YamaTaro fic! Yay!
Mar. 18th, 2009 11:59 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ciirceeIf I'd let a certain somebody have his way, writing this fic would have been a lot easier. Except for the part where I hate writing porn. As it was, I kept looking at this and saying 'you can't DO that, it'd be rape' and getting the :< look in return.
I'm not sure how happy I am with this fic. Quite aside from the writer's block that I was working against while writing this, this is also my first YTM fic. I'm not sure I managed to get the characters right.
But at least I wrote something!
Note: This takes place near the end of episode nine.
Home
"The most important thing is your own smile, isn't it?" Mimura asks him.
Somehow he makes it all seem simple.
"Mimura-kun," Tarou says gratefully, "thank you." He needs a moment to absorb everything before he runs back to his family, he needs to gather himself together, and he so he steps closer to his home and lays a hand on the smooth wooden support column that interrupts the worn stretch of porch. He hears Mimura's laugh in the way that he breathes and a second later Mimura's hand is warm at his wrist, his fingers creating a gentle circle around it. He follows Mimura and is surprised when he leads him inside the house. "But—" he protests even as he sits down.
"I've been staying here," Mimura explains easily. There is the snap and flare of a match being lit, the sharp smell of sulfur, and Tarou sees one, two, three flames appear. In the dim candlelight he sees Mimura blow the match out. "It's not good to leave a house standing empty. Isn't that why you're in the other house?" he asks, settling down across from him, not close but close enough that Tarou can reach out and put his hand on Mimura's knee if he wants to.
Tarou looks around and sees that the empty rooms aren't as empty as they were the last time he'd seen them. There are the three lit candles sitting squat and fat on their square holders. There is a dog-eared paperback book and a shiny silver alarm clock sitting on the floor near the candles. And next to the candles, the book, and the clock is a plump-looking futon that has Mimura's family crest on the cover. Tarou reaches out without thinking about it and he can feel the yard-side sunlight in the fabric. It is probably the most expensive thing that has ever been in their house, let alone aired out on their little balcony, Tarou thinks. He smiles at Mimura. "Until this," he says, flipping back the futon cover, "there wasn't anything in here worth stealing."
Mimura looks at him and Tarou feels something confused well up in him. Just before he can ask, Mimura smiles suddenly. "I thought it was worth it," he says. He looks around the room the way Tarou has just done and Tarou watches the way the candlelight seems to follow Mimura, laying close to his skin. "A house like this shouldn't be empty," Mimura says and looks back to him, his smile gentle at every curve.
He can't help being touched by the way Mimura understands. "Mimura-kun," he says, feeling that words aren't quite right but that 'mimura-kun' comes closest. What he does next, he does because it is as natural a feeling as picking up the little kids, as right as putting his arm around the shoulders of the older ones, as easy as tucking everybody in together in one, big bed.
Without a thought Tarou leans forward, putting his hand on Mimura's knee for balance as he leans in and kisses Mimura, just at the corner of his mouth—
(This close, Mimura smells ever-so faintly like a deliciously simple dinner of rice and miso soup and grilled fish and oolong tea. He smells like something Tarou should take a deep breath of so that he can hold it in his memory.)
—and stops, pressed close to Mimura, his mouth just centimeters from Mimura's own.
It's not that Tarou hasn't realized what he was doing; he knows what he's doing. He simply isn't prepared for the shock of smooth skin under his lips and the feeling of somebody else so close. He feels like he hasn't touched anybody in days and this is Mimura and Mimura has brought him home. Tarou wants to get closer still. Mimura is as still as stone, not even breathing and Tarou pulls back just far enough to see his face.
Mimura is watching him in that strangely probing way of his, looking at him with solemn eyes, seeing him. His lips are pressed together, a perfect cupid's bow.
"Ah," says Tarou, feeling like he should say something. "I'm sorry. That was probably a pretty surprising thing to do." His mouth feels dry and he licks his lips without thinking and he's still so close that he can practically taste the good way Mimura smells. "Sorry," he repeats. Mimura's knee is cool and hard under Tarou's hand and his words are echoing meaninglessly around his head. He should really sit back now.
