Trap (Arashi)
Title: Trap
Pairing: Jun x Nino
Rating: R
Summary: Drabble. Very pointless. The memory of sex goes stale for Nino.
"This isn't right," Nino said to himself, a whisper in the bright light of day.
The pull of gravity, firm and unyielding, was settled over the rise of his head. He could feel the weight of it on his shoulders, piercing through the dark, stitched fabric of his jacket--a present to himself, something only weeks old, something that he had splurged on after a well-studied window display. The nervousness he had felt handing over the stack of bills--the same feeling, the tingling in his fingertips and the dry stretch of his throat, were magnified now, a horrible aching that ran down the back of his neck and worked through his spine. He didn't want to breathe.
"This isn't right," Nino murmured again. The blinds were wide open, beams of sunlight chasing themselves over the pattern of the blankets--the end of summer, and yet there were still heavy covers on the mattress, but the sheets were light and the deep, goose down pillows were surprisingly airy. If he squinted hard enough, he could convince himself that the slow spreading stain of blood across the disarrayed sheets was nothing more than discoloured sweat or, worse yet, a splash of wine.
"I promise you, I know what I'm doing."
"But this doesn't even feel good, are you listening to me?"
"Nino, cut it out. Trust me."
"Don't--"
Nino sighed, leaning against the door frame.
Whispered words teased him. Closing his eyes, he could hear the way they melded with the darkness of the night, the way the moonlight tricked him into believing something so completely and utterly inane that it seemed almost okay. Maybe these kinds of things took time, and maybe it had nothing to do with hormones or the way the media would stalk them if they got involved with a girl. Maybe it was really...that, it was just--
Jun stirred.
The nervousness shot up through Nino's body again. His breathing grew shallow, and for the first time since easing himself off the mattress, he felt angry. No one should have this sort of power over him, he was a man, an adult, and not someone that needed to be held by the hand or treated like a woman with her legs spread. He was Nino. He wasn't a toy.
But seeing Jun's expression shift, seeing the slight, delicate flutter of his lashes--Nino was afraid. His lungs were closing in on him and he felt the acute pinch of gravity just as he had felt Jun's hands holding him down, tying him to the head board. He shuddered with the memory, with the anger choking him and filling his mouth.
The messenger bag, eased over one shoulder, slid down his arm and hit the ground. Half of a pair of jeans and a pale green tank top struggled their way over the side, trying to escape, wrinkled and unfolded. His sneakers, sitting in the bottom of the bag, made a heavy noise as they connected with hard wood.
Nino wasn't an idiot, he knew better--running away wouldn't help anything. But the image of Jun stretched naked between his pale sheets, quiet and satisfied... it hurt. It was a constant reminder and a steady, eager jab at his gradually shrinking temper.
"I love you, oh, oh god, Nino, I'm so fucking close..."
"Nino, you want it harder? Nino, Nino..."
"I love you, I love you, I--"
"This isn't right," Nino whispered, and pressed his fingertips into his temples, letting the headache overtake him.
Pairing: Jun x Nino
Rating: R
Summary: Drabble. Very pointless. The memory of sex goes stale for Nino.
"This isn't right," Nino said to himself, a whisper in the bright light of day.
The pull of gravity, firm and unyielding, was settled over the rise of his head. He could feel the weight of it on his shoulders, piercing through the dark, stitched fabric of his jacket--a present to himself, something only weeks old, something that he had splurged on after a well-studied window display. The nervousness he had felt handing over the stack of bills--the same feeling, the tingling in his fingertips and the dry stretch of his throat, were magnified now, a horrible aching that ran down the back of his neck and worked through his spine. He didn't want to breathe.
"This isn't right," Nino murmured again. The blinds were wide open, beams of sunlight chasing themselves over the pattern of the blankets--the end of summer, and yet there were still heavy covers on the mattress, but the sheets were light and the deep, goose down pillows were surprisingly airy. If he squinted hard enough, he could convince himself that the slow spreading stain of blood across the disarrayed sheets was nothing more than discoloured sweat or, worse yet, a splash of wine.
"I promise you, I know what I'm doing."
"But this doesn't even feel good, are you listening to me?"
"Nino, cut it out. Trust me."
"Don't--"
Nino sighed, leaning against the door frame.
Whispered words teased him. Closing his eyes, he could hear the way they melded with the darkness of the night, the way the moonlight tricked him into believing something so completely and utterly inane that it seemed almost okay. Maybe these kinds of things took time, and maybe it had nothing to do with hormones or the way the media would stalk them if they got involved with a girl. Maybe it was really...that, it was just--
Jun stirred.
The nervousness shot up through Nino's body again. His breathing grew shallow, and for the first time since easing himself off the mattress, he felt angry. No one should have this sort of power over him, he was a man, an adult, and not someone that needed to be held by the hand or treated like a woman with her legs spread. He was Nino. He wasn't a toy.
But seeing Jun's expression shift, seeing the slight, delicate flutter of his lashes--Nino was afraid. His lungs were closing in on him and he felt the acute pinch of gravity just as he had felt Jun's hands holding him down, tying him to the head board. He shuddered with the memory, with the anger choking him and filling his mouth.
The messenger bag, eased over one shoulder, slid down his arm and hit the ground. Half of a pair of jeans and a pale green tank top struggled their way over the side, trying to escape, wrinkled and unfolded. His sneakers, sitting in the bottom of the bag, made a heavy noise as they connected with hard wood.
Nino wasn't an idiot, he knew better--running away wouldn't help anything. But the image of Jun stretched naked between his pale sheets, quiet and satisfied... it hurt. It was a constant reminder and a steady, eager jab at his gradually shrinking temper.
"I love you, oh, oh god, Nino, I'm so fucking close..."
"Nino, you want it harder? Nino, Nino..."
"I love you, I love you, I--"
"This isn't right," Nino whispered, and pressed his fingertips into his temples, letting the headache overtake him.