1st post~~~ *_*
We (that is, enerirenie and myself) would like to officially welcome everyone to the opening of heat_up_je!~
Not that many members yet, but we're SURE there are people out there who enjoy Jyanni's het fic, and we hope that they join us here!
As a preliminary offering, I give you "Helena"; a Ryo/Erika fic set in RL-- yes, RL.
Hai, douzo!
Helena
by Ekai Ungson/noble_scarlet
Nishikido Ryo/Sawajiri Erika
rated R
i.
She was probably the last girl he ought to be involved with.
Then again he could hardly call this... arrangement he had with her an involvement, per se. It was more of a... the term in his mind was convenience, and it was something from which they both benefited.
The first time he met her, he'd been astounded at the way she seemed to be able to turn her personality on and off for the camera. It had been like watching two different people-- once the director yelled 'cut!', she transformed completely from the character she played.
She swept into his life like a fire sweeps through dry grass. She'd destroyed everything in her path before he realized it.
It was her mouth he blamed. One intense, illicit kiss in a dressing room on set had been the beginning.
When she pulled away, he stared at her, dumbfounded.
"What the fuck was that for?" he blurted out moments later as she fixed her lipstick in the mirror.
She stared at him on the reflection. Then she shrugged. "I just wanted to see what it was like to kiss a Johnny's boy," she said evenly. "Everyone looks up to you guys as if you're demi-gods or something, but..." she trailed off, straightening. "You're just like every other boy."
Or maybe it had been her defiance. How she'd so openly reduced his entire being down to the fact that he was being managed by one of the best agencies in Japan. Whatever the case, he'd set out to prove her wrong in the back of the her van still wearing their high school uniform costumes.
It had been amazing, until they got to the part where they had to explain how they'd ripped the costumes in unseemly places to their director.
She claimed snagging it... repeatedly... on some thorns. He claimed poor craftsmanship and demanded a new designer.
And smiled when he remembered how he'd busted the zipper on her skirt in his haste to get it off.
It happened again, several times, in the duration of filming the drama. For all the angry sex they were having, they left no marks on each other that could be seen and cause a scandal.
And it was angry sex because... they couldn't seem to have it any other way. When it came down to it, it was almost as if they did it based not on a mutual like of each other, but for a common hatred. Whatever frustration she couldn't get out of herself in-character, she took out on him.
He didn't mind, because it was honestly the best sex he'd ever had. She was uninhibited, unafraid. And sometimes she ignored everything else but her own pleasure-- freeing him to do the same.
When the drama wrapped up, he thought that would be the end of that. They'd carried on for weeks without anybody finding out, and now it was over. He didn't even get her phone number; he was sure they would never cross paths again.
He was wrong.
He received an invitation to her 21st birthday party. It was all kept very quiet, because apparently the press had stormed the first venue she'd planned on and had to cancel that event.
He didn't know why, but he went.
The party was in full swing when he arrived. Some acquaintances waved to him as he entered, and he waved back, scanning the crowd for her. In the end, he found her sitting by herself in the bar, nursing a beer and a cigarette.
"Happy birthday," he told her as he slid onto the stool next to hers and handed over the small Tifanny box he'd purchased on his way to the party.
"Thank you," she returned politely. "It's great that you could come."
His smile was mirthless. "You sound as if you were expecting me not to."
She shrugged. "They said you've been busy. And we're not exactly friends." She sucked on the cigarette, blew in the other direction. "Drinks are on me. Go have fun. I hear Leah's in here... somewhere." She gestured vaguely at the dance floor.
He nodded towards the cigarette in her hand. "You look like you've been doing that for a long time, but you're supposed to only have turned legal today."
She gave him an 'oh, please' look. "Had an early start," she said, winking. "12 AM on the dot."
He laughed as he flagged the bartender down, asked for a beer himself.
"So," she began, stubbing out the cigarette on an ashtray. "How've you been?"
"Are you asking to make polite conversation, or do you really want to know?" he asked, taking a swig.
She smirked. "Say maybe I care, at the moment."
"I'm fine," he assured her. "Still a Johnny's boy. My band's on tour."
She nodded. "I heard about that. God, your concerts. I don't suppose you run out of groupies to amuse yourselves with." She leaned on the bar and fixed him a stare. "Or do you all just screw each other, seeing as how your manager's a goddamn stick-in-the-mud?"
He laughed again. "Do you think of nothing but sex?"
"Of course not," she answered. "Sometimes I think of shopping. Do you wanna dance?"
He shook his head. She shrugged, getting off the bar stool. "Suit yourself."
She disappeared into the crowd as he finished his beer. He meant to leave then.
Instead he stayed and had another.
The party itself had been pretty sedate. In Japan, the only people who partied hard were foreigners. Japanese people themselves always kept up a certain level of propriety. Japanese celebrities had it higher than most.
He did get off his ass and danced a few times. He even danced with her. As the party cooled down, he grabbed a cue to leave and took it. For the sake of politeness he tried looking for her to say goodbye, but she was nowehere to be seen, so he stepped out of the bar and into the cool night air.
"You didn't score with Leah?"
He turned sharply around to see her leaning on the fence by the door. "Didn't even see her," he answered evenly.