When he tries, Mimura's hand stops him, curling over his shoulder and holding him firmly in place. Tarou turns his head slowly, ducking his chin and looks at Mimura's hand where it's touching him, dark against the light blue of his school shirt. His eyes travel up Mimura's arm to his shoulder to his neck and back to his eyes. Mimura doesn't say a word.
Tarou licks his lips again and watches the way Mimura's eyes dip down. "Ah…Mimura-kun?" Tarou asks and then stops when Mimura looks him in the eye again. He thinks 'this isn't something to ask, right?' and he feels his eyebrows scrunching together in thought. He knows very well that Mimura Takuya has no compunctions about twisting the truth if he thinks the end results are going to be funny and, anyhow, Mimura isn't going to hate him over him getting something like this wrong, right?
"Hm?" Mimura asks, sounding like he's laughing to himself.
Tarou shrugs philosophically and mentally takes a deep breath before he closes the distance and presses his lips to Mimura's.
At school, Mimura has a reputation of being an ice prince—cold and aloof, solitary and untouchable. Tarou thinks that the only thing about this that is true is that Mimura's lips are a little cool at first touch. But they warm quickly and Mimura's mouth softens under his and it reminds Tarou irresistibly of vanilla ice cream—all rich, creamy sweetness as it melts. He sits back, trying to sort out his impressions.
"Do you need to think about that?" Mimura asks softly.
Raking his lower lip with his teeth, Tarou nods. He's thinking so much that, when Mimura lets go of his shoulder to lean back on his elbows and put as much distance between himself and Tarou as is possible with Tarou's hands still on his knee, he's a little confused. And then he remembers that he has better grades than Mimura, despite having next to no time to study.
"Excuse me for a moment," Tarou says and uses his hold on Mimura's knee to pull himself forward, climbing along Mimura's body until he's practically in his lap and can reach his mouth again. Mimura's jaw has dropped a little in disbelief and Tarou slides his tongue inside before Mimura can recover. He doesn't taste like vanilla ice cream; his mouth is warm and damp and tastes of nothing in particular. Tarou's tongue touches Mimura's and Mimura's tongue moves, curls around his, and there's something about that, the way it feels… Tarou catches Mimura's bottom lip between his teeth, biting down gently and sucking softly. Mimura makes a breathy sound and it travels from his mouth to Tarou's and Tarou swallows it down as he pulls back, licking his lips.
Mimura is wide-eyed.
Tarou is about to say something when Mimura shifts just the tiniest bit. The collar of Mimura's open black shirt falls away from Mimura's neck and a truly fantastic smell wafts up and Tarou can't help following it down to its source. He noses his way down Mimura's neck, flicking out his tongue to taste here and there until he finds it in the hollow of Mimura's throat, a taste that burns pleasantly on his tongue like fresh ginger. He laps at it, sucks at it, and then moves on because Mimura smells incredible. Everywhere.
The hollow of Mimura's throat leads back up the long, strong tendons of Mimura's neck to the curve where neck meets shoulder. The taste there is sweet and almost tangy when Tarou bites down gently. The muscle tightens under his mouth as Mimura moves again. Tarou pushes blindly at the fabric-softener smell of Mimura's shirt as his mouth travels across the white cotton of Mimura's tank top. He finds the place where the tank top gives way to skin, at the low curve at the bottom of the armhole. Tarou runs his tongue around the curve of skin there, the place where Mimura's chest flows into arm, and it's a richer, darker taste than the tan of Mimura's skin. He meets the edge of the bunched-up fabric of the black, button-down shirt and traces it up to the cusp of Mimura's shoulder. It's cool under his mouth, a refreshing flavor.
Beneath him, Mimura's body rises with a deep breath. He's getting ready to speak; Tarou can feel the breath forming into words as he licks his way back up to Mimura's chin. He doesn't mean to cut him off, he just can't help himself. He kisses him again, slipping inside and tasting him deeply, drinking in everything about it. He only breaks away when he can't breathe and Mimura has no more air to offer him.
"You're like a whole meal," Tarou says in awe.
Mimura laughs, dropping to the floor entirely, his head only marginally pillowed by the futon. Mimura laughs, but Tarou is serious.
