Fic, Kis-My-Ft2, Traditional Arrangements
Title: Traditional Arrangements [Miyata/Tamamori]
Rating/Warnings: R for sex as an excuse not to move.
Summary: Miyata thinks they should do this every night. Just maybe not in Tamamori's house.
AN: Rachel, who is a wily and demanding kouhai, made me mail this to her phone.
Traditional Arrangements
They’re on Tamamori’s couch, the television lighting them in soft blues and yellows. Miyata is stretched out with his head in Tamamori’s lap and a bag of frozen snow peas on his knee (he fell on-stage), and Tamamori has his foot propped up on a pillow on the coffee table with a bag of frozen edamame on his ankle (roller-skating accident).
They should both be in bed, but Tamamori is addicted to watching Live TV Til Morning, the one with the politicians debating issues in the dead of night, and Miyata is addicted to the way that Tamamori is running fingers through his hair. So they go on sitting there, comfortable and relaxed while the television murmurs, the sound turned down low to keep from waking anyone else up.
Miyata kind of wants every night to be like this, kind of wants it a lot. His eyes are mostly closed from the feel of Tamamori’s fingers in his hair, and he idly daydreams about having their own couch in their own living room, and whenever Tamamori gets tired of late-night television, slinking off together to curl up in their own bed. Or futon. Or maybe just staying right on their couch, Miyata isn’t picky.
The fantasy is good and solid in his mind when he opens his eyes again to watch Tamamori’s face in the flicker of the television. Tamamori’s eyes are starting to droop, his fingers in Miyata’s hair starting to slow, but he still isn’t showing any sign of admitting that they need to go to bed. It’s childish, and it’s adorable.
“What?” Tamamori asks without glancing down. He doesn’t have to look to know that Miyata is watching.
“We should do this every night,” Miyata says.
“Sure,” Tamamori answers vaguely, attention still held by the television, although his fingers resume their original speed in Miyata’s hair.
“We should get an apartment together.”
It’s not unusual for Miyata to spring things like this on Tamamori suddenly, because he loves watching for the exact moment when his shocking statements sink in. Tamamori startles at this one like usual after about five seconds, hand stilling and eyes widening as he finally looks away from the television and down at Miyata.
“Really?” he asks cautiously, used to the ways Miyata amuses himself.
“Yeah.” It isn’t like Miyata wouldn’t like to know. They’re both adults, after all. Or, well, close enough.
Tamamori looks thoughtful, and a touch embarrassed. “You know, I asked my mother what she’d think if we did that the other week.”
“Mind synchro,” Miyata teases, smug, but accepts easily Tamamori-san’s level of knowledge of and comfort with the situation. “What’d she think?”
“She said it was expensive and a little silly,” Tamamori goes back to stroking Miyata’s hair, “since we’re away so much. She said we’d be no good at cleaning up or cooking for ourselves anyway.”
“She’s right,” Miyata admits.
Tamamori gives a little laugh and continues, “She said she doesn’t mind at all when you sleep over. You could always just move in.”
“Oi, I’m not the girl. Besides, my mom likes when you stay at my house,” Miyata confesses, “because it’s the only time I do my own laundry.”
Tamamori throws his head back and shakes with suppressed laughter, putting his hand to his mouth to try and keep quiet. The sight is impossible to resist, and Miyata sits up, wincing as his stiff knee cracks, and turns to pull Tamamori’s hand out of the way before kissing him. Tamamori kisses him back, willing, if slow from exhaustion.
“We should go to bed,” Tamamori finally murmurs, and when he pulls back, his eyes have a glint of trouble in them. “Want me to carry you over the threshold of my bedroom?”
“Good luck, with that ankle,” Miyata retorts, but he’s grinning, and he steals another kiss or two or five before Tamamori shoves him away for real.
They stick the half-thawed bags of vegetables back in the freezer and hobble up the stairs on their stiff limbs. Miyata’s grateful that they took a bath when they arrived, because now all they have to do is strip off their clothes before they can collapse on Tamamori’s soft mattress.
“Lying on the blankets,” Tamamori grumbles, face pressed against Miyata’s shoulder. “Move.”
“You first,” Miyata retorts with a yawn.
“Too tired.” Tamamori nudges Miyata with his shoulder. “Let’s have sex instead. We’ll be too hot for blankets.”
“It’s just any excuse for you, isn’t it?” Miyata teases, not moving an inch. “Climb on top and let’s go.”