"Shame," she murmured, stepping towards him. "Wanna take this party somewhere else?"
For some reason, he ended up taking her to his place.
She absorbed her surroundings with a detached sort of morbid curiosity. "Nice pad," she commented. "You live alone?"
"Aa," he nodded, gesturing for her to sit down on his couch. Then they both paused, as if unsure what to do with each other.
He went into the kitchen to get out some beers. When he walked back out, she looked up and asked, "Why did you bring me here?"
He shrugged. "It's better than going somewhere public and getting caught by the press," he explained, opening up a bottle and handing it to her.
To be telling the truth, he had no idea why he'd brought her at all. He could've declined her when she asked.
Screw it. She was here, and he might as well play good host.
"Always so conscientious about your reputation," she commented, taking the bottle from him. "Is that inborn, or do they teach that over at Johnny's Jimusho?"
He didn't answer.
She leaned back. "What if someone saw you bringing me in-- that's worse than being seen in public, isn't it?"
He'd thought about that. "No one saw us."
She shrugged. "If you say so."
Between the two of them, they finished two six-packs. They talked about everything and nothing; in a drunken haze, it was easier to shoot his mouth off about the mundane.
"You know you're not exactly my type," he told her, leaning back.
She studied him for a long time, eyes unblinking as she stared at him.
"... Does that still matter?"
Their eyes met.
Then he was leaning over to kiss her, and she wasn't resisting.
If anything, it was as if she knew that the night would end exactly as it did, here on his couch with his hands on her. With clothes just pushed away instead of taken off, teeth clashing, tongues tangled.
They never did make it off the couch, but when he woke up the next morning with sunlight in his eyes, the pleasant tipsiness replaced with a throbbing migraine, she was gone.
As he staggered past empty beer bottles and empty chip bags into his kitchen, groping blindly in his cabinets for aspirin, he noticed that someone had made coffee and it was simmering in the pot beside the bottle of pain pills he was looking for.
He poured himself a mug and downed two tablets-- when his eyes cleared he noticed the post-it stuck to the percolator.
An eleven digit number was scrawled below a quick 'thanks'. He crumpled the little piece of paper in his hand, meaning to throw it away.
But he shoved it into his jeans pocket instead.
A week had passed and he was doing laundry at the house in Osaka as his sister entertained his niece and his mother puttered around the kitchen, chatting to his brother.
As he emptied the pockets of his jeans, he found a crumpled piece of blue paper.
Right. That girl.
What the heck, he thought, fishing for his mobile phone. She answered after seven rings.
"What took you so long?"
"... Nishikido-kun?"
He was a little taken aback by that. She'd referred to him that way for interviews and in front of other people, but not directly to him.
"Aa," he said instead.
She didn't ask for an explanation of why he called. "I was in the other room," she explained instead.
Silence fell between them.
Finally, he spoke up. "Are you... what are you doing?"
"..." She took the phone off her ear and stared at the screen. What in the world... She put it back and spoke. "I was folding laundry up."
He relaxed, leaning on the washing machine. "Aa, really. I'm doing laundry, too."
Another heavy pause followed.
"Nishikido-kun," she began carefully. "Why did you--"
"Are you free on Friday?" he asked abruptly. Instantly he regretted the decision, but there it was, so he waited for her response.
"... Hai," she confirmed. "Why?"
"Because..." he trailed off, "Because, you left something at my place and I'm going to be home just on Friday-- it's my day-off."
"You seem very busy."
"I am. So will you come pick it up?"
She smirked. Whatever 'it' was, she was sure it didn't exist. But she felt like humoring him. "Of course," she agreed. "After filming, I'll come, around 9," she told him.
He nodded. "Aa. That's good. All right. Goodbye."
"Goodbye, Nishikido-kun."
He had no idea what he was trying to prove, but he'd declined dinner offers to stay at home and wait for her to show, if she ever did.
When the doorbell rang, he jumped, half-shocked that she came at all.
She was leaning on his doorway, smirking up at him when he opened the door.
"At your service," she murmured evenly.
He yanked her in and locked the door.
"So," she began, "I left something here, didn't I?" she asked, looking up at him. "It's cute that you had to make up excuses."
"I..." he began. "I don't know how this works," he admitted.
She stepped to him, her face inches from his. "You want to sleep with me."
"Yes."
She smiled. "You're an honest sort, then."
"It'd be stupid to lie."
She nodded, running her hands up his arms. "It can be arranged."
Nothing about this was about love or even tenderness-- she didn't pretend it was, so he followed her lead. When she kissed him it was fierce, took off his shirt before pressing him against the wall. He went-- she certainly seemed as if she knew what she was doing. Hadn't she proven exactly that all those other times they had sex? She knew what she was doing.
She pressed her hips hard against his, stretched to bite at his earlobe. He made no move to touch her, since it seemed as if she was enjoying being the lead. She lapped and nipped her way down his throat, ran her nails over his chest, just stopping short of his belt.
The girl was good. She stripped herself of her blouse and came back to lean against him, her breasts hot against him, the light scratchy feeling of lace in between.
"So far..." she began.
"So good," he finished.