Hunger is something Tarou knows. He's lived with it, slept with it, taken it to school with him, carried it to his part-time jobs, he's probably eaten more hunger—wrapped in images and scents—than he has actual food. Tarou knows for a fact that, after a while, hunger feeds on itself, fills itself up, and goes away until the next meal rolls around.
Tarou has forgotten this hunger, this one that settles below his stomach and twists and aches. Mimura fuels that hunger, making things go tight and hard and hot inside of Tarou, but touching Mimura, kissing him, being this close and then closer yet, is the only thing that feeds it. He shoves up the bottom hem of Mimura's shirts until he can see the smooth expanse of Mimura's chest and belly and decides that Mimura is more than just a meal.
"A buffet table," Tarou corrects. "A free one."
Mimura's laugh this time is consumed in series of tiny gasps as Tarou begins to gorge himself. He nips his way down Mimura's chest, gets sidetracked repeatedly by Mimura's nipples and the way they change under his fingers and teeth and tongue and how the taste of them changes to match. He samples the different muscles that ripple and jump under his lips, sucking and licking and biting as it seems appropriate.
He has just reached the well of Mimura's bellybutton when Mimura stops him with a hand in his hair and says, "Tarou."
(Mimura doesn't use his name; Mimura calls him 'you' all the time. It's as shocking as if his father were to suddenly declare, over lunch, that Tarou is not his real son. Tarou forgets about sticking his tongue in Mimura's bellybutton just so that he can look up and confirm what it is that he's just heard.)
"Eh?"
"Shower," Mimura says thickly. The hand in Tarou's hand tightens briefly. "It's turned off. The water." Mimura takes a careful breath and his hand goes from holding to stroking. "The water is turned off here. There's no way to shower."
It sinks in quickly. Tarou looks down at his own hands, curled around the waistband of Mimura's lovely, dark slacks. Mimura is obviously hard, the long, thick line of his erection clear behind the zipper and the softly expensive fabric. Tarou licks his lips. Going beyond this is clearly off the table but surely one taste couldn't hurt, right? It'd be like checking the sauce during cooking. Necessary, even. He licks his lips again and looks up at Mimura's face.
Mimura is looking back at him, face set with his unflappable calm. "Isogai," he says, "is probably sick of waiting to take me home for a shower and change of clothes anyhow."
"Not at all, young master," Isogai calls back.
This is when Tarou realizes that the house is really much brighter than three small candles should make it. He sits up and hastily opens some distance between himself and Mimura. The headlights of a car have lit the whole room like dawn. "How long has he been waiting?" Tarou asks in a mortified whisper.
"Hm," Mimura says musingly. His head tips to the side and he puts one finger just below his lip, head cocked thoughtfully. "Since before the buffet table was set."
Tarou remembers the way Mimura had breathed in, about to speak. He covers his face. "I'm sorry," he says. "Sorry," he calls to Isogai.
"Not at all," Isogai calls out and then knocks perfunctorily on the door before opening it and smiling fondly at them both. "I'm sorry for having to interrupt the young masters."
Mimura gets to his feet, easily and unselfconsciously. Tarou follows a bit more bashfully. "Isogai, let's drop him off at the other house," he says with a nod in Tarou's direction.
"Of course," Isogai returns, holding the door of the Yamada house open and bowing them through.
"We need to stop at a bakery as well," Mimura says as Isogai bows them into the car.
"Naturally," Isogai says, shutting them in and going around to the driver's seat.
"Eh?" Tarou asks quietly, leaning in to Mimura's side. This is probably another bit of the culture of the rich. It's a little less shocking if it's Mimura, maybe, Tarou thinks.
"We need to pick up some cake," Mimura tells him casually.
"…cake?"
"I think I might be in love," Mimura says, "but it's better to check, right?" And Mimura smirks at him and Tarou…
"Mimura-kun!" he moans in embarrassment. He buries his face in Mimura's arm for a moment. "That isn't funny!"
"It's very serious," Mimura agrees gravely.
"Mimura-kun!" Tarou repeats and then lifts his head to smile at Mimura. Despite the crush of embarrassment, despite the lingering disappointment riding low in his abdomen, Tarou is happier now than he has been for days, possibly weeks. "Thank you," he says quietly.
More important than the fic, I think, is the fact that certain people are very pretty. Observe!
