(no subject)
☣articulated.
PG13 | GIFT | 4045
"You're late."
Gokudera doesn't look happy.
Yamamoto only blinks at him, baffled at the not-so-friendly greeting, but then there's suddenly a smile on his lips, an easy sort of reaction. His shoulders aren't even tensed, as if he doesn't really realize the gravity of the situation. After all, what is there to be worried about? Sure, he never made it on time, but punctuality has never been a strong point of his when it came to this. Gokudera knows this, should have been used to this, so he honestly doesn't see what the problem is right now.
Maybe Uri gave him another present on his bed, he thinks, and this amuses him more than it should. He is laughing in the next second, and he doesn't even notice as Gokudera's eyebrow twitches as he replies with a simple, "Haha, relax. At least I'm here now, right?"
The reply he gets is this: "You're ten minutes late, you idiot. Do you have any idea what that means?"
And he has to think about it for a while, because he doesn't know what Gokudera's getting at, but he attempts to answer it anyway. Just because it looks like Gokudera (if only looks could kill-) will shank him if him doesn't. "... I'm ten minutes-not on time?"
But Gokudera doesn't look any happier.
He flashes a sheepish smile, apologetic even, digging around his brain for something to appease Gokudera's steadily deteriorating good mood, but he is abruptly whisked away by a flock of women, who looked more agitated than eager (all ready to peck him to death, he mentally adds), before he even comes up with anything. There isn't even room to breathe, nor room to think about how nimble their fingers are when they got right down to work, because they're all over him within a split-second. His clothes are peeled off his body in a blink of an eye, and he can't even begin to describe how it feels to have a million hands skittering over his skin like a calculated mess, a thoughtful motion, but it's over just as soon as it starts.
When he finally regains control of himself, he is looking at his reflection, and for a second, he has to pause and wonder whether that really is him in the mirror. No longer wearing the clothes he just put on at last minute, without even thinking about it, he is now donned in a deep blue button-up shirt with pinstripes going down the fabric, a black single-breasted jacket and matching slacks, ironed and pressed to perfection, and a tie knotted just a bit too tight.
Everything looks immaculate.
He takes another scrutinizing look at himself, twisting and turning his body around, eyeing every careful detail-even, and especially, the Italian (at least, he thinks they're Italian?) leather shoes he is wearing. The clothes fit perfectly, not too tight, not too loose, but something about them makes his forehead wrinkle a bit in deep thought. They don't really fit him, he thinks, and that's a big problem.
A smile is shown to the few remaining girls still fussing over him, and then he pries himself away from their grip, decidedly ruffling everything up, making the clothes his own. Not that he ventures toward professional alterations, because that's beyond his scope of capabilities, but a simple unbuttoning of his jacket and loosening of his tie? That he can do, and does end up doing, because he looks completely out of place otherwise. He can see the horrified looks, hear the gasps in disbelief, but he ignores them and just answers them with a disarming laugh.
He looks good either way.
"Baseball freak."
Uh oh.
He turns around and comes face to face with a seriously irked Gokudera, and the only thing he can think of doing is shrug his shoulders, smile like I know, I'm sorry, before finally carting himself off to where the set is.
The first thing he notices is how eerily similar the set is to the hotel room he's been given to accomodate his stay here in Milan. From the patterned bedsheets down to the pillars (or are they called columns? hahaha, he forgets) and quirky little lamp stand-it's like they plucked off whatever furniture his room had and placed it here, but it's not like it bothers him. On the contrary, he's quite happy with this, especially since this means he isn't walking in on this blindfolded. Not that he minds that much either, because a guy like him always liked a challenge, but the familiarity helps with getting things done faster-which is exactly what Gokudera wants, right?
He laughs at this.
Nothing short of perfection for the ever-so-disgruntled designer, and Yamamoto has no doubt in his mind he'll be able to deliver just that.
Someone finally calls his name-Yamamoto, please step onto the set as we'd like to get started as soon as possible-and he takes that as his cue to get on with the show. His strides are confident in every way, but there's a certain degree of casualness to the way he moves as well. Heads turn, but not because of the way he looks, dishevelled as he is, but because of that permanent carefree grin on his face, and that infectious laughter he emits as he almost bumps into someone (the photographer, he believes, who almost drops his camera because of it-whoops, haha) along the way. No one would have regarded him otherwise, because he looks just like anyone you pick off from the streets, only he's wearing designer clothes and knows how to walk the walk.
A commercial look, and he doesn't even know how many times he has heard that line by now, but that's another story for another time, because right now, all he has to say is this: "When do we start?"
The photographer barely even looks at him, so caught up in setting up his camera that Yamamoto almost knocked over not too long ago, but he pauses to throw him an answer. "As soon as Hibari gets here."
"Hibari?" Yamamoto echoes, looking momentarily perplexed as he plops himself down on one of the white plush armchairs. He doesn't recall ever being told about working with someone else, nor does the name even ring a bell. When he looks over at Gokudera's direction, helplessly seeking for an answer, he gets brushed off, if only because it looks like Gokudera's way too busy yelling at someone again (haha, he really needs to give him milk one of these days), so he's still stuck at square one.
