When Tsuna announced a surprise Halloween party (which, he still thought, was rather spontaneous for his big brother, seeing as how the brunette had grown a well-known liking for the unhidden and obvious), this was not what he thought was going to happen.
He wasn't supposed to be in the garment closet where extra costumes were being stored in case anyone came underdressed, black tights around his ankles while lewd sounds were made as his ass was thoroughly fucked, his upper body braced against the wall between two racks. He wasn't supposed to be on the cusp of orgasm, wailing and begging and simpering like a desperate whore. As a matter of fact, his costume wasn't even supposed to be a whore – skintight leather that was spilled onto the floor because hands were on his chest, torturing his nipples. A head was nestled in the junction between his shoulder and neck, teeth marking pale beige territory while hips thrust surely and without pause, evenly and maddeningly and – he's losing his fucking mind.
But, of course, the situation gets worse. The man currently fucking him, currently pounding him into a three-weeks stay at the hospital for a thoroughly destroyed anus, was wearing fangs. Not the cheap, store-bought brand, but the special ordered, specially created, possibly weapons fangs. The kind that are needle sharp and are in no danger of falling off his canines, burrowed right into Lambo's flesh as if the man is more than just wearing a persona, but was the persona.
He curled his nails into the polished wood wall, gasping out a name that doesn't sound complete as he felt slickly the slide of his lover's cock against his prostate, bursting lights behind his eyelids.
And then, in reality, lights are bursting behind his eyelids, a shady glow descending on their forms as the door to the room was budged open enough for a couple Lambo doesn't even know to step in without even looking around themselves (which was a shame on them because, goodness, they're mafia!). There was a swish and then Lambo's nudity was covered by his lover's ground-sweeping velvet black cape, one arm squeezed tightly around his waist and holding him solidly in place, slow rocking of his hips making Lambo shudder and knees quiver.
His lover offered the couple a murderously cold stare through his half-face mask that was red like the blood on his chin and studded with obsidian gems. They left without a single word, heads bowed low and the chill of horror and fear on them like a stench.
Lambo banged his head against the wall, whimpering because there was a fire in his gut and he needed his lover to put it out, put it out, put it out! It was raging in his veins, throwing his heart and lungs off kilter. Sweat glistened on his skin, a sheen of diamonds glittering. And, if anyone asked, it had nothing to do with voyeurism!
His lover pressed into him harder, taking him faster, treating him gently. "And now I teach you why not to wear leather halter tops," which, of course, had not been Lambo's idea.
It had been Gokudera's. And now, far too late, Lambo realized why he had been manhandled in the uncomfortable skintight layers of black.
He cried out and then bit his lip, feeling his lover's hand on his length, pumping him in time with his pitching hips, the room full of the crude and sexual tune of skin slapping skin and the wet sound of Lambo's hungry body sucking the man's cock deep into his canal, possibly with plans of never letting go.
He came, hard enough for his eyes to roll into the back of his head and for his legs to finally give out on him, releasing him into the bruising embrace of his man, and screamed – most likely loud enough for everyone in the ballroom just down the hall to hear.
Gasping, gagging, and doing whatever other thing there was to regain his breath, Lambo had to grin. He just had to. And he turned around as his lover slid free of his body, feeling uncomfortably the wet slide of cum down his inner thigh. He pressed a kiss to pale lips, arms around the vampire's shoulders. "My oh my, Reborn… Had I known you liked leather that much… well, goodness, we would have had this… 'chat' long, looong," he stretched the word over three syllables, right into the hitman's ear where his tongue lolled against his lobe, "ago."
And he was suddenly really, really happy that he dyed Gokudera's hair pink four days ago.
Author's Note: In case someone doesn't get the joke, Lambo looking like a whore and getting painfully screwed was Gokudera's idea of revenge for pink hair. I'm sure he never heard the end of his likeness to G.