She smiled against his chest and disposed of his belt. She had very deft hands. Clever hands that came back to shape him against his pants. He bucked against her, felt her smirk on his skin as she busied herself with the button, the zipper. His eyes closed when her hand slipped inside his boxers, fingers wrapping around him.
She began stroking him roughly, and he thrust into her hand, breath hissing out through gritted teeth. In a moment of clarity it came to him-- sex with her was reckless and demanding. He called her because he craved it.
He grabbed her wrist and she looked up at him, glaring. He dragged her to the bed where she fell onto him before getting up and yanking his pants and boxers off in one swift motion, then discarding her own skirt.
When she came back, she was naked and hot and her eyes were burning holes through him.
"You're pretty," she said, rising above him as he pressed his mouth to her breasts.
"Thank you," he said, grinning.
"Pretty," she repeated, fisting a hand in his hair and pressing him to her. "But not obscenely so. You seem rather dangerous, actually."
"It's an act," he told her, licking along her collarbone.
"Everything's an act," she agreed, closing her eyes and throwing her head back as his hands ran up her back.
She leaned down to kiss him-- the first real kiss since she walked in the door. The sensation shocked him, feeling her tongue move against his. She pulled away just as he was getting into it, too.
He grabbed her hand and pulled her back, but her other hand had reached between them and now held him loosely with her fingers.
The way she stroked him this time was markedly different from when she did while they were still standing up. Slowly, torturously gently, she moved her hand up, and then down.
He had a feeling his eyes crossed just then. When they did focus, she was smiling indulgently. "Condoms, lover," she demanded easily, repeating the motion.
He nodded his head towards the side table, and she crawled off him to retrieve them, giving him an amazing view of her ass.
"What're you looking at," she smirked as she returned, straddling him; He grinned up at her as she slid the protection in place. He never did get the chance to answer her because she was on him and he was in her-- she pushed him back onto the bed and moved.
"God," he rasped out. She laughed.
"I haven't been called that in a long time, but if it works for you," she whispered indulgently in his ear. He heard nothing, but felt the warmth wash just over his jaw. He gripped her hips and kept her still. She growled.
"What the fuck," she swore vehemently, trying to move against him. He tightened his grip, until she lifted her head and glared at him.
"Let me play," he told her, flashing her his magazine smile.
She settled herself more firmly against him and crossed her arms. "I thought we were already doing that."
He shook his head. "You've had your fun 'til now," he said, pushing her off him roughly, making her gasp in surprise. He shifted, pinning her to the bed and burying himself in her decisively as she cried out. "It's my turn," he continued, hands running over her skin. He knelt and slammed them against the headboard with his next thrust, smirking because she was swearing at him and moaning at the same time.
She came like a thunderclap, squirming under him as she scratched whatever piece of him she could find. His shoulders got the worst of it but he didn't mind-- with each thrust into her he felt his own orgasm rising up and with one final push emptied himself into her as she panted out her breath.
He woke up when the shower stopped running. Her shadow fell across his face as he blinked, rubbing at his eyes. She strolled over and whipped the sheet off him unceremoniously, one hand holding up the towel she'd wrapped around herself.
"Your turn," she said as she rummaged around for her clothing. She walked back out to the hall to retrieve her blouse and dropped the towel as she put it on sans bra, then went fishing for her panties along the floor.
He'd left a few marks, he noted, but not the kind that could be seen in public. That was good. He had to be more careful next time, he thought, checking his own skin for bruising.
"You've got nothing on you," she told him. "I'm not an idiot. All you've got to remember tonight is a memory and nothing else. Damn it," she muttered as she sighed over her skirt.
"What is it?" he asked sliding off the bed, wrapping the sheet around his waist.
"Busted the zipper," she explained, putting it on anyway. "It's cool. I have safety pins in my purse."
He smirked as he made his way to the bathroom. There was something to be said for a girl who'd break her own zipper in her haste to bed him.
"So," she began as she fastened the skirt in place and shook her hair out. He paused in the door, turning to her. "Is this going to be a regular thing, or what?" she asked, giving up on untangling the curls and settling for tying it up.
He considered that. "I have Fridays off, sometimes Thursdays. It changes," he informed her.
"I've some heavy promotion coming up for something soon," she answered, putting her shoes on. "I'll probably have little time, but... it's still doable," she finished, picking up her purse. "I'll call you. You call me. Whatever."
And so it had begun.
He'd come to refer to it as his weekly poker night. His friends were easily enough convinced, but Yamapi had taken notice of one particularly nasty bite mark on his stomach one time in the dressing room. He'd let it slide, but he knew his best friend was screwing someone-- he just didn't know who.
She came every time at 9 pm on the dot. That was where the routine stopped. Everytime their bodies came together was a different experience. After a while he realized that talking was probably a logical extension of what they were doing. They had brilliant conversations, and not all while having sex, either. She proved to be intelligent, well-read, sharp-minded.
And just a little mean.
"... Her boobs aren't even real," she pointed out once, sitting up and bringing the sheet with her.
He turned to her, grinning. "You know this, because? Don't tell me you've touched them."
She looked at him and placed a finger to her lips. "Gravure idol secret pact. Couldn't tell you if I tried," she said, smiling.
He shook his head, laughing with her. "You can't expect me to believe that," he said, leaning back and hooking his hands behind his head.