Ah well.
He supposes he can always find out the old-fashioned way.
And so he waits, and waits, and waits-until he's pretty sure Gokudera's going to pop a vein at the rate he's complaining over how late that stupid, dumb, annoying bastard (Hibari?) is, and he even has to stifle his laughter because there really isn't a point to pissing Gokudera off even more. He wants to call out to him and tell him to just relax, calm down, and breathe, because pacing back and forth like a caged tiger isn't going to make this Hibari pop out any faster, but he goes against that idea in the end, knowing fully well the repercussions that might occur.
But he doesn't have to dwell on that thought for too long, because it looks as if Gokudera finally shut up on his own-only to start complaining again when someone unfamiliar heads for the set. Yamamoto blinks at the person, and he finally has a face to associate the name Hibari with, and-he can't help but think he looks too much like a girl in that slim suit with its clean lines and a scarf tied neatly around his neck. Way too much like a girl.
But he can't say that out loud.
When Hibari finally reaches the set and stands not quite near him, but not too far from him either, he flashes one of his best smiles and happily says hello. "Yo," and it's a good start, because it's all friendly gestures from here on out, "Name's Yamamoto Takeshi. It's nice to meet you-Hibari, right?" He even extends his hand for a good old handshake, but Hibari only looks at him, studies his form, nods his head once, and that's it. There aren't even any signs of introducing himself right back, and this causes Yamamoto to blink again, but it doesn't make his smile falter, even as he withdraws his hand away. Maybe the guy is shy? He's certainly quiet enough.
"Alright, places, everyone-"
Time to get right down to work, he thinks. He'll wring out a full name from Hibari later.
"-Here's the idea. Both of you are business partners, but not quite the legal kind. Think shady, think underground; the black market is too tame, but perhaps something like the mafia? That sort of thing. Business partners that had a nice time out, and are now returning back to their hotel suite for-well," the photographer pauses, "Fill in the blanks."
Yamamoto blinks for the fourth time that day. "Eh? Fill in the blanks? But that's not speci-"
It's a sentence he never finishes, because Hibari pulls him right off the chair and unceremoniously drags him towards the door. He feels the wooden structure press against his back as he's pushed against it, pinned completely, caged in by someone who only gives him a predatory grin. "It's specific enough."
And that's when it hits him.
That's when he finally realizes who this man is.
Hibari Kyoya; famous for his explosive (and this is a term used quite loosely here) photoshoots with Gokudera Hayato. All for Armani Exchange, suits and ties, danger and everything provocative-hahaha. It looks like it's his turn to experience all of that, and he's beginning to understand why Gokudera always looks like he's enjoying himself in those shots, because the presence Hibari gives off-well, he's just someone you don't want to lose in front of.
Of course, he finds himself a little confused by what Hibari said at first, "... Huh?", but he gradually gets it as Hibari's stare never wavers, never stops looking like he's daring Yamamoto to step up to the plate. And so, he grows quiet, dropping that easygoing air about him to give way for something else, "Oh, haha. Alright, I get it," something that makes his eyebrows angle just a bit differently, makes his eyes sparkle just a bit darkly-something that turns that smile of his into a challenging smirk.
breathless.
photography by inaka ushio.
styling by gokudera hayato;
sistema C.A.I.
It's a showdown, an instant addiction, and it's pretty obvious that both of them find that it's hard to give up the facade they have up right now. Not when you don't feel like letting go, when you don't want to give in to someone else's control-but it's not a battle of pride, of dominance, because Yamamoto doesn't mind, will never mind, if Hibari takes the lead, but there's always a part of him that doesn't like the idea of falling behind, of not keeping up. So he keeps that smirk steady, locked, and he'll never let it tremble out of existence.
When Hibari leans his face closer, Yamamoto follows suit and almost laughs when he can feel the tickle of Hibari's breath on his skin. Hibari must have sensed it, since his eyebrow is raised, inquiring, inquisitive, but Yamamoto only lets his eyes do the talking (focus, come on, you want this, I know-), because the photographer's already busy taking the shot, taking a million of them, so he knows there's really no time for idle talk. Maybe later, maybe after they unwind, but right now, it's just them and no one else in the spotlight. Just them craving to break the limit, the fine line between business and having a little fun.
The photographer pauses, and Yamamoto takes advantage of this short break to laugh and release a breathy sigh. "This feels sort of funny, huh?" He asks, he wonders, because Hibari hasn't said a word since they started.
Hibari's smirk only grows wider, and all he says is this: "Hurry up, and get the shot done properly." He moves his head and positions it so his lips are dangerously close to Yamamoto's ear, and he's whispering, like one would to a not-quite-friend, but not-quite-lover either; he's whispering a simple phrase, "Or else I'll bite you to death." It's another challenge, a flat-out dare to defy him, to test the limits, the bloody waters, and Yamamoto catches on to this, accepts it whole-heartedly.
But he only laughs, because it's the only reply he knows. "That sounds unpleasant, but-" And it trails off like that, because his eyes hold that devilish gleam again, the kind that he reserves for this kind of photoshoot alone-the kind that he only shows to people like Hibari Kyoya, because he knows he can match it, he can make it work. They can make it work.