Sho is pretty as Mimura!
Sho is pretty as himself!
Sho is a big dork!
That's okay because Hiro is pretty, too!
I'm not sure how happy I am with this fic. Quite aside from the writer's block that I was working against while writing this, this is also my first YTM fic. I'm not sure I managed to get the characters right.
But at least I wrote something!
Note: This takes place near the end of episode nine.
Home
"The most important thing is your own smile, isn't it?" Mimura asks him.
Somehow he makes it all seem simple.
"Mimura-kun," Tarou says gratefully, "thank you." He needs a moment to absorb everything before he runs back to his family, he needs to gather himself together, and he so he steps closer to his home and lays a hand on the smooth wooden support column that interrupts the worn stretch of porch. He hears Mimura's laugh in the way that he breathes and a second later Mimura's hand is warm at his wrist, his fingers creating a gentle circle around it. He follows Mimura and is surprised when he leads him inside the house. "But—" he protests even as he sits down.
"I've been staying here," Mimura explains easily. There is the snap and flare of a match being lit, the sharp smell of sulfur, and Tarou sees one, two, three flames appear. In the dim candlelight he sees Mimura blow the match out. "It's not good to leave a house standing empty. Isn't that why you're in the other house?" he asks, settling down across from him, not close but close enough that Tarou can reach out and put his hand on Mimura's knee if he wants to.
Tarou looks around and sees that the empty rooms aren't as empty as they were the last time he'd seen them. There are the three lit candles sitting squat and fat on their square holders. There is a dog-eared paperback book and a shiny silver alarm clock sitting on the floor near the candles. And next to the candles, the book, and the clock is a plump-looking futon that has Mimura's family crest on the cover. Tarou reaches out without thinking about it and he can feel the yard-side sunlight in the fabric. It is probably the most expensive thing that has ever been in their house, let alone aired out on their little balcony, Tarou thinks. He smiles at Mimura. "Until this," he says, flipping back the futon cover, "there wasn't anything in here worth stealing."
Mimura looks at him and Tarou feels something confused well up in him. Just before he can ask, Mimura smiles suddenly. "I thought it was worth it," he says. He looks around the room the way Tarou has just done and Tarou watches the way the candlelight seems to follow Mimura, laying close to his skin. "A house like this shouldn't be empty," Mimura says and looks back to him, his smile gentle at every curve.
He can't help being touched by the way Mimura understands. "Mimura-kun," he says, feeling that words aren't quite right but that 'mimura-kun' comes closest. What he does next, he does because it is as natural a feeling as picking up the little kids, as right as putting his arm around the shoulders of the older ones, as easy as tucking everybody in together in one, big bed.
Without a thought Tarou leans forward, putting his hand on Mimura's knee for balance as he leans in and kisses Mimura, just at the corner of his mouth—
(This close, Mimura smells ever-so faintly like a deliciously simple dinner of rice and miso soup and grilled fish and oolong tea. He smells like something Tarou should take a deep breath of so that he can hold it in his memory.)
—and stops, pressed close to Mimura, his mouth just centimeters from Mimura's own.
It's not that Tarou hasn't realized what he was doing; he knows what he's doing. He simply isn't prepared for the shock of smooth skin under his lips and the feeling of somebody else so close. He feels like he hasn't touched anybody in days and this is Mimura and Mimura has brought him home. Tarou wants to get closer still. Mimura is as still as stone, not even breathing and Tarou pulls back just far enough to see his face.
Mimura is watching him in that strangely probing way of his, looking at him with solemn eyes, seeing him. His lips are pressed together, a perfect cupid's bow.
"Ah," says Tarou, feeling like he should say something. "I'm sorry. That was probably a pretty surprising thing to do." His mouth feels dry and he licks his lips without thinking and he's still so close that he can practically taste the good way Mimura smells. "Sorry," he repeats. Mimura's knee is cool and hard under Tarou's hand and his words are echoing meaninglessly around his head. He should really sit back now.
When he tries, Mimura's hand stops him, curling over his shoulder and holding him firmly in place. Tarou turns his head slowly, ducking his chin and looks at Mimura's hand where it's touching him, dark against the light blue of his school shirt. His eyes travel up Mimura's arm to his shoulder to his neck and back to his eyes. Mimura doesn't say a word.