"You can believe what you like," she said idly, looking him over. "I mean, I know what you're thinking when you're thrusting into me. That's okay. When I'm with you I think of Matsumoto Jun."
He turned his head sharply up at her. She gave him an innocent look. "What?" she continued. "We're not having a relationship, we're just using each other."
It was true and he knew it. He didn't know why he kept coloring this affair with shades of a semi-connection-- they were good in bed together, but when it all came down to it, he was a convenient dick and she had the time. He yanked her against him then, pulling her on top of him; her lips were on his and he didn't even have to ask.
She tasted like addiction.
ii.
It was two in the morning when she staggered out of his place, walking through the halls still trying to get her heels on right. Her hair was probably a mess and her clothes were hopelessly wrinkled, but if the building was as paparazzi-proof as he said it was, then she had nothing to worry about. She went out the back way and hailed a cab home, sighing as she stared out the window, watching the lights pass.
She'd left him sleeping facedown in bed, the sheet thrown carelessly across his hips. Just then, as she picked up her clothes from the floor she watched, quiet, until she straightened, fully clothed. What happened next was as unconscious as it was disturbing-- she'd reached out to touch him, brush away his hair-- until she caught herself and she hightailed it the hell out of there as if she were a thief that was almost apprehended.
All the way to her mother's house in Nerima, that was what she wondered about. Nothing about this was about love, or being loved-- cursing herself for being so predictably /female/, she unlocked the gate and crept silently into the house and to her room. She was fooling no one-- her mother's ears pricked up the exact moment she came in, but she'd long ago given up trying to discipline her daughter, especially since at the moment, she was the one making money for both of them.
Her father was better at discipline, anyway, and he had died when she was far too young. Her brother, too. And now, no matter how heartbreaking it was to see her daughter throwing her life away, that pain was dulled whenever she remembered.
Not love; not loved. It was the mantra she repeated whenever she came anywhere close to an edge that she knew if she jumped from, there'd be no turning back.
He kissed like a dream; that much she could give him, and that much was a surprise. She didn't usually kiss men she merely toyed with-- for her, a kiss was personal. Incredibly personal. That first time wasn't meant to happen again, but it did, and one kiss turned into five, twenty. Maybe it hadn't meant anything to him, but somewhere around his two hundred and seventy-fifth kiss she dropped the denial. It meant something.
Her problem is boundaries, and where to set them; she'd told herself she wouldn't kiss boys she didn't love, but she kissed him; she'd told herself he would see only what he needed to see, and nothing more, but really, what else was there left not to see when they'd been screwing with each other for two months now? She'd told herself, don't get attached, don't get close.
Right now she's pulling up the edges of her silk shirt, buttoning it up as his fingers travel the length of her thigh and his mouth is trying to be clever with her throat. "I've got to go," she moans as his fingers trace the edge of her panties, slip underneath.
"It's early yet," he tells her, covering her mouth with his own against her protestations of having an early call time. They get on, get on it, get it on together, and it's an hour later before she can slip out. Work was going to be shot tomorrow, but that was the least of her problems; they were acting like lovers, and that wasn't part of the plan. It was his kisses she cursed for that.
"You have so many dysfunctions," he told her once, picking up a cigarette but not lighting it, just twirling it around in his fingers. "You're so angry, Sawajiri."
He was trying to quit, she knew that. In fact if it came to it she knew quite a bit about him now. He liked his coffee strong, no milk or sugar. His room was always a mess but he knew exactly where to find something when he needed to. He referred to this thing they did his 'weekly poker night'. The space between his collarbones was particularly sensitive, and he giggled like an idiot when she ran her fingers up his stomach. Maybe it was a relationship of sorts, she realized as she took the stick away from him and lit it herself, taking one long drag before stubbing it out.
Details. Those usually spelled the end of affairs such as these, when someone gets too close and flaws are discovered. And without realizing it, they were probably much closer than they thought now compared to the first time she came to him. Already he was making observations about her dysfunctions. Soon enough he'd realize something about her; exactly what she didn't know. Then he'd leave, but she'd leave first. She just wished, right now, that she could figure out how.
The answer, when it came, was so ridiculously simple. It was also that lame, but any port in a storm, right?
He was chattering on about some mundane thing... going to the States with his bandmates or somesuch. She was hooking her shoes back on, picking up her purse. When she straightened, she blurted out, "Nishikido-kun, I can't see you anymore."
His brow furrowed at that. "Nanyaro," he began.
She cut him off swiftly. "They're asking questions, Nishikido, and I don't have the answers. This has to end before they go looking for the answers themselves." She looked up and met his eyes, and she had to turn away, busying herself with smoothing down her slacks. "You know this as well as I do. A gravure idol and a Johnny's boy. They were bound to start talking some time. If word gets to your boss, you'll be suspended like that idiot Akanishi. My debut single's coming out in another month and a half. I've a photobook and you have your tour. We have to quit while we're ahead."
She stepped towards the door and he followed, staring after her.
"Fun while it lasted," she murmured over her shoulder before turning the doorknob and slipping outside. It was all true, she reasoned. She was an idol, and he was a slave to his agency. How long did they both expect it to last? She hailed a cab and got in just before it started raining. She didn't look back. She never did.