He doesn't even notice that split-second moment where Hibari just slowly licks his lips, because it's over by the time they're looking right back into each other's eyes again.
It's done for now.
"Perfect. We got it," is their cue to untangle themselves from each other, to straighten themselves out and wait for their next instructions. It's not too long of a wait, but the next few directions are just as vague as ever. Something about finding another focal point, about how Yamamoto needs to demand more from Hibari, about how he needs to take control this time around.
It won't be a problem, he thinks, and the idea just comes to him when he sees Hibari approach the bed, back turned, and completely unguarded. He allows a playful grin to crawl up on his lips as he pushes himself away from the door and heads for Hibari's frame, arms reaching forward and pulling him close without a second thought and with a whole lot of ease. There's no regard for what's proper and appropriate in the way he just settles his chin on top of Hibari's shoulder, completely boxing him in his arms.
He must have been wearing a stupid grin at the time, because Hibari only looks him with a disapproving, but mildly amused, glance. "You aren't getting into character correctly, Yamamoto Takeshi," he says, and he pauses for a bit. "Fix your face."
"My face?" And it's an innocent question, or, well, it should have been, but Yamamoto's demeanor has changed again, has switched back to an expression that makes Hibari raise a brow. He has to resist the urge to laugh, because the look on Hibari's face right now isn't something he expected (it's soft, and not unyielding; almost gentle, and not harsh), something he's a little surprised to see. Instead of making him pull away, instead of making him lose the momentum, Yamamoto shifts their bodies so they're facing the camera's direction, so he can easily lean back against the edge of the desk behind him, so it's easier for everyone to see what happens as he tugs at Hibari's scarf, as he unravels it.
As he slips a hand underneath the confines of that slim jacket and that silk shirt, but it's not deliberate. It never is. It's just something he remembers seeing in one of those late-night movies, something he thought would be fun to try out, and it is, especially because Hibari's just letting him.
But someone pulls his hand away, and that makes him blink twice, makes him wonder if he did it wrong or something like that. When he looks down and realizes it isn't Hibari who made the move, he blinks again and looks up, finally seeing another one of Gokudera's infamous pissed off expressions. The grin on his face is automatic; what did he do this time?
"You're not showcasing the clothes properly if you're going to hide behind the bastard the whole time. Shove off and don't get so familiar-" and it goes on, and on, and on, and Yamamoto really doesn't get what has gotten Gokudera so worked up, so uptight, but before he even gets to ask this, Hibari beats him to it.
"Are you jealous, Gokudera Hayato?" It's sly, it's underhanded; it's a taunt that riles Gokudera up almost immediately. Yamamoto has to come in between the two to prevent it from getting any messier, laughing like it's nothing big, like it's nothing ugly, because relax, relax, this is just for the photoshoot and nothing more. There's nothing to be jealous of (not that he really knows what Gokudera is even jealous about), nothing to get angry over-it's all about having fun, right?
And then there's the photographer's voice cutting through the tension. "If you guys are done-? We're wasting time here."
Yamamoto watches as Gokudera sends a scathing glare to the photographer, gives Hibari a look that even sends a chill down his spine, and he continues to watch him as he finally walks away, settles right back to where he was standing before the interruption.
The next prompt is simple: don't let them hear you.
Near the desk, near the pillar; it doesn't really matter to them, so they go with what's in between-the empty space, the middle, and that's where they go to stand. They don't have to lean against anything this time, because it's not necessary, not wanted, and they want to try something new, so they just let it happen.
It comes like instinct, like second nature, and it's like they've been doing this for a long time.
Every angle, every shot-it's a microminute snapshot of a mess that suddenly came to life.
And Yamamoto has to ask, "What do you want me to do?"
And Hibari has to answer, "I think you already know."
They fall right back into their earlier rhythm, like it's never been interrupted, like they never really stopped, because this is easy, what they're doing right now, and it feels like something they can keep doing for as long as it takes to get that perfect shot. But Yamamoto thinks it's fun too, a whole lot of fun, not because it's easy, not because Hibari's giving him that look again, but because it's not all that hard to lose your grip when you're standing way too close, close enough to hear the heart beat after beat, and have no one call you on it for messing up, for slipping up.
Not that it matters. Not in the long run, oh no, because he's got his hands wrapped around Hibari's body, and he's trapped in the same way, so his head can't be bothered to worry about things like that. He'll let Gokudera worry about that, but even that thought is incapable of staying too long, especially not when he can feel Hibari's teeth biting into his neck, into his flesh. A flinch is everyone's customary reaction, but Yamamoto only leans his head the other way instead-Hibari gets better access, right?-plus it seems like the right thing to do, because the only words coming out from the photographer's mouth right now are yes, that's it.
Stay still.
Don't breathe.
And because of this, the only time Yamamoto does breathe is when the photographer isn't looking.
it's a quiet whisper in my ears;
i can almost hear you thinking.
"Alright! Last pose, so give it all you've got. Give me passion, and lots of it. Got it? Good. Now off to the bed, the both of you! And Yamamoto? You're on top, so at least make it look like you own Hibari, alright?"