Tarou licks his lips again and watches the way Mimura's eyes dip down. "Ah…Mimura-kun?" Tarou asks and then stops when Mimura looks him in the eye again. He thinks 'this isn't something to ask, right?' and he feels his eyebrows scrunching together in thought. He knows very well that Mimura Takuya has no compunctions about twisting the truth if he thinks the end results are going to be funny and, anyhow, Mimura isn't going to hate him over him getting something like this wrong, right?
"Hm?" Mimura asks, sounding like he's laughing to himself.
Tarou shrugs philosophically and mentally takes a deep breath before he closes the distance and presses his lips to Mimura's.
At school, Mimura has a reputation of being an ice prince—cold and aloof, solitary and untouchable. Tarou thinks that the only thing about this that is true is that Mimura's lips are a little cool at first touch. But they warm quickly and Mimura's mouth softens under his and it reminds Tarou irresistibly of vanilla ice cream—all rich, creamy sweetness as it melts. He sits back, trying to sort out his impressions.
"Do you need to think about that?" Mimura asks softly.
Raking his lower lip with his teeth, Tarou nods. He's thinking so much that, when Mimura lets go of his shoulder to lean back on his elbows and put as much distance between himself and Tarou as is possible with Tarou's hands still on his knee, he's a little confused. And then he remembers that he has better grades than Mimura, despite having next to no time to study.
"Excuse me for a moment," Tarou says and uses his hold on Mimura's knee to pull himself forward, climbing along Mimura's body until he's practically in his lap and can reach his mouth again. Mimura's jaw has dropped a little in disbelief and Tarou slides his tongue inside before Mimura can recover. He doesn't taste like vanilla ice cream; his mouth is warm and damp and tastes of nothing in particular. Tarou's tongue touches Mimura's and Mimura's tongue moves, curls around his, and there's something about that, the way it feels… Tarou catches Mimura's bottom lip between his teeth, biting down gently and sucking softly. Mimura makes a breathy sound and it travels from his mouth to Tarou's and Tarou swallows it down as he pulls back, licking his lips.
Mimura is wide-eyed.
Tarou is about to say something when Mimura shifts just the tiniest bit. The collar of Mimura's open black shirt falls away from Mimura's neck and a truly fantastic smell wafts up and Tarou can't help following it down to its source. He noses his way down Mimura's neck, flicking out his tongue to taste here and there until he finds it in the hollow of Mimura's throat, a taste that burns pleasantly on his tongue like fresh ginger. He laps at it, sucks at it, and then moves on because Mimura smells incredible. Everywhere.
The hollow of Mimura's throat leads back up the long, strong tendons of Mimura's neck to the curve where neck meets shoulder. The taste there is sweet and almost tangy when Tarou bites down gently. The muscle tightens under his mouth as Mimura moves again. Tarou pushes blindly at the fabric-softener smell of Mimura's shirt as his mouth travels across the white cotton of Mimura's tank top. He finds the place where the tank top gives way to skin, at the low curve at the bottom of the armhole. Tarou runs his tongue around the curve of skin there, the place where Mimura's chest flows into arm, and it's a richer, darker taste than the tan of Mimura's skin. He meets the edge of the bunched-up fabric of the black, button-down shirt and traces it up to the cusp of Mimura's shoulder. It's cool under his mouth, a refreshing flavor.
Beneath him, Mimura's body rises with a deep breath. He's getting ready to speak; Tarou can feel the breath forming into words as he licks his way back up to Mimura's chin. He doesn't mean to cut him off, he just can't help himself. He kisses him again, slipping inside and tasting him deeply, drinking in everything about it. He only breaks away when he can't breathe and Mimura has no more air to offer him.
"You're like a whole meal," Tarou says in awe.
Mimura laughs, dropping to the floor entirely, his head only marginally pillowed by the futon. Mimura laughs, but Tarou is serious.
Hunger is something Tarou knows. He's lived with it, slept with it, taken it to school with him, carried it to his part-time jobs, he's probably eaten more hunger—wrapped in images and scents—than he has actual food. Tarou knows for a fact that, after a while, hunger feeds on itself, fills itself up, and goes away until the next meal rolls around.
