fic: Washed Away in Tears (RPS, JE, NC-17)
Title: Washed Away in Tears
Author: NemKess
Fandom: JPop, JE
Pairing: Ohno Satoshi(Arashi)/Shibutani Subaru(Kanjani8)
Warnings: RPS, NC-17
Disclaimer: Both of these lovely men belong lock, stock, and key to Johnny's and Associates.
Notes: I was working on something else and this literally just poured out in the space of an hour or so. It's written in a style and perspective that I don't usually use, but that's the way it demanded to come out. This takes place somewhere between 2001 and 2002 after the KansaiJrs broke up but before Kanjani8 was formed.
Summary: Who will save you from drowning?
~*~*~
You’re not sure what you were looking for, exactly, when you wander into the bar. A drink, obviously. A one night stand with some anonymous guy who doesn’t know who you are and doesn’t want to, probably.
You certainly don’t expect to see anyone you know, it’s just not that kind of place.
He’s perched on a tall stool at the bar, clearly intent on trying to turn his blood stream into pure alcohol judging by the number of bottles sitting near his elbow.
You decide to ignore him. Whatever his woes, he’s not the reason you’re there and you’d just as soon he doesn’t notice you.
You settle at a small table off to the side, close enough that you can see him if you want to, but out of the way enough that he shouldn’t ever see you.
You’re into your fourth sake when it happens.
The guys that crowd around him are rough looking sorts, not surprising considering the bar. It’s only as they surround him that you realize just how tiny he seems. He’s not really that much shorter than you, you know, but he's rail thin and there’s something in his manner this night that makes him seem infinitely smaller.
It brings out protective instincts you don’t want to deal with, but can’t deny.
With a sigh you stand up and push your way through the crowd until you’re by his side. They may be taller, but they have the anorexic look of addicts and none of your muscle. They fall away easily enough and you wrap an arm around his waist. “Sorry I’m late, Baru-chan.”
He just looks at you, confused and beyond drunk, but still recognizing you. For a moment there’s a rebellious look in his eyes, like he might push away your help and try to take them on all on his own, but in the end he just slumps against you and mumbles something incoherent about starting without you.
You’re not nearly as drunk as you’d hoped to get, but now that you’ve intervened, you can’t just leave him there.
With a sigh, you scoop him up and carry him out of the bar. He’s light, too light, even for a pop star, and you wonder if anyone is making sure he eats at all or if everyone has abandoned him to his depression.
Outside you hover uncertainly for a moment, even shake him a few times, but there isn’t much left to his consciousness that’s coherent enough for you to figure out where he lives.
As spacey as people have accused you of being, you’re still the practical one at heart. The hotel you’ve been put in for the night is a quick cab ride away.
You can always try to get drunk with the mini-bar, even if there’s no way it holds enough alcohol to do the job properly.
In the cab, he wakes up enough to be horny.
You make sure to give the cab driver an extra large tip to forget what he’s seen just in case he accidentally figures out who you are later.
Band leaders are supposed to set good examples and avoid negative press, after all, not let themselves get molested by another guy in the backseat of a cab where there is a witness to tell the tale.
Besides, even if you managed to survive the scandal, you know he wouldn’t and there’s no sense in letting the world kick someone who was so obviously already down. It disturbed your sense of fair play.
You manage to get him up into your hotel room fairly easily and only have to sacrifice your hat and shirt to do it. You’re thankful that your trip is unrelated to your band or any of it’s members, because you know that they would have come to investigate the thumps and giggles coming from your room.
Your mind veers sharply away from that thought and you try to concentrate on getting him out of his dirty clothes. You’re not thinking about your band mates tonight, any of them, no matter how hard that actually is to accomplish.
It’s something that becomes a lot easier when he sticks his hand down your pants and whispers something you’re sure is dirty in your ear.
For a split second everything stands still, your mind, your body, the entire world. Isn’t this exactly what you wanted tonight? To forget? To go out and get drunk and maybe fucked and not think about anything else until sometime tomorrow when you woke up sore and hung over?
If it wasn’t, it’s suddenly become the best idea you’ve had in a long time. You ignore the tiny voice whispering that you’re too sober and he’s too drunk.
You crush your lips against his and pin him to the bed.
There is no fear in his expression when you pull back panting, just a spark of reckless abandon and longing and desire. You can’t remember the last time anyone looked at you like that. It hits you straight in the groin like nothing has since you passed the first flush of teenage hormones.
Things are blurred after that. Somehow you get both of your clothes out of the way. It had to have been you because he isn’t much help at all even though he tries, laughing in a way that’s almost happy, like a shadow of happiness that’s been so seldom seen that he isn’t sure he remembers what it looks like.