Yamamoto looks at the photographer like he's crazy.
It's only been a few hours, but he has interacted with (well, more like worked with) Hibari long enough to know that he's someone that can't easily be pulled around like that. He even distinctly remembers Gokudera having trouble pinning him down back in the day, so to ask for something like that-he can't help but laugh. It's a challenge nonetheless, though, so he'll attempt it anyway, but he thinks he can already figure out the outcome.
It'll be funny either way.
They aren't even thinking straight anymore.
Everything is on auto-pilot, and all the limits have been breached.
But still, Yamamoto finds himself faltering in his actions, because he keeps misreading the cues Hibari's giving him, keeps mistaking them for something else, for something a whole lot friendlier than what they really are. Not that he gives up, not yet, not yet, because this kind of thing is like any other sport-you screw up, but you can try again anyway, so why not take that second chance, and give it your all? Something like that, and somehow, putting it this way makes it easier the next time Hibari offers himself up, the next time Hibari provokes him into taking the lead.
And so he does, without a second thought, positioning his knee in between Hibari's legs, just because it's more convenient, just because it's easier to move around and press forward whenever he's given the sign. He doesn't stop there, because the photographer tells him to keep going, so he makes quick work of both of their jackets and discards them on the floor. It's just like in the movies, he thinks, the films rated not-friendly to all seeing eyes, but at the same time, it isn't like the movies at all, because one, he doesn't really know what he's doing; two, this probably looks as funny as hell; and three, it doesn't mean anything, not like it does when the two actors on the screen say I like you, and I like you right back.
He doesn't know why he's even thinking about this, thinking like this, but maybe it's because he has to pretend he cares, that he likes Hibari (which he does, he really does) more than he likes everyone else. It's easy when he just lets himself go, when he doesn't think, when he just lets his fingers do the talking, but it's not what he does, it's not what he's doing.
"What's holding you back, Yamamoto Takeshi?" Hibari asks, all of a sudden.
"Huh?" Yamamoto has to pause, has to take another second just to think (again and again) things through. His laughter is soft, quiet, and a little off. "Who knows."
Hibari's wearing a smirk, as if he gets it, as if he knows what's going on. "You're thinking too much."
(I know, I know.)
But Yamamoto never gets to say this outloud, because within the span of a few seconds, Hibari props himself up on his elbows and leans closer. This makes Yamamoto reel back a little, to create some semblance of space, because he's too close, way too close (it really tickles-), only to have his tie pulled at, tugged at, all the way until their lips met. It's electric, and he can feel it on his lips, on his face, down his spine, and everywhere else. For a moment, he doesn't know whether he should break away and make a run for it, but something in his head snaps, and he just melts right into it. His eyes are closed, and he definitely isn't thinking anymore, because it's all action and reaction from here on and out.
It gets a little sloppy, but Hibari's quick to clean it up, and it never shows, not on the pictures, not on their lips, because it's easier to hide things, easier to make it seem like nothing else is there when you're this close.
He doesn't feel like pulling away-or maybe it's more like he can't pull away, because he feels a little dizzy, a little light-headed. But Hibari is the first to break it off, and when he does, there's another smirk on his lips, and it's satisfied, and not so much like a predator's smile anymore. Yamamoto looks at him, a bit dazed at first, but when he regains himself, he can only smile right back.
It's just as challenging as the rest.
He was right.
The look on Gokudera's face is just as funny as he imagined it to be.
title. Articulated.
genre. General.
rating. PG13.
characters. Yamamoto Takeshi, Hibari Kyoya, Gokudera Hayato (on the side); Katekyo Hitman REBORN!
warnings. AU. Blatant, blatant faggotry. Fanservice everywhere. Implied 1880 (fanservice everywhere, seriously). Implied 1859. Implied 8059.
wordcount. 4045.
notes. For kyokou_kuroda. ♥♥♥ All inspired by that TYL!spread wrong posted, which led to the thought: "Seriously, Gokudera's like Vongola's stylist or something." Which led -- to this. Models AU. And fanservice. And a poor excuse to try writing for new pairings. I wasn't even supposed to post this in public, but I got bullied into it by ironicbonds. CURSE YOU, ANG. And uh, this might have worked better with pictures, but lol, I can't draw, so you get my fail!descriptions instead. /o
disclaimer. Bodies, limbs, thoughts, &things aren't mine. I just pull the strings &stay on the sidelines, 'cause that's where the puppeteer belongs when her dolls are strutting all over the stage.
synopsis. The photographer pauses, and Yamamoto takes advantage of this short break to laugh and release a breathy sigh. "This feels sort of funny, huh?" He asks, he wonders, because Hibari hasn't said a word since they started.
Hibari's smirk only grows wider, and all he says is this: "Hurry up, and get the shot done properly." He moves his head and positions it so his lips are dangerously close to Yamamoto's ear, and he's whispering, like one would to a not-quite-friend, but not-quite-lover either; he's whispering a simple phrase, "Or else I'll bite you to death." It's another challenge, a flat-out dare to defy him, to test the limits, the bloody waters, and Yamamoto catches on to this, accepts it whole-heartedly.