So long and goodnight.
~owari
Not that many members yet, but we're SURE there are people out there who enjoy Jyanni's het fic, and we hope that they join us here!
As a preliminary offering, I give you "Helena"; a Ryo/Erika fic set in RL-- yes, RL.
Hai, douzo!
Helena
by Ekai Ungson/noble_scarlet
Nishikido Ryo/Sawajiri Erika
rated R
i.
She was probably the last girl he ought to be involved with.
Then again he could hardly call this... arrangement he had with her an involvement, per se. It was more of a... the term in his mind was convenience, and it was something from which they both benefited.
The first time he met her, he'd been astounded at the way she seemed to be able to turn her personality on and off for the camera. It had been like watching two different people-- once the director yelled 'cut!', she transformed completely from the character she played.
She swept into his life like a fire sweeps through dry grass. She'd destroyed everything in her path before he realized it.
It was her mouth he blamed. One intense, illicit kiss in a dressing room on set had been the beginning.
When she pulled away, he stared at her, dumbfounded.
"What the fuck was that for?" he blurted out moments later as she fixed her lipstick in the mirror.
She stared at him on the reflection. Then she shrugged. "I just wanted to see what it was like to kiss a Johnny's boy," she said evenly. "Everyone looks up to you guys as if you're demi-gods or something, but..." she trailed off, straightening. "You're just like every other boy."
Or maybe it had been her defiance. How she'd so openly reduced his entire being down to the fact that he was being managed by one of the best agencies in Japan. Whatever the case, he'd set out to prove her wrong in the back of the her van still wearing their high school uniform costumes.
It had been amazing, until they got to the part where they had to explain how they'd ripped the costumes in unseemly places to their director.
She claimed snagging it... repeatedly... on some thorns. He claimed poor craftsmanship and demanded a new designer.
And smiled when he remembered how he'd busted the zipper on her skirt in his haste to get it off.
It happened again, several times, in the duration of filming the drama. For all the angry sex they were having, they left no marks on each other that could be seen and cause a scandal.
And it was angry sex because... they couldn't seem to have it any other way. When it came down to it, it was almost as if they did it based not on a mutual like of each other, but for a common hatred. Whatever frustration she couldn't get out of herself in-character, she took out on him.
He didn't mind, because it was honestly the best sex he'd ever had. She was uninhibited, unafraid. And sometimes she ignored everything else but her own pleasure-- freeing him to do the same.
When the drama wrapped up, he thought that would be the end of that. They'd carried on for weeks without anybody finding out, and now it was over. He didn't even get her phone number; he was sure they would never cross paths again.
He was wrong.
He received an invitation to her 21st birthday party. It was all kept very quiet, because apparently the press had stormed the first venue she'd planned on and had to cancel that event.
He didn't know why, but he went.
The party was in full swing when he arrived. Some acquaintances waved to him as he entered, and he waved back, scanning the crowd for her. In the end, he found her sitting by herself in the bar, nursing a beer and a cigarette.
"Happy birthday," he told her as he slid onto the stool next to hers and handed over the small Tifanny box he'd purchased on his way to the party.
"Thank you," she returned politely. "It's great that you could come."
His smile was mirthless. "You sound as if you were expecting me not to."
She shrugged. "They said you've been busy. And we're not exactly friends." She sucked on the cigarette, blew in the other direction. "Drinks are on me. Go have fun. I hear Leah's in here... somewhere." She gestured vaguely at the dance floor.
He nodded towards the cigarette in her hand. "You look like you've been doing that for a long time, but you're supposed to only have turned legal today."
She gave him an 'oh, please' look. "Had an early start," she said, winking. "12 AM on the dot."
He laughed as he flagged the bartender down, asked for a beer himself.
"So," she began, stubbing out the cigarette on an ashtray. "How've you been?"
"Are you asking to make polite conversation, or do you really want to know?" he asked, taking a swig.
She smirked. "Say maybe I care, at the moment."
"I'm fine," he assured her. "Still a Johnny's boy. My band's on tour."
She nodded. "I heard about that. God, your concerts. I don't suppose you run out of groupies to amuse yourselves with." She leaned on the bar and fixed him a stare. "Or do you all just screw each other, seeing as how your manager's a goddamn stick-in-the-mud?"
He laughed again. "Do you think of nothing but sex?"
"Of course not," she answered. "Sometimes I think of shopping. Do you wanna dance?"
He shook his head. She shrugged, getting off the bar stool. "Suit yourself."
She disappeared into the crowd as he finished his beer. He meant to leave then.
Instead he stayed and had another.
The party itself had been pretty sedate. In Japan, the only people who partied hard were foreigners. Japanese people themselves always kept up a certain level of propriety. Japanese celebrities had it higher than most.
He did get off his ass and danced a few times. He even danced with her. As the party cooled down, he grabbed a cue to leave and took it. For the sake of politeness he tried looking for her to say goodbye, but she was nowehere to be seen, so he stepped out of the bar and into the cool night air.
"You didn't score with Leah?"
He turned sharply around to see her leaning on the fence by the door. "Didn't even see her," he answered evenly.
"Shame," she murmured, stepping towards him. "Wanna take this party somewhere else?"
