously, hands off. Nnngh!”
“Finally,” Yamamoto murmured as his hands found the elastic boxer band and slipped inside with little preamble.
“Holy SHIT,” Gokudera shouted, and nearly choked on his next breath. “Oh my god you’re fucking serious.”
“Hahaha,” Yamamoto laughed, and Gokudera would have decked his face in for that stupid sound except hello, handjob.
“I’m not my sister, you bastard,” Gokudera managed hoarsely, even as a skilled hand was stroking him to hardness beneath the layers of his sister’s wedding gown.
“I know.”
“I’ve- we don’t even kn-know each other!”
Smiling, Yamamoto licked Gokudera’s ear. “Plenty of time in the future!”
“I’m not a girl!”
That did give the other man a pause, and Gokudera cursed himself for nearly groaning at the stop of movement.
“Well, good, since otherwise this wouldn’t work,” Yamamoto said, and threw in a little twist of his wrist that had Gokudera arching up, gasping.
“But- you don’t-”
Quite firmly, his lips were covered, and the words were wiped right out of his mind as Yamamoto cranked the kiss from hot up to mind-blowing.
When they emerged for breath seconds or maybe minutes, possibly even days later, Gokudera was flushed, panting, and completely disoriented. So, when Yamamoto asked if he could you know, and Gokudera just sort of gurgled incoherently, the baseball player took initiative and set about doing you know.
Except, the glazed look jumped ship off of Gokudera’s face as soon as he heard the tell-tale unzipping, and the next thing Yamamoto knew, Gokudera had bolted to the other side of the basket and was busy trying to climb one of the ropes attaching the wicker gondola to the balloon.
“Whoa, whoa whoa! Okay, okay! That’s a no, I get it! I get it!!” Yamamoto shouted, scrambling to his feet and holding his hands up in a placating gesture. “Come back down, it’s dangerous!”
“Of course that’s a no, you lackwit! Get away from me! Don’t come near me! Stay right there!” Gokudera demanded shrilly.
“Alright, I’m not moving. Come down, Gokudera-kun, it’s okay, we won’t do anything. I’ll just sit here, and you sit there.”
Ranting, Gokudera put one foot down into the basket. “What kind of cheap slag do you think I am anyways? Who the fuck puts out the first hour after meeting-WHOA.”
The wind had chosen that moment to give a little puff, which unluckily enough for our little bride, caught the heavy folds of fabric and sent Gokudera overbalancing along the wicker rail.
“Gokudera!” Yamamoto shouted, and dove after the other man. He managed to grab the skirt and on the upswing of the swaying basket, threw an arm around Gokudera’s waist and hauled him into the basket. They stumbled and clung to the sides as the basket rocked violently, then when the gondola had evened out some, exchanged wide-eyed looks.
“Thanks,” Gokudera muttered, bright red and slightly shaky. Yamamoto shook his head.
“No problem,” he said, faintly and tugged at his bow with a rattling sort of sigh.
There was another brief silence, and then Gokudera snorted. As the baseball player watched with growing incredulity, Gokudera huffed, then chuckled, his laughs growing louder and genuine as he bent over, holding his sides.
“You- you!” Gokudera managed, “You, jumping around, s-saving people and l-looking so fucking scared, all with your d-dick hanging out-!!” He stopped, unable to continue.
“Oh,” Yamamoto looked down, and with a bark of embarrassment, tucked himself back in and zipped up. “Excuse me.”
That only made Gokudera shake his head silently, tears streaming down his face as his body wracked with silent laughter.
“You look nice when you laugh,” Yamamoto said, smiling. Gokudera’s chuckles slowed, but the wall had been broken, and a lopsided smile lingered on his sharp face.
“You’re sick in the head,” he said. Yamamoto laughed and scratched his temple.
“Thanks, I guess. You’re not bad yourself.”
Gokudera shook his head and hefted the rumpled dress about him heavily.
“Look, let’s start over, because this whole situation has been a little too surreal for me.”
Yamamoto grinned. “Sure,” he agreed. Gokudera stuck out a hand.
“Gokudera Hayato, twenty years old, third year chemistry and physics double major at the U.”
“Yamamoto Takeshi, twenty-one. I play major league baseball, and I really, really enjoyed meeting you.”
His pale face colored, but Gokudera refused to rise to the bait. Instead, he pretended to look at his watch, and then did a double-take.
“It’s been twenty minutes already,” he muttered, and glanced over the side, where land was now a distant line of brown against the ocean. “…WHERE THE HELL ARE WE?!”
Yamamoto laughed and was immediately sucker-punched by his frantic companion. As far as first dates went though, the athlete thought this one counted as success.
---
AN:
...and now you all realize what kind of crude humor I like. Hurhurhur, penis.
Bonus, because I just couldn't imagine this prompt without any sort of visual accompaniment.
*
Gokudera: Oh shi-!