PG13 | GIFT | 4045
"You're late."
Gokudera doesn't look happy.
Yamamoto only blinks at him, baffled at the not-so-friendly greeting, but then there's suddenly a smile on his lips, an easy sort of reaction. His shoulders aren't even tensed, as if he doesn't really realize the gravity of the situation. After all, what is there to be worried about? Sure, he never made it on time, but punctuality has never been a strong point of his when it came to this. Gokudera knows this, should have been used to this, so he honestly doesn't see what the problem is right now.
Maybe Uri gave him another present on his bed, he thinks, and this amuses him more than it should. He is laughing in the next second, and he doesn't even notice as Gokudera's eyebrow twitches as he replies with a simple, "Haha, relax. At least I'm here now, right?"
The reply he gets is this: "You're ten minutes late, you idiot. Do you have any idea what that means?"
And he has to think about it for a while, because he doesn't know what Gokudera's getting at, but he attempts to answer it anyway. Just because it looks like Gokudera (if only looks could kill-) will shank him if him doesn't. "... I'm ten minutes-not on time?"
But Gokudera doesn't look any happier.
He flashes a sheepish smile, apologetic even, digging around his brain for something to appease Gokudera's steadily deteriorating good mood, but he is abruptly whisked away by a flock of women, who looked more agitated than eager (all ready to peck him to death, he mentally adds), before he even comes up with anything. There isn't even room to breathe, nor room to think about how nimble their fingers are when they got right down to work, because they're all over him within a split-second. His clothes are peeled off his body in a blink of an eye, and he can't even begin to describe how it feels to have a million hands skittering over his skin like a calculated mess, a thoughtful motion, but it's over just as soon as it starts.
When he finally regains control of himself, he is looking at his reflection, and for a second, he has to pause and wonder whether that really is him in the mirror. No longer wearing the clothes he just put on at last minute, without even thinking about it, he is now donned in a deep blue button-up shirt with pinstripes going down the fabric, a black single-breasted jacket and matching slacks, ironed and pressed to perfection, and a tie knotted just a bit too tight.
Everything looks immaculate.
He takes another scrutinizing look at himself, twisting and turning his body around, eyeing every careful detail-even, and especially, the Italian (at least, he thinks they're Italian?) leather shoes he is wearing. The clothes fit perfectly, not too tight, not too loose, but something about them makes his forehead wrinkle a bit in deep thought. They don't really fit him, he thinks, and that's a big problem.
A smile is shown to the few remaining girls still fussing over him, and then he pries himself away from their grip, decidedly ruffling everything up, making the clothes his own. Not that he ventures toward professional alterations, because that's beyond his scope of capabilities, but a simple unbuttoning of his jacket and loosening of his tie? That he can do, and does end up doing, because he looks completely out of place otherwise. He can see the horrified looks, hear the gasps in disbelief, but he ignores them and just answers them with a disarming laugh.
He looks good either way.
"Baseball freak."
Uh oh.
He turns around and comes face to face with a seriously irked Gokudera, and the only thing he can think of doing is shrug his shoulders, smile like I know, I'm sorry, before finally carting himself off to where the set is.
The first thing he notices is how eerily similar the set is to the hotel room he's been given to accomodate his stay here in Milan. From the patterned bedsheets down to the pillars (or are they called columns? hahaha, he forgets) and quirky little lamp stand-it's like they plucked off whatever furniture his room had and placed it here, but it's not like it bothers him. On the contrary, he's quite happy with this, especially since this means he isn't walking in on this blindfolded. Not that he minds that much either, because a guy like him always liked a challenge, but the familiarity helps with getting things done faster-which is exactly what Gokudera wants, right?
He laughs at this.
Nothing short of perfection for the ever-so-disgruntled designer, and Yamamoto has no doubt in his mind he'll be able to deliver just that.
Someone finally calls his name-Yamamoto, please step onto the set as we'd like to get started as soon as possible-and he takes that as his cue to get on with the show. His strides are confident in every way, but there's a certain degree of casualness to the way he moves as well. Heads turn, but not because of the way he looks, dishevelled as he is, but because of that permanent carefree grin on his face, and that infectious laughter he emits as he almost bumps into someone (the photographer, he believes, who almost drops his camera because of it-whoops, haha) along the way. No one would have regarded him otherwise, because he looks just like anyone you pick off from the streets, only he's wearing designer clothes and knows how to walk the walk.
A commercial look, and he doesn't even know how many times he has heard that line by now, but that's another story for another time, because right now, all he has to say is this: "When do we start?"
The photographer barely even looks at him, so caught up in setting up his camera that Yamamoto almost knocked over not too long ago, but he pauses to throw him an answer. "As soon as Hibari gets here."
"Hibari?" Yamamoto echoes, looking momentarily perplexed as he plops himself down on one of the white plush armchairs. He doesn't recall ever being told about working with someone else, nor does the name even ring a bell. When he looks over at Gokudera's direction, helplessly seeking for an answer, he gets brushed off, if only because it looks like Gokudera's way too busy yelling at someone again (haha, he really needs to give him milk one of these days), so he's still stuck at square one.
