Shohno: Capitivation; Perfection.
Title: Captivation; Perfection.
Pairing: Ohno/Sho
Rating: R
Word count: 1,600
Summary: Ohno watches and worships Sho's body.
Notes: My second round of drabbles, but not really. I got the idea to write a drabble-fic... thing. And this is what came out. The way I've written them, partly inspired by the New Kids' single, "Click, Click, Click", were meant to resemble a series of snapshots or photographs. Each can be read as a stand-alone drabble itself, but they all connect to each other. Anyway, enjoy the literary porn. I had fun with words. It's fluffy and romantic to an epic degree.
The first time had been for Jun’s twentieth - the last to cross the threshold of the age of majority - but it was something that became a standing tradition: no matter what city they were in, no matter what single they were promoting or project they were working on, they would convene in the birthday boy’s hotel room or their shared dressing room and make a toast that may or may not lead into a night of sloppy debaucheries that were best left unremembered in the morning. They celebrated a single life, but more than that, they counted their years together.
This year, people are decked in their finest, complimenting Jun’s white interior, inlaid with solid pieces of oak and earthy fabrics. Candles dot every surface and compliment the muted track lighting that accents pieces of art in the corners and photographs on the walls. Every hand is decorated with a piece of Jun’s wine glass collection, splashed with cabernet, sauv blanc and rosé. The company is small and intimate; everyone knows each other personally and professionally and has a historical connection to the birthday boy in some capacity. Laughter accents the ambient R&B that streams from the five CD deck.
Jun had chosen - insisted on - abandoning the customary romp around Tokyo for a more adult gathering in his home: just friends, music, and wine. He somehow felt like they needed to start growing up, or already had, except for maybe Aiba. They were pursuing more mature endeavours: news-casting, movies, fishing. The handful of high school friends he had remained close with were well situated with careers, relationships, houses, babies. He could hardly believe a quarter of his life had passed - an event that provoked uncharacteristic tears and sentiment from his mother when she asked when he could come for dinner.
Sho had been the last to arrive, caught up in a late production meeting for Zero, slipping in the door with a suit bag in hand. Nino was in the kitchen, slicing vegetables expertly for hors d’oeuvres, and the first to see him. “You’re late,” he said, accenting with the point of the knife. Jun waved off his apology, pulling Sho into a brotherly embrace, weighing his hand down with a glass of chardonnay. They all made heartfelt toasts to the success of Jun’s twenty-fourth year and wished him all the more and happiness for twenty-five before everyone else arrived.
Aiba, dressed head to toe in classic black, fingers Jun’s CD collection and pulls out a few jewel cases to load into the player. Jun busies himself in the galley kitchen, refilling his glass, chatting with Nino about his latest magic trick, looking elegant in a navy silk tie with a crystal pin. Nino’s dove-gray waist coat has a subtle argyle pattern stitched down the left panel, the threads shining under the bright white kitchen lighting. Ohno sits in the living room, looking small on the over-stuffed couch in a white oxford with heavy charcoal stripes, the top button undone.
Sho borrows Jun’s en suite to wash off the day’s build up of grime. He lays out his clothes on the bed and leaves his glass on the desk, the liquid inside glowing golden in the lamplight. Ohno doesn’t know what it is that catches his attention but he turns, and sees Sho emerge from the bathroom, smoke-gray pants hanging off his hips with a purpose, cascading down his legs, snug enough in the inseam, hem sweeping the floor. Muscles in his shoulders jump as he towels his hair roughly; droplets of water cling to his skin like diamonds. Perfection.
Ohno looks through the sliding bedroom door left ajar as effortless conversation surrounds him. Freshly showered, damp hair brushing the collar of his pink unbuttoned dress shirt, silver chain opalescent around his neck, Sho finger-combs his hair at the mirror as he stands toe to toe with his floor-length refection. He chooses a stout masculine green bottle off the dresser and brings the nozzle to his nose. His head jerks away from the scent, nose scrunched delicately, shaking his head to clear it of the smell before replacing it gingerly even though he really would rather hide it from Jun.
Aiba refills Sho’s glass; he is one round behind everyone, so hurry up. Sho’s cheeks match his shirt, his eyes starting to sparkle with the wine, his hair curled softly around his ears. He circles the room, flitting between conversations - making up for lost time, expert and natural. Ohno gazes as he returns to the space at Jun’s left elbow. Mao stands on Jun’s right, ethereal in a creation of taffeta and lace. Ohno can’t help smiling at her blush when Sho states simply how well she compliments Jun, like you were made for each other. It’s an absolute truth.