Tarou has forgotten this hunger, this one that settles below his stomach and twists and aches. Mimura fuels that hunger, making things go tight and hard and hot inside of Tarou, but touching Mimura, kissing him, being this close and then closer yet, is the only thing that feeds it. He shoves up the bottom hem of Mimura's shirts until he can see the smooth expanse of Mimura's chest and belly and decides that Mimura is more than just a meal.
"A buffet table," Tarou corrects. "A free one."
Mimura's laugh this time is consumed in series of tiny gasps as Tarou begins to gorge himself. He nips his way down Mimura's chest, gets sidetracked repeatedly by Mimura's nipples and the way they change under his fingers and teeth and tongue and how the taste of them changes to match. He samples the different muscles that ripple and jump under his lips, sucking and licking and biting as it seems appropriate.
He has just reached the well of Mimura's bellybutton when Mimura stops him with a hand in his hair and says, "Tarou."
(Mimura doesn't use his name; Mimura calls him 'you' all the time. It's as shocking as if his father were to suddenly declare, over lunch, that Tarou is not his real son. Tarou forgets about sticking his tongue in Mimura's bellybutton just so that he can look up and confirm what it is that he's just heard.)
"Eh?"
"Shower," Mimura says thickly. The hand in Tarou's hand tightens briefly. "It's turned off. The water." Mimura takes a careful breath and his hand goes from holding to stroking. "The water is turned off here. There's no way to shower."
It sinks in quickly. Tarou looks down at his own hands, curled around the waistband of Mimura's lovely, dark slacks. Mimura is obviously hard, the long, thick line of his erection clear behind the zipper and the softly expensive fabric. Tarou licks his lips. Going beyond this is clearly off the table but surely one taste couldn't hurt, right? It'd be like checking the sauce during cooking. Necessary, even. He licks his lips again and looks up at Mimura's face.
Mimura is looking back at him, face set with his unflappable calm. "Isogai," he says, "is probably sick of waiting to take me home for a shower and change of clothes anyhow."
"Not at all, young master," Isogai calls back.
This is when Tarou realizes that the house is really much brighter than three small candles should make it. He sits up and hastily opens some distance between himself and Mimura. The headlights of a car have lit the whole room like dawn. "How long has he been waiting?" Tarou asks in a mortified whisper.
"Hm," Mimura says musingly. His head tips to the side and he puts one finger just below his lip, head cocked thoughtfully. "Since before the buffet table was set."
Tarou remembers the way Mimura had breathed in, about to speak. He covers his face. "I'm sorry," he says. "Sorry," he calls to Isogai.
"Not at all," Isogai calls out and then knocks perfunctorily on the door before opening it and smiling fondly at them both. "I'm sorry for having to interrupt the young masters."
Mimura gets to his feet, easily and unselfconsciously. Tarou follows a bit more bashfully. "Isogai, let's drop him off at the other house," he says with a nod in Tarou's direction.
"Of course," Isogai returns, holding the door of the Yamada house open and bowing them through.
"We need to stop at a bakery as well," Mimura says as Isogai bows them into the car.
"Naturally," Isogai says, shutting them in and going around to the driver's seat.
"Eh?" Tarou asks quietly, leaning in to Mimura's side. This is probably another bit of the culture of the rich. It's a little less shocking if it's Mimura, maybe, Tarou thinks.
"We need to pick up some cake," Mimura tells him casually.
"…cake?"
"I think I might be in love," Mimura says, "but it's better to check, right?" And Mimura smirks at him and Tarou…
"Mimura-kun!" he moans in embarrassment. He buries his face in Mimura's arm for a moment. "That isn't funny!"
"It's very serious," Mimura agrees gravely.
"Mimura-kun!" Tarou repeats and then lifts his head to smile at Mimura. Despite the crush of embarrassment, despite the lingering disappointment riding low in his abdomen, Tarou is happier now than he has been for days, possibly weeks. "Thank you," he says quietly.
More important than the fic, I think, is the fact that certain people are very pretty. Observe!
Sho is pretty as Mimura!
Sho is pretty as himself!
Sho is a big dork!
That's okay because Hiro is pretty, too!