Ah well.
He supposes he can always find out the old-fashioned way.
And so he waits, and waits, and waits-until he's pretty sure Gokudera's going to pop a vein at the rate he's complaining over how late that stupid, dumb, annoying bastard (Hibari?) is, and he even has to stifle his laughter because there really isn't a point to pissing Gokudera off even more. He wants to call out to him and tell him to just relax, calm down, and breathe, because pacing back and forth like a caged tiger isn't going to make this Hibari pop out any faster, but he goes against that idea in the end, knowing fully well the repercussions that might occur.
But he doesn't have to dwell on that thought for too long, because it looks as if Gokudera finally shut up on his own-only to start complaining again when someone unfamiliar heads for the set. Yamamoto blinks at the person, and he finally has a face to associate the name Hibari with, and-he can't help but think he looks too much like a girl in that slim suit with its clean lines and a scarf tied neatly around his neck. Way too much like a girl.
But he can't say that out loud.
When Hibari finally reaches the set and stands not quite near him, but not too far from him either, he flashes one of his best smiles and happily says hello. "Yo," and it's a good start, because it's all friendly gestures from here on out, "Name's Yamamoto Takeshi. It's nice to meet you-Hibari, right?" He even extends his hand for a good old handshake, but Hibari only looks at him, studies his form, nods his head once, and that's it. There aren't even any signs of introducing himself right back, and this causes Yamamoto to blink again, but it doesn't make his smile falter, even as he withdraws his hand away. Maybe the guy is shy? He's certainly quiet enough.
"Alright, places, everyone-"
Time to get right down to work, he thinks. He'll wring out a full name from Hibari later.
"-Here's the idea. Both of you are business partners, but not quite the legal kind. Think shady, think underground; the black market is too tame, but perhaps something like the mafia? That sort of thing. Business partners that had a nice time out, and are now returning back to their hotel suite for-well," the photographer pauses, "Fill in the blanks."
Yamamoto blinks for the fourth time that day. "Eh? Fill in the blanks? But that's not speci-"
It's a sentence he never finishes, because Hibari pulls him right off the chair and unceremoniously drags him towards the door. He feels the wooden structure press against his back as he's pushed against it, pinned completely, caged in by someone who only gives him a predatory grin. "It's specific enough."
And that's when it hits him.
That's when he finally realizes who this man is.
Hibari Kyoya; famous for his explosive (and this is a term used quite loosely here) photoshoots with Gokudera Hayato. All for Armani Exchange, suits and ties, danger and everything provocative-hahaha. It looks like it's his turn to experience all of that, and he's beginning to understand why Gokudera always looks like he's enjoying himself in those shots, because the presence Hibari gives off-well, he's just someone you don't want to lose in front of.
Of course, he finds himself a little confused by what Hibari said at first, "... Huh?", but he gradually gets it as Hibari's stare never wavers, never stops looking like he's daring Yamamoto to step up to the plate. And so, he grows quiet, dropping that easygoing air about him to give way for something else, "Oh, haha. Alright, I get it," something that makes his eyebrows angle just a bit differently, makes his eyes sparkle just a bit darkly-something that turns that smile of his into a challenging smirk.
breathless.
photography by inaka ushio.
styling by gokudera hayato;
sistema C.A.I.
It's a showdown, an instant addiction, and it's pretty obvious that both of them find that it's hard to give up the facade they have up right now. Not when you don't feel like letting go, when you don't want to give in to someone else's control-but it's not a battle of pride, of dominance, because Yamamoto doesn't mind, will never mind, if Hibari takes the lead, but there's always a part of him that doesn't like the idea of falling behind, of not keeping up. So he keeps that smirk steady, locked, and he'll never let it tremble out of existence.
When Hibari leans his face closer, Yamamoto follows suit and almost laughs when he can feel the tickle of Hibari's breath on his skin. Hibari must have sensed it, since his eyebrow is raised, inquiring, inquisitive, but Yamamoto only lets his eyes do the talking (focus, come on, you want this, I know-), because the photographer's already busy taking the shot, taking a million of them, so he knows there's really no time for idle talk. Maybe later, maybe after they unwind, but right now, it's just them and no one else in the spotlight. Just them craving to break the limit, the fine line between business and having a little fun.
The photographer pauses, and Yamamoto takes advantage of this short break to laugh and release a breathy sigh. "This feels sort of funny, huh?" He asks, he wonders, because Hibari hasn't said a word since they started.
Hibari's smirk only grows wider, and all he says is this: "Hurry up, and get the shot done properly." He moves his head and positions it so his lips are dangerously close to Yamamoto's ear, and he's whispering, like one would to a not-quite-friend, but not-quite-lover either; he's whispering a simple phrase, "Or else I'll bite you to death." It's another challenge, a flat-out dare to defy him, to test the limits, the bloody waters, and Yamamoto catches on to this, accepts it whole-heartedly.
But he only laughs, because it's the only reply he knows. "That sounds unpleasant, but-" And it trails off like that, because his eyes hold that devilish gleam again, the kind that he reserves for this kind of photoshoot alone-the kind that he only shows to people like Hibari Kyoya, because he knows he can match it, he can make it work. They can make it work.