Ohno has been called many things: spacey, vacant, a little out of it. He has also been called an incredibly talented actor, for good reason. He keeps up the pretence so he can divide his attention as he pleases. His eyes will migrate from face to face in the room, paying enough attention to the topic at hand, but they will always return home, to where Sho is. It doesn’t matter if he is reading his newspapers, eating a rushed breakfast of yogurt with granola stirred in and coffee or making customary greetings to the day’s staff, Ohno watches. Always.
From his spot on the tan overstuffed couch, he watches Sho laugh at Jun’s story, scowl at the joke Nino makes at his expense, swat at Aiba’s head for an off-colour comment, likening it to something Ogura-san might say. Ohno sees when Sho eyes him back and excuses himself from the exchange and crosses the room, bottle in hand. He lifts his stemware for Sho to fill, a tinkle of sound added to the ambience as the rims kiss each other lightly. It’s when Sho sits and shifts his weight towards Ohno, he knows he doesn’t need to look anymore.
Jun offers them the overstuffed couch after they help him collect all the wine glasses and right his furniture, knowing they will refuse anyway. Aiba took the last train with Nino; he has to be on set early and Nino is cheap. He calls them a cab and sees them to the elevator. The ride down is short, the cab ride seems shorter. Ohno’s head lolls onto Sho’s shoulder. Sho slides his arm across Ohno’s shoulders and the other curls into his broad torso. Sho rests his cheek on Ohno’s head and whispers into his hair, “You were busy tonight.”
Ohno’s house is silent when they toe their shoes off in the genkan. Socked feet make no noise as they retreat to his bedroom. He has almost started calling it their bedroom, but he keeps that to himself. There are two glasses of water waiting on his bedside table and two multi-vitamins from his mother. Ohno doesn’t turn on the light before slipping Sho’s shirt buttons through their holes. As artist’s fingers navigate the contours of his waist, Sho reaches for him in the dark. All evening, he was caressed by Ohno’s gaze, but Sho wished it was his hands.
Clothes of baby pink, heavy charcoal, smoky grey and black are puddled at the foot of Ohno’s bed. His lips chart the expanse of Sho’s chest, hunting for diamonds, hoping to uncover a secret that he hasn’t already known for years. It’s an oft-travelled path, one he knows well, one he will never tire of. Everyday, a litany of exaltation fills his heart, thanking the architect who designed such a flawless body. Warm hands cup Ohno’s face, halting his worship, and warm breath tickles his cheek as Sho’s lips search for his. I’m right here, stay with me, they say.
One hand cradles the back of Ohno’s head; the other is wound under his arm and splayed across his shoulder blade. Warm breath cascades across his cheek as he leans his forehead against Sho’s and pushes forward, higher, deeper, closer. His hips move in time with melodic measure of Sho’s breathing: a slow inspiration, held for a heartbeat, expired in a short breath, decorated with an improvised gasp, moan, hum, plea. He is strung so tight tonight, Ohno notices absently, whispered cries filling his ears as he begs with his body. Sho tightens his hold, whimpering an invocation: Satoshi, please.
He doesn’t mean to be cruel. A paced slide forward, a long slow withdrawal, a small push, a shorter pull, Ohno slows his thrusting until he stops, nestled between Sho’s knees. This look is for Ohno alone and he pauses to take a mental picture: skin glowing with sheen, cheeks pink with flush, eyes dark with heady gaze, eyelashes weighty with arousal, lips kiss-swollen curling with a lopsided smile because that’s all he can manage. The words fall effortlessly from Ohno’s mouth, “I can’t stop myself from staring. You captivate me.” Sho kisses him tenderly, enamoured. I don’t deserve you.
Sho feels every thing acutely: his overheated, hyperaware skin and every point of contact with Ohno’s dancer’s body, the aching glide inside. He feels the cracking, the need to shatter and break into a million tiny shards and have Ohno pick up all the fragments and piece him back together with ardent precision. The timbre of Ohno’s strangled moan into his shoulder is the last fall of the hammer, the accented vibration against his skin causes the pressure in Sho to crescendo. Sho pulls him into the final measure with the cadence of his own voice, with the squeeze within.