It makes you want to hold him tight and protect him from the things that hurt him, but you can’t even protect yourself most of the time, so what gives you the right to think you can help him?
Instead you concentrate on trying to remember things like condoms and lube and stretching.
Then you’re buried deep with his legs around your waist and it’s hot and tight and better than anything you’ve felt in a long time.
Any thoughts of control are long gone, buried somewhere inside him with your dick and any pleasure you actually give him is mostly accidental. You do have enough presence of mind to wrap a hand around his dick and pump feverishly, not anywhere near in time with your thrusting, but hey, at least you remembered right?
He seems to like it either way, fingernails gouging your upper arms in a way that’s going leave scratches and bruises tomorrow that you’ll have to explain away somehow. At the moment it’s just fucking hot and you want to hear him scream because you know that’d be even hotter.
He does scream, abruptly, loudly, arching sharply as sticky fluid splatters your hand and the muscles around your dick spasm tightly.
You only manage a few more hard pumps and there’s blinding light behind your eyes and you’re falling over that abyss yourself.
It takes a few minutes for the world to un-tilt itself, for you to realize you must be crushing him because, near-similar height aside, you have to outweigh him by a good thirty pounds.
You’re a little more careful about the separation of your bodies than you were with the actual coupling and you grimace at the evidence that he’ll probably be hurting quite a bit in the morning.
He doesn’t seem to care at the moment, alcohol probably acting better than any painkiller ever could, and probably still in the relaxed high of orgasm. He just edges right up into your space, demanding to be cuddled.
You turn onto your side and wrap an arm around him, pulling him close so you’re flush, his back to your chest, and let your hands wander over his body. He’s thin. Too thin, really, the kind of thin that makes you worry about his eating habits again and as you splay a hand across his rib cage, you can’t help but murmur something about it.
The look he casts over his shoulder is questioning and you realize that you mentioned something you hadn’t meant to along with the admonishment about eating properly.
You don’t want to answer the questions in his eyes. You don’t want to hear their names on his lips. All you want to hear from him is words like ‘more’ and ‘please’. ‘Faster’ and ‘Harder’.
It’s too soon. You should let him rest, but he’s encouraging you, doing his best to give you what you want. He doesn’t know what’s wrong, but he’s still trying even though his troubles are just as bad, worse even. He isn’t down here hiding from the spotlight and his own fame by choice like you are and suddenly something in you changes. Loosens and lets go.
Suddenly it becomes less about you and what you want and more about him and what he needs.
Your hands and mouth gentle and you worship him, the way he should be worshiped, the way you’ve wanted to worship someone for a long time. So what if he wasn’t the someone you had in mind originally?
He’s there and he needs you in a way that the other never will.
Even your orgasm is more gentle this time, soft waves that soothe the explosions from before. And when it’s over this time, he doesn’t have to make demands, you pull him closer of your own accord.
It breaks open the floodgates and he falls apart in your arms, clinging like he’ll never let go. In between sobs he tells you the truth behind the rumors. He tells you about Takizawa and Tsubasa. He tells you about Murakami and Yokoyama. He tells you about how he is afraid because singing is all that he knows and it’s been taken away. He tells you about how lost he feels, how lonely.
You hold him through it, comforting as best as you can.
When he’s done, tears still flowing, but quietly now, you tell him your own story. Fair is fair, after all, and maybe the telling will help you put it into better perspective. You tell him about your best friends. You tell him about how much you love them and how happy you are that they’ve found a measure of happiness together. You tell him about how much it breaks your heart to see them together because they don’t know that you love one of them more than they can accept. You were always introverted and you don’t let people in easily, but you’d fallen as completely as a man could fall and it was all just so hopeless. You don’t tell him which one because that’s a secret you’ll carry with you beyond even death.
It sounds small and petty to you compared to his own problems, but he’s still crying and you think this time his tears might be for you.
You wish you could cry that freely. You think you might feel better if you could, but you know you can’t. You haven’t cried since you were twelve and they told you your mother had been in an accident. For days you’d cried more than not until she came home and you could hold her and know she was going to be fine. It was like you’d cried up all the tears your body had to spare in those days and you just couldn’t cry anymore no matter how sad you were inside.
But somehow his tears make you feel better and you hold him close and kiss them away.
When you’re both quiet again, exhausted, but somehow content, he snuggles close and as you drift off to sleep, you wonder if this is how Nino fits in Jun’s arms and for the first time, the thought doesn’t sting quite as much as it did before.