For some reason, he ended up taking her to his place.
She absorbed her surroundings with a detached sort of morbid curiosity. "Nice pad," she commented. "You live alone?"
"Aa," he nodded, gesturing for her to sit down on his couch. Then they both paused, as if unsure what to do with each other.
He went into the kitchen to get out some beers. When he walked back out, she looked up and asked, "Why did you bring me here?"
He shrugged. "It's better than going somewhere public and getting caught by the press," he explained, opening up a bottle and handing it to her.
To be telling the truth, he had no idea why he'd brought her at all. He could've declined her when she asked.
Screw it. She was here, and he might as well play good host.
"Always so conscientious about your reputation," she commented, taking the bottle from him. "Is that inborn, or do they teach that over at Johnny's Jimusho?"
He didn't answer.
She leaned back. "What if someone saw you bringing me in-- that's worse than being seen in public, isn't it?"
He'd thought about that. "No one saw us."
She shrugged. "If you say so."
Between the two of them, they finished two six-packs. They talked about everything and nothing; in a drunken haze, it was easier to shoot his mouth off about the mundane.
"You know you're not exactly my type," he told her, leaning back.
She studied him for a long time, eyes unblinking as she stared at him.
"... Does that still matter?"
Their eyes met.
Then he was leaning over to kiss her, and she wasn't resisting.
If anything, it was as if she knew that the night would end exactly as it did, here on his couch with his hands on her. With clothes just pushed away instead of taken off, teeth clashing, tongues tangled.
They never did make it off the couch, but when he woke up the next morning with sunlight in his eyes, the pleasant tipsiness replaced with a throbbing migraine, she was gone.
As he staggered past empty beer bottles and empty chip bags into his kitchen, groping blindly in his cabinets for aspirin, he noticed that someone had made coffee and it was simmering in the pot beside the bottle of pain pills he was looking for.
He poured himself a mug and downed two tablets-- when his eyes cleared he noticed the post-it stuck to the percolator.
An eleven digit number was scrawled below a quick 'thanks'. He crumpled the little piece of paper in his hand, meaning to throw it away.
But he shoved it into his jeans pocket instead.
A week had passed and he was doing laundry at the house in Osaka as his sister entertained his niece and his mother puttered around the kitchen, chatting to his brother.
As he emptied the pockets of his jeans, he found a crumpled piece of blue paper.
Right. That girl.
What the heck, he thought, fishing for his mobile phone. She answered after seven rings.
"What took you so long?"
"... Nishikido-kun?"
He was a little taken aback by that. She'd referred to him that way for interviews and in front of other people, but not directly to him.
"Aa," he said instead.
She didn't ask for an explanation of why he called. "I was in the other room," she explained instead.
Silence fell between them.
Finally, he spoke up. "Are you... what are you doing?"
"..." She took the phone off her ear and stared at the screen. What in the world... She put it back and spoke. "I was folding laundry up."
He relaxed, leaning on the washing machine. "Aa, really. I'm doing laundry, too."
Another heavy pause followed.
"Nishikido-kun," she began carefully. "Why did you--"
"Are you free on Friday?" he asked abruptly. Instantly he regretted the decision, but there it was, so he waited for her response.
"... Hai," she confirmed. "Why?"
"Because..." he trailed off, "Because, you left something at my place and I'm going to be home just on Friday-- it's my day-off."
"You seem very busy."
"I am. So will you come pick it up?"
She smirked. Whatever 'it' was, she was sure it didn't exist. But she felt like humoring him. "Of course," she agreed. "After filming, I'll come, around 9," she told him.
He nodded. "Aa. That's good. All right. Goodbye."
"Goodbye, Nishikido-kun."
He had no idea what he was trying to prove, but he'd declined dinner offers to stay at home and wait for her to show, if she ever did.
When the doorbell rang, he jumped, half-shocked that she came at all.
She was leaning on his doorway, smirking up at him when he opened the door.
"At your service," she murmured evenly.
He yanked her in and locked the door.
"So," she began, "I left something here, didn't I?" she asked, looking up at him. "It's cute that you had to make up excuses."
"I..." he began. "I don't know how this works," he admitted.
She stepped to him, her face inches from his. "You want to sleep with me."
"Yes."
She smiled. "You're an honest sort, then."
"It'd be stupid to lie."
She nodded, running her hands up his arms. "It can be arranged."
Nothing about this was about love or even tenderness-- she didn't pretend it was, so he followed her lead. When she kissed him it was fierce, took off his shirt before pressing him against the wall. He went-- she certainly seemed as if she knew what she was doing. Hadn't she proven exactly that all those other times they had sex? She knew what she was doing.
She pressed her hips hard against his, stretched to bite at his earlobe. He made no move to touch her, since it seemed as if she was enjoying being the lead. She lapped and nipped her way down his throat, ran her nails over his chest, just stopping short of his belt.
The girl was good. She stripped herself of her blouse and came back to lean against him, her breasts hot against him, the light scratchy feeling of lace in between.
"So far..." she began.
"So good," he finished.
She smiled against his chest and disposed of his belt. She had very deft hands. Clever hands that came back to shape him against his pants. He bucked against her, felt her smirk on his skin as she busied herself with the button, the zipper. His eyes closed when her hand slipped inside his boxers, fingers wrapping around him.