“Nngh,” Tamamori replies. He continues to go nowhere, and after a minute they both crack up at themselves, struggling to muffle their laughter before one or both Tamamori-sans start pounding the wall. Again.
“All right, all right,” Miyata groans after another minute, when he starts shivering, and he sits up enough to kick down the blankets and crawl under them. He holds up the corner to shake at Tamamori. “Come on, already, you want another cold?”
“You gonna keep me warm?” Tamamori wants to know as he rolls over Miyata and slides in beside him, and Miyata answers his question with another hot kiss as he gets arms around Tamamori’s waist to pull him close.
Tamamori’s skin is chilled, and he shivers when Miyata runs warm hands down his back, presses close and moans low in his throat as his own skin starts to warm.
“See?” Miyata asks, breaking the kiss but not going far. He noses at Tamamori’s jaw until Tamamori tips his head back, and Miyata nips at his throat. “Don’t I always take care of you?”
“Mmhmm,” Tamamori replies, breathless, and then he rolls over onto his back, pulling Miyata over him. Miyata’s breath catches at the glitter of Tamamori’s eyes in the dim room, low-lidded and looking only at him. “I wouldn’t mind you taking care of me right now.”
“What else is new,” Miyata chuckles, but he’s already reaching for Tamamori’s nightstand. He fumbles around a little in the drawer, unwilling to pull his mouth away from Tamamori’s skin long enough to actually look, but eventually turns up what he needs.
He’s glad they haven’t flipped off the bedside lamp yet, because Miyata wouldn’t miss the way Tamamori looks when he works two fingers into him for anything. Tamamori’s flush is spreading down from his face across his chest, making his skin hot under Miyata’s lips. One of these days Miyata really will watch Tamamori do the whole thing himself, but today, like every day, Miyata wants to feel him instead, wants to be the one making him whimper and arch.
“Please,” Tamamori finally begs, reaching up to tug at Miyata’s hair. “I’m good, okay? I want you.”
Miyata can hardly argue with that.
Tamamori buries his face against Miyata’s shoulder as Miyata presses inside of him, muffling his moans against Miyata’s skin. Miyata has to bite down on a few embarrassing noises himself, especially when he makes out Tamamori gasping his name.
“Tama,” he murmurs himself, and when that earns him sharp teeth against his collarbone, amends, “Yuta…”
Wrapping his legs around Miyata’s waist, Tamamori pushes back against him and doesn’t last a terribly long time, exhaustion adding to his usual lack of longevity. Miyata gives in not much after, the squeeze of Tamamori around him irresistible, along with the way Tamamori tugs fingers through Miyata’s hair and whispers his name again.
“We should do this every night,” Tamamori mumbles when he’s half-asleep and curled up against Miyata. “But I’m not moving into your house, ‘cause I’m not the girl.” He punctuates his statement with a soft snore.
Miyata chuckles against Tamamori’s shoulder, and falls asleep himself thinking about Tamamori’s stuff all mixed up with his in his room, or maybe his stuff in Tamamori’s room.
He dreams, vividly and bizarrely, that he’s in the feudal era, his family farmers in the countryside, and that Tamamori is the local lord who brings Miyata and all his meager possessions to his castle.
The next morning, they don’t have to be at work terribly early, and Tamamori’s mother makes them a traditional Japanese breakfast.
“Oh, it’s no trouble,” she insists when Miyata gives a weak protest as he sits down across from Tamamori at the kitchen table. Tamamori, who has no such shame, is already in his seat, shoveling rice into his mouth.
Tamamori-san stands next to the table for a moment after she’s set down the last bowl, absently smoothing down Tamamori’s hair as she makes sure she hasn’t forgotten anything.
“You know,” she says after a moment, “when Yuta’s father and I were first married, we were so poor I had to move in with him and his parents. His mother was very traditional. She used to make this exact breakfast every morning.” Tamamori-san smiles ruefully, but there’s a spark of humor in her eyes that Miyata is more than a little familiar with. “Rather feudal, ne?”
Tamamori is hiding his smile behind his teacup, and Miyata flicks a piece of fish at him as soon as Tamamori-san’s back is turned.
“Ne, Miyacchi,” Tamamori asks when his mother is distracted washing dishes, “want to tell me why you kept moaning ‘Tamamori-dono’ in your sleep last night?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Miyata sniffs, then aims a well-timed kick under the table so that Tamamori gets scolded by his mother for spilling his soup.