Pairing: Ohno/Sho
Rating: R
Word count: 1,600
Summary: Ohno watches and worships Sho's body.
Notes: My second round of drabbles, but not really. I got the idea to write a drabble-fic... thing. And this is what came out. The way I've written them, partly inspired by the New Kids' single, "Click, Click, Click", were meant to resemble a series of snapshots or photographs. Each can be read as a stand-alone drabble itself, but they all connect to each other. Anyway, enjoy the literary porn. I had fun with words. It's fluffy and romantic to an epic degree.
The first time had been for Jun’s twentieth - the last to cross the threshold of the age of majority - but it was something that became a standing tradition: no matter what city they were in, no matter what single they were promoting or project they were working on, they would convene in the birthday boy’s hotel room or their shared dressing room and make a toast that may or may not lead into a night of sloppy debaucheries that were best left unremembered in the morning. They celebrated a single life, but more than that, they counted their years together.
This year, people are decked in their finest, complimenting Jun’s white interior, inlaid with solid pieces of oak and earthy fabrics. Candles dot every surface and compliment the muted track lighting that accents pieces of art in the corners and photographs on the walls. Every hand is decorated with a piece of Jun’s wine glass collection, splashed with cabernet, sauv blanc and rosé. The company is small and intimate; everyone knows each other personally and professionally and has a historical connection to the birthday boy in some capacity. Laughter accents the ambient R&B that streams from the five CD deck.
Jun had chosen - insisted on - abandoning the customary romp around Tokyo for a more adult gathering in his home: just friends, music, and wine. He somehow felt like they needed to start growing up, or already had, except for maybe Aiba. They were pursuing more mature endeavours: news-casting, movies, fishing. The handful of high school friends he had remained close with were well situated with careers, relationships, houses, babies. He could hardly believe a quarter of his life had passed - an event that provoked uncharacteristic tears and sentiment from his mother when she asked when he could come for dinner.
Sho had been the last to arrive, caught up in a late production meeting for Zero, slipping in the door with a suit bag in hand. Nino was in the kitchen, slicing vegetables expertly for hors d’oeuvres, and the first to see him. “You’re late,” he said, accenting with the point of the knife. Jun waved off his apology, pulling Sho into a brotherly embrace, weighing his hand down with a glass of chardonnay. They all made heartfelt toasts to the success of Jun’s twenty-fourth year and wished him all the more and happiness for twenty-five before everyone else arrived.
Aiba, dressed head to toe in classic black, fingers Jun’s CD collection and pulls out a few jewel cases to load into the player. Jun busies himself in the galley kitchen, refilling his glass, chatting with Nino about his latest magic trick, looking elegant in a navy silk tie with a crystal pin. Nino’s dove-gray waist coat has a subtle argyle pattern stitched down the left panel, the threads shining under the bright white kitchen lighting. Ohno sits in the living room, looking small on the over-stuffed couch in a white oxford with heavy charcoal stripes, the top button undone.
Sho borrows Jun’s en suite to wash off the day’s build up of grime. He lays out his clothes on the bed and leaves his glass on the desk, the liquid inside glowing golden in the lamplight. Ohno doesn’t know what it is that catches his attention but he turns, and sees Sho emerge from the bathroom, smoke-gray pants hanging off his hips with a purpose, cascading down his legs, snug enough in the inseam, hem sweeping the floor. Muscles in his shoulders jump as he towels his hair roughly; droplets of water cling to his skin like diamonds. Perfection.
Ohno looks through the sliding bedroom door left ajar as effortless conversation surrounds him. Freshly showered, damp hair brushing the collar of his pink unbuttoned dress shirt, silver chain opalescent around his neck, Sho finger-combs his hair at the mirror as he stands toe to toe with his floor-length refection. He chooses a stout masculine green bottle off the dresser and brings the nozzle to his nose. His head jerks away from the scent, nose scrunched delicately, shaking his head to clear it of the smell before replacing it gingerly even though he really would rather hide it from Jun.
Aiba refills Sho’s glass; he is one round behind everyone, so hurry up. Sho’s cheeks match his shirt, his eyes starting to sparkle with the wine, his hair curled softly around his ears. He circles the room, flitting between conversations - making up for lost time, expert and natural. Ohno gazes as he returns to the space at Jun’s left elbow. Mao stands on Jun’s right, ethereal in a creation of taffeta and lace. Ohno can’t help smiling at her blush when Sho states simply how well she compliments Jun, like you were made for each other. It’s an absolute truth.
