Parts II, III
Part I: Engagement Party
This probably needs editing but...let's be real, I probably won't bother
Part II: Afterparty
The Vongola guesthouse seems unreasonably, inconveniently large in the context of the task at hand. Her lack of shoes notwithstanding, she's a wobbly mess (perhaps she's done herself a favor by ditching the 4-inch heels). So much so that he hoists her unceremoniously over his shoulder, flat-out abandoning any attempts that involve her walking.
He is not prepared for the bruises on her hips when he undresses her swiftly, purposefully (more expert Mafia-style diplomacy), and her short, strapless dress puddles on the floor around her bare feet. But they have made a silent pact not to ask questions until the sun rises, so he swallows his query.
Instead he asks, "Will I hurt you?" The purpose of the question is twofold, and the answer to both is no. Instead of verbalizing her response, she knits her brows together and reaches for his tie, pulling him to her. She is topless, still wearing lace panties, but he lets her take charge of undoing his tie, his buttons. He takes the opportunity to run his fingers over the mottled blue flesh on her hips, watching her face for traces of pain. Finding none, he relaxes slightly.
Nevertheless, for the rest of the night, he avoids using her hips for leverage. His hands find purchase elsewhere: the tips of her breasts, her shoulders, the small of her back, her navel, the delicate flesh behind her ear. He touches her slowly, tentatively, willing the bruises to go away with his ministrations. She moans her approval when he takes one nipple into his mouth, while letting his hand travel between her thighs. She knots her hands in his hair as he slides two long fingers inside her and crooks them just so. All the while, he watches for any signs of discomfort, of pain--but he is met with pleasure and need, the boldness of urgency.
Wasting no time, he spreads her knees apart. But instead of kneeling at her entrance, he swiftly buries his mouth between her legs, before she can expect it. She has just enough time to register his actions before the sensation of his tongue around her clit nearly knocks her senseless.
She intwines her fingers in his hair and pulls him back, almost reluctantly--
She has always been a giving person, unselfish, devoted to her family, to la famiglia. She is no different with him, and insistently flips him onto his back, kissing his neck, his chest, his abdomen, navel--she was still wandering south--surely she wasn't--?
And he's inside her hot, wet mouth. She wraps her hand around the base and squeezes slightly, eliciting a rough moan from him. He cranes his neck to look at her, and the sight of her mouth wrapped around him, her head (so small) bobbing up and down nearly pushes him over the edge.
"Stop--" he whispers hoarsely, and she obliges, sensing his need. She moves to position herself above him, but to her surprise, he flips her over onto her back, catching her lips with his own. He can taste himself on her tongue, and processing this thought is almost too much.
He enters her in one swift motion. She groans at the feeling of being filled, taking a moment to imprint the sensation deep within her mind. He sets the pace to a tortuously slow one, feeling out her every contour. They lock eyes as he undulates against her; her eyelashes flutter with every push of his hips against hers, and he is seized by a sudden urge to kiss her eyelids. When he does, she reaches up and pulls his lips back to hers, tasting herself, tobacco, wine, hunger.
He lifts them into a seated position, and with her in control, they pick up the pace. She holds his shoulders tightly, nails digging into his flesh--he brings a hand up to her face, willing her to meet his eyes again, and watches as her body tenses and she signals her release with a sharp intake of breath followed by a husky, breathy sigh. She continues to ride it out and waits for him, cupping his face in her hands as he spills into her.
They share another frozen moment, a fine sheen of sweat covering them both, the buzz of silence broken by their attempts to catch their breaths. She rests her forehead against his before detaching herself tentatively, lying down on what she assumes is not his side of the mattress.
"I sleep on that side." She makes a move to shift to the other side, but finds her way blocked. "Stupid woman." He drapes an arm possessively over her and settles down to sleep, "I guess there's room for both of us."
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Part III: Aftermath
He pulls on his pants with his back to her the next morning. The sun is streaming weakly through the slit in the curtains, and he figures it's time to lift the no-question ban. He takes a deep breath. "Who--"
"Xanxus." She has anticipated his question ("--gave you those bruises?"). He looks at her with an inscrutable expression: a mixture of shock, appraisal, and something else…
"He can be a little…aggressive sometimes." She explains, for all the world as though she were talking about her moody pet cat. She notes his fists clenching, and finds it necessary to derail whatever he's thinking of doing. She settles for the truth, the swiftest way to cut through the misunderstandings.
"He didn't force me." She looks up at the ceiling. "I just wanted to forget who I was for a bit… He warned me what he was like, but I just thought, 'all the better.'" She laughs, sincerely, as though she has made a fine joke of herself. But he knows she hasn't. For all the variations of "stupid" he's called her, he's always acknowledged her intelligence, her ability to calculate what she needed and to attain it.
"I don't regret it." He knows. She never regrets anything; only learns from it.
"Did it work?"
"What?"
"Xanxus. Fucking the guy who hates the Tenth more than anyone in the world--did it help you get over him?"
She considers this. "Nope." She turns and looks him in the eye. "I learned tons, though--" she winks--winks--at him, a semblance of her old self. "I'll have to show you the rest of it sometime."
He is momentarily rendered speechless at this promise, and she takes this opportunity to bound out of bed and pull on his dress shirt.
"Come down in ten minutes--I'll put coffee on and start breakfast." She's out the door before he can claim his shirt back. He picks up her dress from where it was deposited the night before, holds it in front of him. So fucking small. His mind wanders unbidden to Xanxus, how much larger he is than her--he finds his fists clenching around the fabric and wills himself to be calm.
Downstairs, she shifts her weight from one foot to the other, watching the coffee maker do its work. Jealousy, she decides. The annoyed sound of a throat clearing signals his early arrival. "I've only just put on the toast--" she places a cup of steaming black coffee in front of him as he takes a seat at the table. She's about to walk toward the toaster oven when he catches her wrist.
He clears his throat again. "I've considered your proposal…" She looks at him quizzically. "…and I've decided to accept."
"Accept?"
"You were going to show me some things. Things you learned." He won't meet her eyes, and the delicious flush creeping up toward his cheekbones fascinates her. Catching on at last, she bites down the impulse to laugh at his endearing attempt at flirtation. She beams and climbs onto his lap, straddling him, running her hands over his bare chest, his battle scars. She leans in--
"--but I have a condition," stopping her, running his hands up her thighs, gently fingering the bruises he knows are just under the cotton of his shirt. She waits expectantly, looking him in the eye, playing with his billion earrings.
"No one--" he growls, "touches you, except for me. Especially--" he doesn't need to finish, and nor does she let him. Her lips do the talking (directly) in tacit acceptance of his terms and he kisses her back fervently, hungrily.
Haru is exceedingly glad that she didn't bother putting on her underwear before coming downstairs (and Gokudera's long fingers are taking every advantage of this fact). She gasps and laughs into his mouth, already unhooking his belt with expert fingers.
Ding. The toaster oven signals the soon-to-be-burnt toast, to no avail. The coffee, still steaming, is quickly forgotten.
Fin.
A/N: Hmmm. I know Gokudera and Haru, as I've represented them, are very different from how we know them in canon. But this story is one that's been in my head for a long time, because even though Haru is shy / naive / whatever, I can see her growing into the type of person Gokudera describes here: goal-oriented, and a total go-getter. More than that, though, I think the concept of a woman's sexual independence is grossly unexplored. I wanted to Haru to be represented as a woman, a real one, fulfilling her sexual needs (because girls have those, too) without being labeled, without feeling guilt or shame.
Anyway! I also illustrated this fic before I wrote it, haha. Will post links to those images later ;)