She began stroking him roughly, and he thrust into her hand, breath hissing out through gritted teeth. In a moment of clarity it came to him-- sex with her was reckless and demanding. He called her because he craved it.
He grabbed her wrist and she looked up at him, glaring. He dragged her to the bed where she fell onto him before getting up and yanking his pants and boxers off in one swift motion, then discarding her own skirt.
When she came back, she was naked and hot and her eyes were burning holes through him.
"You're pretty," she said, rising above him as he pressed his mouth to her breasts.
"Thank you," he said, grinning.
"Pretty," she repeated, fisting a hand in his hair and pressing him to her. "But not obscenely so. You seem rather dangerous, actually."
"It's an act," he told her, licking along her collarbone.
"Everything's an act," she agreed, closing her eyes and throwing her head back as his hands ran up her back.
She leaned down to kiss him-- the first real kiss since she walked in the door. The sensation shocked him, feeling her tongue move against his. She pulled away just as he was getting into it, too.
He grabbed her hand and pulled her back, but her other hand had reached between them and now held him loosely with her fingers.
The way she stroked him this time was markedly different from when she did while they were still standing up. Slowly, torturously gently, she moved her hand up, and then down.
He had a feeling his eyes crossed just then. When they did focus, she was smiling indulgently. "Condoms, lover," she demanded easily, repeating the motion.
He nodded his head towards the side table, and she crawled off him to retrieve them, giving him an amazing view of her ass.
"What're you looking at," she smirked as she returned, straddling him; He grinned up at her as she slid the protection in place. He never did get the chance to answer her because she was on him and he was in her-- she pushed him back onto the bed and moved.
"God," he rasped out. She laughed.
"I haven't been called that in a long time, but if it works for you," she whispered indulgently in his ear. He heard nothing, but felt the warmth wash just over his jaw. He gripped her hips and kept her still. She growled.
"What the fuck," she swore vehemently, trying to move against him. He tightened his grip, until she lifted her head and glared at him.
"Let me play," he told her, flashing her his magazine smile.
She settled herself more firmly against him and crossed her arms. "I thought we were already doing that."
He shook his head. "You've had your fun 'til now," he said, pushing her off him roughly, making her gasp in surprise. He shifted, pinning her to the bed and burying himself in her decisively as she cried out. "It's my turn," he continued, hands running over her skin. He knelt and slammed them against the headboard with his next thrust, smirking because she was swearing at him and moaning at the same time.
She came like a thunderclap, squirming under him as she scratched whatever piece of him she could find. His shoulders got the worst of it but he didn't mind-- with each thrust into her he felt his own orgasm rising up and with one final push emptied himself into her as she panted out her breath.
He woke up when the shower stopped running. Her shadow fell across his face as he blinked, rubbing at his eyes. She strolled over and whipped the sheet off him unceremoniously, one hand holding up the towel she'd wrapped around herself.
"Your turn," she said as she rummaged around for her clothing. She walked back out to the hall to retrieve her blouse and dropped the towel as she put it on sans bra, then went fishing for her panties along the floor.
He'd left a few marks, he noted, but not the kind that could be seen in public. That was good. He had to be more careful next time, he thought, checking his own skin for bruising.
"You've got nothing on you," she told him. "I'm not an idiot. All you've got to remember tonight is a memory and nothing else. Damn it," she muttered as she sighed over her skirt.
"What is it?" he asked sliding off the bed, wrapping the sheet around his waist.
"Busted the zipper," she explained, putting it on anyway. "It's cool. I have safety pins in my purse."
He smirked as he made his way to the bathroom. There was something to be said for a girl who'd break her own zipper in her haste to bed him.
"So," she began as she fastened the skirt in place and shook her hair out. He paused in the door, turning to her. "Is this going to be a regular thing, or what?" she asked, giving up on untangling the curls and settling for tying it up.
He considered that. "I have Fridays off, sometimes Thursdays. It changes," he informed her.
"I've some heavy promotion coming up for something soon," she answered, putting her shoes on. "I'll probably have little time, but... it's still doable," she finished, picking up her purse. "I'll call you. You call me. Whatever."
And so it had begun.
He'd come to refer to it as his weekly poker night. His friends were easily enough convinced, but Yamapi had taken notice of one particularly nasty bite mark on his stomach one time in the dressing room. He'd let it slide, but he knew his best friend was screwing someone-- he just didn't know who.
She came every time at 9 pm on the dot. That was where the routine stopped. Everytime their bodies came together was a different experience. After a while he realized that talking was probably a logical extension of what they were doing. They had brilliant conversations, and not all while having sex, either. She proved to be intelligent, well-read, sharp-minded.
And just a little mean.
"... Her boobs aren't even real," she pointed out once, sitting up and bringing the sheet with her.
He turned to her, grinning. "You know this, because? Don't tell me you've touched them."
She looked at him and placed a finger to her lips. "Gravure idol secret pact. Couldn't tell you if I tried," she said, smiling.
He shook his head, laughing with her. "You can't expect me to believe that," he said, leaning back and hooking his hands behind his head.