He doesn't even notice that split-second moment where Hibari just slowly licks his lips, because it's over by the time they're looking right back into each other's eyes again.
It's done for now.
"Perfect. We got it," is their cue to untangle themselves from each other, to straighten themselves out and wait for their next instructions. It's not too long of a wait, but the next few directions are just as vague as ever. Something about finding another focal point, about how Yamamoto needs to demand more from Hibari, about how he needs to take control this time around.
It won't be a problem, he thinks, and the idea just comes to him when he sees Hibari approach the bed, back turned, and completely unguarded. He allows a playful grin to crawl up on his lips as he pushes himself away from the door and heads for Hibari's frame, arms reaching forward and pulling him close without a second thought and with a whole lot of ease. There's no regard for what's proper and appropriate in the way he just settles his chin on top of Hibari's shoulder, completely boxing him in his arms.
He must have been wearing a stupid grin at the time, because Hibari only looks him with a disapproving, but mildly amused, glance. "You aren't getting into character correctly, Yamamoto Takeshi," he says, and he pauses for a bit. "Fix your face."
"My face?" And it's an innocent question, or, well, it should have been, but Yamamoto's demeanor has changed again, has switched back to an expression that makes Hibari raise a brow. He has to resist the urge to laugh, because the look on Hibari's face right now isn't something he expected (it's soft, and not unyielding; almost gentle, and not harsh), something he's a little surprised to see. Instead of making him pull away, instead of making him lose the momentum, Yamamoto shifts their bodies so they're facing the camera's direction, so he can easily lean back against the edge of the desk behind him, so it's easier for everyone to see what happens as he tugs at Hibari's scarf, as he unravels it.
As he slips a hand underneath the confines of that slim jacket and that silk shirt, but it's not deliberate. It never is. It's just something he remembers seeing in one of those late-night movies, something he thought would be fun to try out, and it is, especially because Hibari's just letting him.
But someone pulls his hand away, and that makes him blink twice, makes him wonder if he did it wrong or something like that. When he looks down and realizes it isn't Hibari who made the move, he blinks again and looks up, finally seeing another one of Gokudera's infamous pissed off expressions. The grin on his face is automatic; what did he do this time?
"You're not showcasing the clothes properly if you're going to hide behind the bastard the whole time. Shove off and don't get so familiar-" and it goes on, and on, and on, and Yamamoto really doesn't get what has gotten Gokudera so worked up, so uptight, but before he even gets to ask this, Hibari beats him to it.
"Are you jealous, Gokudera Hayato?" It's sly, it's underhanded; it's a taunt that riles Gokudera up almost immediately. Yamamoto has to come in between the two to prevent it from getting any messier, laughing like it's nothing big, like it's nothing ugly, because relax, relax, this is just for the photoshoot and nothing more. There's nothing to be jealous of (not that he really knows what Gokudera is even jealous about), nothing to get angry over-it's all about having fun, right?
And then there's the photographer's voice cutting through the tension. "If you guys are done-? We're wasting time here."
Yamamoto watches as Gokudera sends a scathing glare to the photographer, gives Hibari a look that even sends a chill down his spine, and he continues to watch him as he finally walks away, settles right back to where he was standing before the interruption.
The next prompt is simple: don't let them hear you.
Near the desk, near the pillar; it doesn't really matter to them, so they go with what's in between-the empty space, the middle, and that's where they go to stand. They don't have to lean against anything this time, because it's not necessary, not wanted, and they want to try something new, so they just let it happen.
It comes like instinct, like second nature, and it's like they've been doing this for a long time.
Every angle, every shot-it's a microminute snapshot of a mess that suddenly came to life.
And Yamamoto has to ask, "What do you want me to do?"
And Hibari has to answer, "I think you already know."
They fall right back into their earlier rhythm, like it's never been interrupted, like they never really stopped, because this is easy, what they're doing right now, and it feels like something they can keep doing for as long as it takes to get that perfect shot. But Yamamoto thinks it's fun too, a whole lot of fun, not because it's easy, not because Hibari's giving him that look again, but because it's not all that hard to lose your grip when you're standing way too close, close enough to hear the heart beat after beat, and have no one call you on it for messing up, for slipping up.
Not that it matters. Not in the long run, oh no, because he's got his hands wrapped around Hibari's body, and he's trapped in the same way, so his head can't be bothered to worry about things like that. He'll let Gokudera worry about that, but even that thought is incapable of staying too long, especially not when he can feel Hibari's teeth biting into his neck, into his flesh. A flinch is everyone's customary reaction, but Yamamoto only leans his head the other way instead-Hibari gets better access, right?-plus it seems like the right thing to do, because the only words coming out from the photographer's mouth right now are yes, that's it.
Stay still.
Don't breathe.
And because of this, the only time Yamamoto does breathe is when the photographer isn't looking.
it's a quiet whisper in my ears;
i can almost hear you thinking.
"Alright! Last pose, so give it all you've got. Give me passion, and lots of it. Got it? Good. Now off to the bed, the both of you! And Yamamoto? You're on top, so at least make it look like you own Hibari, alright?"