~*~*~
End
Author: NemKess
Fandom: JPop, JE
Pairing: Ohno Satoshi(Arashi)/Shibutani Subaru(Kanjani8)
Warnings: RPS, NC-17
Disclaimer: Both of these lovely men belong lock, stock, and key to Johnny's and Associates.
Notes: I was working on something else and this literally just poured out in the space of an hour or so. It's written in a style and perspective that I don't usually use, but that's the way it demanded to come out. This takes place somewhere between 2001 and 2002 after the KansaiJrs broke up but before Kanjani8 was formed.
Summary: Who will save you from drowning?
~*~*~
You’re not sure what you were looking for, exactly, when you wander into the bar. A drink, obviously. A one night stand with some anonymous guy who doesn’t know who you are and doesn’t want to, probably.
You certainly don’t expect to see anyone you know, it’s just not that kind of place.
He’s perched on a tall stool at the bar, clearly intent on trying to turn his blood stream into pure alcohol judging by the number of bottles sitting near his elbow.
You decide to ignore him. Whatever his woes, he’s not the reason you’re there and you’d just as soon he doesn’t notice you.
You settle at a small table off to the side, close enough that you can see him if you want to, but out of the way enough that he shouldn’t ever see you.
You’re into your fourth sake when it happens.
The guys that crowd around him are rough looking sorts, not surprising considering the bar. It’s only as they surround him that you realize just how tiny he seems. He’s not really that much shorter than you, you know, but he's rail thin and there’s something in his manner this night that makes him seem infinitely smaller.
It brings out protective instincts you don’t want to deal with, but can’t deny.
With a sigh you stand up and push your way through the crowd until you’re by his side. They may be taller, but they have the anorexic look of addicts and none of your muscle. They fall away easily enough and you wrap an arm around his waist. “Sorry I’m late, Baru-chan.”
He just looks at you, confused and beyond drunk, but still recognizing you. For a moment there’s a rebellious look in his eyes, like he might push away your help and try to take them on all on his own, but in the end he just slumps against you and mumbles something incoherent about starting without you.
You’re not nearly as drunk as you’d hoped to get, but now that you’ve intervened, you can’t just leave him there.
With a sigh, you scoop him up and carry him out of the bar. He’s light, too light, even for a pop star, and you wonder if anyone is making sure he eats at all or if everyone has abandoned him to his depression.
Outside you hover uncertainly for a moment, even shake him a few times, but there isn’t much left to his consciousness that’s coherent enough for you to figure out where he lives.
As spacey as people have accused you of being, you’re still the practical one at heart. The hotel you’ve been put in for the night is a quick cab ride away.
You can always try to get drunk with the mini-bar, even if there’s no way it holds enough alcohol to do the job properly.
In the cab, he wakes up enough to be horny.
You make sure to give the cab driver an extra large tip to forget what he’s seen just in case he accidentally figures out who you are later.
Band leaders are supposed to set good examples and avoid negative press, after all, not let themselves get molested by another guy in the backseat of a cab where there is a witness to tell the tale.
Besides, even if you managed to survive the scandal, you know he wouldn’t and there’s no sense in letting the world kick someone who was so obviously already down. It disturbed your sense of fair play.
You manage to get him up into your hotel room fairly easily and only have to sacrifice your hat and shirt to do it. You’re thankful that your trip is unrelated to your band or any of it’s members, because you know that they would have come to investigate the thumps and giggles coming from your room.
Your mind veers sharply away from that thought and you try to concentrate on getting him out of his dirty clothes. You’re not thinking about your band mates tonight, any of them, no matter how hard that actually is to accomplish.
It’s something that becomes a lot easier when he sticks his hand down your pants and whispers something you’re sure is dirty in your ear.
For a split second everything stands still, your mind, your body, the entire world. Isn’t this exactly what you wanted tonight? To forget? To go out and get drunk and maybe fucked and not think about anything else until sometime tomorrow when you woke up sore and hung over?
If it wasn’t, it’s suddenly become the best idea you’ve had in a long time. You ignore the tiny voice whispering that you’re too sober and he’s too drunk.
You crush your lips against his and pin him to the bed.
There is no fear in his expression when you pull back panting, just a spark of reckless abandon and longing and desire. You can’t remember the last time anyone looked at you like that. It hits you straight in the groin like nothing has since you passed the first flush of teenage hormones.
Things are blurred after that. Somehow you get both of your clothes out of the way. It had to have been you because he isn’t much help at all even though he tries, laughing in a way that’s almost happy, like a shadow of happiness that’s been so seldom seen that he isn’t sure he remembers what it looks like.