Ohno has been called many things: spacey, vacant, a little out of it. He has also been called an incredibly talented actor, for good reason. He keeps up the pretence so he can divide his attention as he pleases. His eyes will migrate from face to face in the room, paying enough attention to the topic at hand, but they will always return home, to where Sho is. It doesn’t matter if he is reading his newspapers, eating a rushed breakfast of yogurt with granola stirred in and coffee or making customary greetings to the day’s staff, Ohno watches. Always.
From his spot on the tan overstuffed couch, he watches Sho laugh at Jun’s story, scowl at the joke Nino makes at his expense, swat at Aiba’s head for an off-colour comment, likening it to something Ogura-san might say. Ohno sees when Sho eyes him back and excuses himself from the exchange and crosses the room, bottle in hand. He lifts his stemware for Sho to fill, a tinkle of sound added to the ambience as the rims kiss each other lightly. It’s when Sho sits and shifts his weight towards Ohno, he knows he doesn’t need to look anymore.
Jun offers them the overstuffed couch after they help him collect all the wine glasses and right his furniture, knowing they will refuse anyway. Aiba took the last train with Nino; he has to be on set early and Nino is cheap. He calls them a cab and sees them to the elevator. The ride down is short, the cab ride seems shorter. Ohno’s head lolls onto Sho’s shoulder. Sho slides his arm across Ohno’s shoulders and the other curls into his broad torso. Sho rests his cheek on Ohno’s head and whispers into his hair, “You were busy tonight.”
Ohno’s house is silent when they toe their shoes off in the genkan. Socked feet make no noise as they retreat to his bedroom. He has almost started calling it their bedroom, but he keeps that to himself. There are two glasses of water waiting on his bedside table and two multi-vitamins from his mother. Ohno doesn’t turn on the light before slipping Sho’s shirt buttons through their holes. As artist’s fingers navigate the contours of his waist, Sho reaches for him in the dark. All evening, he was caressed by Ohno’s gaze, but Sho wished it was his hands.
Clothes of baby pink, heavy charcoal, smoky grey and black are puddled at the foot of Ohno’s bed. His lips chart the expanse of Sho’s chest, hunting for diamonds, hoping to uncover a secret that he hasn’t already known for years. It’s an oft-travelled path, one he knows well, one he will never tire of. Everyday, a litany of exaltation fills his heart, thanking the architect who designed such a flawless body. Warm hands cup Ohno’s face, halting his worship, and warm breath tickles his cheek as Sho’s lips search for his. I’m right here, stay with me, they say.
One hand cradles the back of Ohno’s head; the other is wound under his arm and splayed across his shoulder blade. Warm breath cascades across his cheek as he leans his forehead against Sho’s and pushes forward, higher, deeper, closer. His hips move in time with melodic measure of Sho’s breathing: a slow inspiration, held for a heartbeat, expired in a short breath, decorated with an improvised gasp, moan, hum, plea. He is strung so tight tonight, Ohno notices absently, whispered cries filling his ears as he begs with his body. Sho tightens his hold, whimpering an invocation: Satoshi, please.
He doesn’t mean to be cruel. A paced slide forward, a long slow withdrawal, a small push, a shorter pull, Ohno slows his thrusting until he stops, nestled between Sho’s knees. This look is for Ohno alone and he pauses to take a mental picture: skin glowing with sheen, cheeks pink with flush, eyes dark with heady gaze, eyelashes weighty with arousal, lips kiss-swollen curling with a lopsided smile because that’s all he can manage. The words fall effortlessly from Ohno’s mouth, “I can’t stop myself from staring. You captivate me.” Sho kisses him tenderly, enamoured. I don’t deserve you.
Sho feels every thing acutely: his overheated, hyperaware skin and every point of contact with Ohno’s dancer’s body, the aching glide inside. He feels the cracking, the need to shatter and break into a million tiny shards and have Ohno pick up all the fragments and piece him back together with ardent precision. The timbre of Ohno’s strangled moan into his shoulder is the last fall of the hammer, the accented vibration against his skin causes the pressure in Sho to crescendo. Sho pulls him into the final measure with the cadence of his own voice, with the squeeze within.