"You can believe what you like," she said idly, looking him over. "I mean, I know what you're thinking when you're thrusting into me. That's okay. When I'm with you I think of Matsumoto Jun."
He turned his head sharply up at her. She gave him an innocent look. "What?" she continued. "We're not having a relationship, we're just using each other."
It was true and he knew it. He didn't know why he kept coloring this affair with shades of a semi-connection-- they were good in bed together, but when it all came down to it, he was a convenient dick and she had the time. He yanked her against him then, pulling her on top of him; her lips were on his and he didn't even have to ask.
She tasted like addiction.
ii.
It was two in the morning when she staggered out of his place, walking through the halls still trying to get her heels on right. Her hair was probably a mess and her clothes were hopelessly wrinkled, but if the building was as paparazzi-proof as he said it was, then she had nothing to worry about. She went out the back way and hailed a cab home, sighing as she stared out the window, watching the lights pass.
She'd left him sleeping facedown in bed, the sheet thrown carelessly across his hips. Just then, as she picked up her clothes from the floor she watched, quiet, until she straightened, fully clothed. What happened next was as unconscious as it was disturbing-- she'd reached out to touch him, brush away his hair-- until she caught herself and she hightailed it the hell out of there as if she were a thief that was almost apprehended.
All the way to her mother's house in Nerima, that was what she wondered about. Nothing about this was about love, or being loved-- cursing herself for being so predictably /female/, she unlocked the gate and crept silently into the house and to her room. She was fooling no one-- her mother's ears pricked up the exact moment she came in, but she'd long ago given up trying to discipline her daughter, especially since at the moment, she was the one making money for both of them.
Her father was better at discipline, anyway, and he had died when she was far too young. Her brother, too. And now, no matter how heartbreaking it was to see her daughter throwing her life away, that pain was dulled whenever she remembered.
Not love; not loved. It was the mantra she repeated whenever she came anywhere close to an edge that she knew if she jumped from, there'd be no turning back.
He kissed like a dream; that much she could give him, and that much was a surprise. She didn't usually kiss men she merely toyed with-- for her, a kiss was personal. Incredibly personal. That first time wasn't meant to happen again, but it did, and one kiss turned into five, twenty. Maybe it hadn't meant anything to him, but somewhere around his two hundred and seventy-fifth kiss she dropped the denial. It meant something.
Her problem is boundaries, and where to set them; she'd told herself she wouldn't kiss boys she didn't love, but she kissed him; she'd told herself he would see only what he needed to see, and nothing more, but really, what else was there left not to see when they'd been screwing with each other for two months now? She'd told herself, don't get attached, don't get close.
Right now she's pulling up the edges of her silk shirt, buttoning it up as his fingers travel the length of her thigh and his mouth is trying to be clever with her throat. "I've got to go," she moans as his fingers trace the edge of her panties, slip underneath.
"It's early yet," he tells her, covering her mouth with his own against her protestations of having an early call time. They get on, get on it, get it on together, and it's an hour later before she can slip out. Work was going to be shot tomorrow, but that was the least of her problems; they were acting like lovers, and that wasn't part of the plan. It was his kisses she cursed for that.
"You have so many dysfunctions," he told her once, picking up a cigarette but not lighting it, just twirling it around in his fingers. "You're so angry, Sawajiri."
He was trying to quit, she knew that. In fact if it came to it she knew quite a bit about him now. He liked his coffee strong, no milk or sugar. His room was always a mess but he knew exactly where to find something when he needed to. He referred to this thing they did his 'weekly poker night'. The space between his collarbones was particularly sensitive, and he giggled like an idiot when she ran her fingers up his stomach. Maybe it was a relationship of sorts, she realized as she took the stick away from him and lit it herself, taking one long drag before stubbing it out.
Details. Those usually spelled the end of affairs such as these, when someone gets too close and flaws are discovered. And without realizing it, they were probably much closer than they thought now compared to the first time she came to him. Already he was making observations about her dysfunctions. Soon enough he'd realize something about her; exactly what she didn't know. Then he'd leave, but she'd leave first. She just wished, right now, that she could figure out how.
The answer, when it came, was so ridiculously simple. It was also that lame, but any port in a storm, right?
He was chattering on about some mundane thing... going to the States with his bandmates or somesuch. She was hooking her shoes back on, picking up her purse. When she straightened, she blurted out, "Nishikido-kun, I can't see you anymore."
His brow furrowed at that. "Nanyaro," he began.
She cut him off swiftly. "They're asking questions, Nishikido, and I don't have the answers. This has to end before they go looking for the answers themselves." She looked up and met his eyes, and she had to turn away, busying herself with smoothing down her slacks. "You know this as well as I do. A gravure idol and a Johnny's boy. They were bound to start talking some time. If word gets to your boss, you'll be suspended like that idiot Akanishi. My debut single's coming out in another month and a half. I've a photobook and you have your tour. We have to quit while we're ahead."
She stepped towards the door and he followed, staring after her.
"Fun while it lasted," she murmured over her shoulder before turning the doorknob and slipping outside. It was all true, she reasoned. She was an idol, and he was a slave to his agency. How long did they both expect it to last? She hailed a cab and got in just before it started raining. She didn't look back. She never did.
So long and goodnight.
~owari