Yamamoto looks at the photographer like he's crazy.
It's only been a few hours, but he has interacted with (well, more like worked with) Hibari long enough to know that he's someone that can't easily be pulled around like that. He even distinctly remembers Gokudera having trouble pinning him down back in the day, so to ask for something like that-he can't help but laugh. It's a challenge nonetheless, though, so he'll attempt it anyway, but he thinks he can already figure out the outcome.
It'll be funny either way.
They aren't even thinking straight anymore.
Everything is on auto-pilot, and all the limits have been breached.
But still, Yamamoto finds himself faltering in his actions, because he keeps misreading the cues Hibari's giving him, keeps mistaking them for something else, for something a whole lot friendlier than what they really are. Not that he gives up, not yet, not yet, because this kind of thing is like any other sport-you screw up, but you can try again anyway, so why not take that second chance, and give it your all? Something like that, and somehow, putting it this way makes it easier the next time Hibari offers himself up, the next time Hibari provokes him into taking the lead.
And so he does, without a second thought, positioning his knee in between Hibari's legs, just because it's more convenient, just because it's easier to move around and press forward whenever he's given the sign. He doesn't stop there, because the photographer tells him to keep going, so he makes quick work of both of their jackets and discards them on the floor. It's just like in the movies, he thinks, the films rated not-friendly to all seeing eyes, but at the same time, it isn't like the movies at all, because one, he doesn't really know what he's doing; two, this probably looks as funny as hell; and three, it doesn't mean anything, not like it does when the two actors on the screen say I like you, and I like you right back.
He doesn't know why he's even thinking about this, thinking like this, but maybe it's because he has to pretend he cares, that he likes Hibari (which he does, he really does) more than he likes everyone else. It's easy when he just lets himself go, when he doesn't think, when he just lets his fingers do the talking, but it's not what he does, it's not what he's doing.
"What's holding you back, Yamamoto Takeshi?" Hibari asks, all of a sudden.
"Huh?" Yamamoto has to pause, has to take another second just to think (again and again) things through. His laughter is soft, quiet, and a little off. "Who knows."
Hibari's wearing a smirk, as if he gets it, as if he knows what's going on. "You're thinking too much."
(I know, I know.)
But Yamamoto never gets to say this outloud, because within the span of a few seconds, Hibari props himself up on his elbows and leans closer. This makes Yamamoto reel back a little, to create some semblance of space, because he's too close, way too close (it really tickles-), only to have his tie pulled at, tugged at, all the way until their lips met. It's electric, and he can feel it on his lips, on his face, down his spine, and everywhere else. For a moment, he doesn't know whether he should break away and make a run for it, but something in his head snaps, and he just melts right into it. His eyes are closed, and he definitely isn't thinking anymore, because it's all action and reaction from here on and out.
It gets a little sloppy, but Hibari's quick to clean it up, and it never shows, not on the pictures, not on their lips, because it's easier to hide things, easier to make it seem like nothing else is there when you're this close.
He doesn't feel like pulling away-or maybe it's more like he can't pull away, because he feels a little dizzy, a little light-headed. But Hibari is the first to break it off, and when he does, there's another smirk on his lips, and it's satisfied, and not so much like a predator's smile anymore. Yamamoto looks at him, a bit dazed at first, but when he regains himself, he can only smile right back.
It's just as challenging as the rest.
He was right.
The look on Gokudera's face is just as funny as he imagined it to be.
title. Articulated.
genre. General.
rating. PG13.
characters. Yamamoto Takeshi, Hibari Kyoya, Gokudera Hayato (on the side); Katekyo Hitman REBORN!
warnings. AU. Blatant, blatant faggotry. Fanservice everywhere. Implied 1880 (fanservice everywhere, seriously). Implied 1859. Implied 8059.
wordcount. 4045.
notes. For kyokou_kuroda. ♥♥♥ All inspired by that TYL!spread wrong posted, which led to the thought: "Seriously, Gokudera's like Vongola's stylist or something." Which led -- to this. Models AU. And fanservice. And a poor excuse to try writing for new pairings. I wasn't even supposed to post this in public, but I got bullied into it by ironicbonds. CURSE YOU, ANG. And uh, this might have worked better with pictures, but lol, I can't draw, so you get my fail!descriptions instead. /o
disclaimer. Bodies, limbs, thoughts, &things aren't mine. I just pull the strings &stay on the sidelines, 'cause that's where the puppeteer belongs when her dolls are strutting all over the stage.
synopsis. The photographer pauses, and Yamamoto takes advantage of this short break to laugh and release a breathy sigh. "This feels sort of funny, huh?" He asks, he wonders, because Hibari hasn't said a word since they started.
Hibari's smirk only grows wider, and all he says is this: "Hurry up, and get the shot done properly." He moves his head and positions it so his lips are dangerously close to Yamamoto's ear, and he's whispering, like one would to a not-quite-friend, but not-quite-lover either; he's whispering a simple phrase, "Or else I'll bite you to death." It's another challenge, a flat-out dare to defy him, to test the limits, the bloody waters, and Yamamoto catches on to this, accepts it whole-heartedly.