It makes you want to hold him tight and protect him from the things that hurt him, but you can’t even protect yourself most of the time, so what gives you the right to think you can help him?
Instead you concentrate on trying to remember things like condoms and lube and stretching.
Then you’re buried deep with his legs around your waist and it’s hot and tight and better than anything you’ve felt in a long time.
Any thoughts of control are long gone, buried somewhere inside him with your dick and any pleasure you actually give him is mostly accidental. You do have enough presence of mind to wrap a hand around his dick and pump feverishly, not anywhere near in time with your thrusting, but hey, at least you remembered right?
He seems to like it either way, fingernails gouging your upper arms in a way that’s going leave scratches and bruises tomorrow that you’ll have to explain away somehow. At the moment it’s just fucking hot and you want to hear him scream because you know that’d be even hotter.
He does scream, abruptly, loudly, arching sharply as sticky fluid splatters your hand and the muscles around your dick spasm tightly.
You only manage a few more hard pumps and there’s blinding light behind your eyes and you’re falling over that abyss yourself.
It takes a few minutes for the world to un-tilt itself, for you to realize you must be crushing him because, near-similar height aside, you have to outweigh him by a good thirty pounds.
You’re a little more careful about the separation of your bodies than you were with the actual coupling and you grimace at the evidence that he’ll probably be hurting quite a bit in the morning.
He doesn’t seem to care at the moment, alcohol probably acting better than any painkiller ever could, and probably still in the relaxed high of orgasm. He just edges right up into your space, demanding to be cuddled.
You turn onto your side and wrap an arm around him, pulling him close so you’re flush, his back to your chest, and let your hands wander over his body. He’s thin. Too thin, really, the kind of thin that makes you worry about his eating habits again and as you splay a hand across his rib cage, you can’t help but murmur something about it.
The look he casts over his shoulder is questioning and you realize that you mentioned something you hadn’t meant to along with the admonishment about eating properly.
You don’t want to answer the questions in his eyes. You don’t want to hear their names on his lips. All you want to hear from him is words like ‘more’ and ‘please’. ‘Faster’ and ‘Harder’.
It’s too soon. You should let him rest, but he’s encouraging you, doing his best to give you what you want. He doesn’t know what’s wrong, but he’s still trying even though his troubles are just as bad, worse even. He isn’t down here hiding from the spotlight and his own fame by choice like you are and suddenly something in you changes. Loosens and lets go.
Suddenly it becomes less about you and what you want and more about him and what he needs.
Your hands and mouth gentle and you worship him, the way he should be worshiped, the way you’ve wanted to worship someone for a long time. So what if he wasn’t the someone you had in mind originally?
He’s there and he needs you in a way that the other never will.
Even your orgasm is more gentle this time, soft waves that soothe the explosions from before. And when it’s over this time, he doesn’t have to make demands, you pull him closer of your own accord.
It breaks open the floodgates and he falls apart in your arms, clinging like he’ll never let go. In between sobs he tells you the truth behind the rumors. He tells you about Takizawa and Tsubasa. He tells you about Murakami and Yokoyama. He tells you about how he is afraid because singing is all that he knows and it’s been taken away. He tells you about how lost he feels, how lonely.
You hold him through it, comforting as best as you can.
When he’s done, tears still flowing, but quietly now, you tell him your own story. Fair is fair, after all, and maybe the telling will help you put it into better perspective. You tell him about your best friends. You tell him about how much you love them and how happy you are that they’ve found a measure of happiness together. You tell him about how much it breaks your heart to see them together because they don’t know that you love one of them more than they can accept. You were always introverted and you don’t let people in easily, but you’d fallen as completely as a man could fall and it was all just so hopeless. You don’t tell him which one because that’s a secret you’ll carry with you beyond even death.
It sounds small and petty to you compared to his own problems, but he’s still crying and you think this time his tears might be for you.
You wish you could cry that freely. You think you might feel better if you could, but you know you can’t. You haven’t cried since you were twelve and they told you your mother had been in an accident. For days you’d cried more than not until she came home and you could hold her and know she was going to be fine. It was like you’d cried up all the tears your body had to spare in those days and you just couldn’t cry anymore no matter how sad you were inside.
But somehow his tears make you feel better and you hold him close and kiss them away.
When you’re both quiet again, exhausted, but somehow content, he snuggles close and as you drift off to sleep, you wonder if this is how Nino fits in Jun’s arms and for the first time, the thought doesn’t sting quite as much as it did before.
~*~*~
End