Rating/Warnings: R for sex as an excuse not to move.
Summary: Miyata thinks they should do this every night. Just maybe not in Tamamori's house.
AN: Rachel, who is a wily and demanding kouhai, made me mail this to her phone.
Traditional Arrangements
They’re on Tamamori’s couch, the television lighting them in soft blues and yellows. Miyata is stretched out with his head in Tamamori’s lap and a bag of frozen snow peas on his knee (he fell on-stage), and Tamamori has his foot propped up on a pillow on the coffee table with a bag of frozen edamame on his ankle (roller-skating accident).
They should both be in bed, but Tamamori is addicted to watching Live TV Til Morning, the one with the politicians debating issues in the dead of night, and Miyata is addicted to the way that Tamamori is running fingers through his hair. So they go on sitting there, comfortable and relaxed while the television murmurs, the sound turned down low to keep from waking anyone else up.
Miyata kind of wants every night to be like this, kind of wants it a lot. His eyes are mostly closed from the feel of Tamamori’s fingers in his hair, and he idly daydreams about having their own couch in their own living room, and whenever Tamamori gets tired of late-night television, slinking off together to curl up in their own bed. Or futon. Or maybe just staying right on their couch, Miyata isn’t picky.
The fantasy is good and solid in his mind when he opens his eyes again to watch Tamamori’s face in the flicker of the television. Tamamori’s eyes are starting to droop, his fingers in Miyata’s hair starting to slow, but he still isn’t showing any sign of admitting that they need to go to bed. It’s childish, and it’s adorable.
“What?” Tamamori asks without glancing down. He doesn’t have to look to know that Miyata is watching.
“We should do this every night,” Miyata says.
“Sure,” Tamamori answers vaguely, attention still held by the television, although his fingers resume their original speed in Miyata’s hair.
“We should get an apartment together.”
It’s not unusual for Miyata to spring things like this on Tamamori suddenly, because he loves watching for the exact moment when his shocking statements sink in. Tamamori startles at this one like usual after about five seconds, hand stilling and eyes widening as he finally looks away from the television and down at Miyata.
“Really?” he asks cautiously, used to the ways Miyata amuses himself.
“Yeah.” It isn’t like Miyata wouldn’t like to know. They’re both adults, after all. Or, well, close enough.
Tamamori looks thoughtful, and a touch embarrassed. “You know, I asked my mother what she’d think if we did that the other week.”
“Mind synchro,” Miyata teases, smug, but accepts easily Tamamori-san’s level of knowledge of and comfort with the situation. “What’d she think?”
“She said it was expensive and a little silly,” Tamamori goes back to stroking Miyata’s hair, “since we’re away so much. She said we’d be no good at cleaning up or cooking for ourselves anyway.”
“She’s right,” Miyata admits.
Tamamori gives a little laugh and continues, “She said she doesn’t mind at all when you sleep over. You could always just move in.”
“Oi, I’m not the girl. Besides, my mom likes when you stay at my house,” Miyata confesses, “because it’s the only time I do my own laundry.”
Tamamori throws his head back and shakes with suppressed laughter, putting his hand to his mouth to try and keep quiet. The sight is impossible to resist, and Miyata sits up, wincing as his stiff knee cracks, and turns to pull Tamamori’s hand out of the way before kissing him. Tamamori kisses him back, willing, if slow from exhaustion.
“We should go to bed,” Tamamori finally murmurs, and when he pulls back, his eyes have a glint of trouble in them. “Want me to carry you over the threshold of my bedroom?”
“Good luck, with that ankle,” Miyata retorts, but he’s grinning, and he steals another kiss or two or five before Tamamori shoves him away for real.
They stick the half-thawed bags of vegetables back in the freezer and hobble up the stairs on their stiff limbs. Miyata’s grateful that they took a bath when they arrived, because now all they have to do is strip off their clothes before they can collapse on Tamamori’s soft mattress.
“Lying on the blankets,” Tamamori grumbles, face pressed against Miyata’s shoulder. “Move.”
“You first,” Miyata retorts with a yawn.
“Too tired.” Tamamori nudges Miyata with his shoulder. “Let’s have sex instead. We’ll be too hot for blankets.”
“It’s just any excuse for you, isn’t it?” Miyata teases, not moving an inch. “Climb on top and let’s go.”
