the wide space of worlds unknown [arashi rps; my girl pv au]
the wide space of worlds unknown
Ichiro/Shiro (Ohno/Nino My Girl PV AU); warnings: incest | 嵐 RPS | R | ~1,750 words
Originally written for this prompt at the latest JE Kink/Smut Anonymeme.
And no, I still can't believe I wrote this. :| I wrote something else, too, but I want to see if I can continue it over there for a bit longer before I try to repost.
Whenever Shiro had a nightmare when he was younger, he would grab his special yellow blanket and hurry down the dark, narrow hallway, cold toes pit-pattering against the polished wooden floor.
Jiro complained that he could have just crawled in with Goro, since they slept in the same room and he sounded like an elephant with two broken legs every time he went past Jiro and Saburo's door in the middle of the night. But that was a stupid idea - Goro would have kicked him flat out on his butt within two seconds, never mind that Shiro was his special big brother. It was like how he was picky about his sheet corners matching up, how he fussed if Saburo tried to eat crackers in his bed. Shiro used to try to piss Goro off by introducing him as his younger sister, but that didn't last long. Even if he cried like a girl, Goro had one heck of punch.
Shiro pauses outside Ichiro's door, fingers clutching the blanket wrapped around his shoulders. This is stupid; he isn't five years old anymore, he's twenty-six. He isn't sure when it stopped becoming about nightmares.
The want itching under his skin gets the better of him, though. Shiro slides the door open quietly, blinking as his eyes adjust to the darkness of his brother's room. Ichiro's room is in almost the exact center of the house, and it has no windows. It's smaller than Shiro and Goro's room, and a lot smaller than the one that Jiro and Saburo share (although they really need the space, between Jiro's extensive CD collection and Saburo's propensity for bringing home stray pets), but he has it all to himself. He was lucky like that, being the oldest.
Shiro loves his idiot brothers, but it was hard to find a quiet place to just be alone in the house, growing up with five other guys. He remembers hiding in a corner of the laundry room when he was younger, when he'd get bullied on the way home from school, so he could cry without his brothers seeing. He remembers the gentle rock-and-tumble of the washing machine soothing his shakiness, the warm smell of clean sheets permeating the air.
Ichiro never seemed to mind Shiro crawling into his bed in the middle of the night. He was their gentle older brother, even though he could be kind of grumpy and lazy. He didn't mind if they bothered him. They all got along, but they all loved their Ichiro-niisan. He was Jiro's drinking buddy and Saburo's partner-in-crime for experiments, pranks and spying on the girl's changing rooms, back in junior high. He was Goro's idol, because he could dance, fish, draw and do anything with a sense of self-ease that Goro could never quite muster.
And to Shiro - well, that was almost too dangerous to even think about.
Shiro can tell that Ichiro is already awake as he drops his blanket at the foot of the bed and slides under the sheets next to him.
"'Niichan?" he whispers, curling in close to the warmth of Ichiro's body.
"Shi-chan," Ichiro mumbles, only about half-awake. His eyes blink lazily, eyelids droopy. "Couldn't sleep?"
Shiro nods into Ichiro's shoulder, keeping his arms tucked close against his chest. Ichiro lets out an agreeable rumble and strokes one hand slowly up and down Shiro's back, messily rucking up his t-shirt, just like he used to do when Shiro was five and terrified that there were monsters under Goro's bunk.
"This is stupid," Shiro says, and Ichiro's hand slows to a stop on his back, before starting again, more uncertainly.
"I don't mind you coming here," Ichiro says, half-whisper, half-mumble. "It's okay."
"It isn't," Shiro snaps. "We're not kids anymore. I just - fuck. You should be married."
That sounds much more random than it did inside his head, but he doesn't know how to say any of this. They shouldn't be here, like this. Shiro didn't think he would still be here, ten years ago. He was going to go overseas, going to become a director. He should be slipping into some girlfriend's bed, instead of his brother's. It's taken their mom's death for Shiro to realize it wasn't just her being sick that made them stay.
Ichiro laughs softly. "I don't really care about getting married." One of his hands moves up to smooth through Shiro's hair, fingers stroking soothingly. "I'd probably be a crappy husband, anyways."
When Shiro was sixteen and Mom had gotten sick for the first time, he had crawled into Ichiro's bed the night that she and Dad had gathered them all around the table and talked to them in soft, reassuring tones. Shiro couldn't deal with it; Goro's trembling lip, Jiro's anxious questions, Saburo's unstoppable tears. Ichiro had let him cry into his chest until his shirt was soaked through, he had let Shiro cling to him like a child and just held him and whispered softly to him: I know, I know. It hurts. I love her, too.
That hadn't been half as embarrassing as waking up the next morning with a sleeping Ichiro wound all around him, Shiro's morning erection brushing against the bare skin of Ichiro's waist.