“Nngh,” Tamamori replies. He continues to go nowhere, and after a minute they both crack up at themselves, struggling to muffle their laughter before one or both Tamamori-sans start pounding the wall. Again.
“All right, all right,” Miyata groans after another minute, when he starts shivering, and he sits up enough to kick down the blankets and crawl under them. He holds up the corner to shake at Tamamori. “Come on, already, you want another cold?”
“You gonna keep me warm?” Tamamori wants to know as he rolls over Miyata and slides in beside him, and Miyata answers his question with another hot kiss as he gets arms around Tamamori’s waist to pull him close.
Tamamori’s skin is chilled, and he shivers when Miyata runs warm hands down his back, presses close and moans low in his throat as his own skin starts to warm.
“See?” Miyata asks, breaking the kiss but not going far. He noses at Tamamori’s jaw until Tamamori tips his head back, and Miyata nips at his throat. “Don’t I always take care of you?”
“Mmhmm,” Tamamori replies, breathless, and then he rolls over onto his back, pulling Miyata over him. Miyata’s breath catches at the glitter of Tamamori’s eyes in the dim room, low-lidded and looking only at him. “I wouldn’t mind you taking care of me right now.”
“What else is new,” Miyata chuckles, but he’s already reaching for Tamamori’s nightstand. He fumbles around a little in the drawer, unwilling to pull his mouth away from Tamamori’s skin long enough to actually look, but eventually turns up what he needs.
He’s glad they haven’t flipped off the bedside lamp yet, because Miyata wouldn’t miss the way Tamamori looks when he works two fingers into him for anything. Tamamori’s flush is spreading down from his face across his chest, making his skin hot under Miyata’s lips. One of these days Miyata really will watch Tamamori do the whole thing himself, but today, like every day, Miyata wants to feel him instead, wants to be the one making him whimper and arch.
“Please,” Tamamori finally begs, reaching up to tug at Miyata’s hair. “I’m good, okay? I want you.”
Miyata can hardly argue with that.
Tamamori buries his face against Miyata’s shoulder as Miyata presses inside of him, muffling his moans against Miyata’s skin. Miyata has to bite down on a few embarrassing noises himself, especially when he makes out Tamamori gasping his name.
“Tama,” he murmurs himself, and when that earns him sharp teeth against his collarbone, amends, “Yuta…”
Wrapping his legs around Miyata’s waist, Tamamori pushes back against him and doesn’t last a terribly long time, exhaustion adding to his usual lack of longevity. Miyata gives in not much after, the squeeze of Tamamori around him irresistible, along with the way Tamamori tugs fingers through Miyata’s hair and whispers his name again.
“We should do this every night,” Tamamori mumbles when he’s half-asleep and curled up against Miyata. “But I’m not moving into your house, ‘cause I’m not the girl.” He punctuates his statement with a soft snore.
Miyata chuckles against Tamamori’s shoulder, and falls asleep himself thinking about Tamamori’s stuff all mixed up with his in his room, or maybe his stuff in Tamamori’s room.
He dreams, vividly and bizarrely, that he’s in the feudal era, his family farmers in the countryside, and that Tamamori is the local lord who brings Miyata and all his meager possessions to his castle.
The next morning, they don’t have to be at work terribly early, and Tamamori’s mother makes them a traditional Japanese breakfast.
“Oh, it’s no trouble,” she insists when Miyata gives a weak protest as he sits down across from Tamamori at the kitchen table. Tamamori, who has no such shame, is already in his seat, shoveling rice into his mouth.
Tamamori-san stands next to the table for a moment after she’s set down the last bowl, absently smoothing down Tamamori’s hair as she makes sure she hasn’t forgotten anything.
“You know,” she says after a moment, “when Yuta’s father and I were first married, we were so poor I had to move in with him and his parents. His mother was very traditional. She used to make this exact breakfast every morning.” Tamamori-san smiles ruefully, but there’s a spark of humor in her eyes that Miyata is more than a little familiar with. “Rather feudal, ne?”
Tamamori is hiding his smile behind his teacup, and Miyata flicks a piece of fish at him as soon as Tamamori-san’s back is turned.
“Ne, Miyacchi,” Tamamori asks when his mother is distracted washing dishes, “want to tell me why you kept moaning ‘Tamamori-dono’ in your sleep last night?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Miyata sniffs, then aims a well-timed kick under the table so that Tamamori gets scolded by his mother for spilling his soup.