The memory of that morning is still so vivid in Shiro's mind: the sharp thrill stinging his belly, the slide of the sheets between his toes as he moved slowly, the stickiness of the July morning heat and whistle of the cranky old air conditioner groaning to life. Stabs of fear in his chest as Saburo walked past outside the bedroom door, yelling something about pancakes. Most of all, he remembers the steady, growing thrum in Shiro's head as he moved faster, more desperately, grinding himself against his brother.
Shiro had gone to hide in the laundry room that day, too, for the first time in about eight years. He felt sick with guilt and shame and fear; their mom's illness, his horrible, weird lust and everyone's tense, grim faces all tangling up in his stomach.
It was wrong. Shiro tried not to think about it again - it was easy enough during the day. They were all busy with packing for Mom's trip to the hospital, with trying to make sure that Dad didn't get too drunk, with hugging Saburo before he started crying again so they wouldn't all start crying, too.
During the night, it was harder. The window in his and Goro's room slanted moonlight right over his bunk, sharp, white light and deep shadows shifting in the tucks and valleys of his blankets. Shiro stroked himself under the covers, trying not to breathe too loudly. Goro, sleeping below on the bottom bunk, was a light sleeper. He couldn't get his mind off the flesh-memory of Ichiro's skin, hot and sweaty against his, the slide of their ankles against each other. He squeezed his eyes shut and let his mind loose; Ichiro straddling him, eyes intense as he rocked down against Shiro, their bare cocks sliding together, Ichiro holding him, kissing his shoulders, his collarbone as he slid into Shiro, inch by careful inch.
He stifled a groan in his elbow as he spilled himself out over his hand, letting the room come back into focus as his breathing evened out.
At some level, he could see the dark humour in the whole situation. He was always the weird kid of the family, the loner, the one who liked to stay in his room and play games alone. And now he was fantasizing about his brother fucking him. That was pretty weird.
He had gone back, though. It hadn't even taken a week. Even when he kept waking up hard and ashamed, with his brother wrapped around him like a lover, he still went back. He was pretty sure he caught Jiro giving him one of his annoying, knowing looks one night before he went to bed, but he ignored it.
"I don't think it's wrong," Ichiro says, softly, out of nowhere, and Shiro jumps. He'd been so lost in his thoughts that he hadn't noticed that his brother was still awake. "It's just us, isn't it?"
"You can't possibly think that," Shiro says, hearing his voice rise in pitch alarmed. He hates that Ichiro always knows what he's talking about. "You know better than that."
Ichiro shrugs. Shiro can't see his face in the dark, just the faint glitter of his eyes. "Maybe I don't care." He strokes his hand carefully down Shiro's back again, letting it rest just above the waistband of his boxers, fingers slipping slightly under the elastic.
They're both holding their breath; Shiro's starting to feel a little hysterical. This is his brother. They've dressed up in old gym shorts and stuck feathers on their head to create impromptu comedy gags for Goro's birthdays. They've showered together and jerked off to bad porn together - Ichiro used change his diapers, for fuck's sake. It's beyond weird.
Shiro doesn't care either, though. That's where it all falls apart. He can feel Ichiro hardening against his hip, their breathing staccato in the darkness of the tiny bedroom. Ichiro's fingers slip down the back of his boxers, hands absently skimming the curve of Shiro's ass and Shiro can barely stifle a gasp.
It's slow, slow and quiet and careful. Shiro doesn't want Ichiro to be gentle, he wants him grinding desperately against him, hands pinning him to the bed and kissing him like he can't stop. He wants Ichiro to fuck him, the thick burn of his cock deep in Shiro that he forgets who they both are, and every reason that they shouldn't do this. But the walls are thin and they're surrounded by their brothers, sleeping on all sides of Ichiro's tiny closet of a bedroom. They rock against each other under the covers, underwear shoved off and kicked to the foot of the bed, foreheads pressed together - not even kissing, just panting, quiet wordless moans - please, want you, just you, ohgod.
Shiro can't even bring himself to feel ashamed when he finally comes, biting down on Ichiro's shoulder, shaking. He reaches out in a haze, wrapping a hand around his brother's cock, finishing him off as Ichiro's mouth falls open, a wordless groan.
"See?" Ichiro whispers afterwards, as Shiro groggily grabs the tissues off the nightstand. "It's just us. It's okay."
"Shut up," Shiro says amiably, cleaning them both off. He's still can't justify this in his mind. Maybe he never will. But he feels comfortable, satiated. They curl up together like matching puzzle pieces, and sleep peacefully. They can work out the hard questions in the morning.
Ichiro/Shiro (Ohno/Nino My Girl PV AU); warnings: incest | 嵐 RPS | R | ~1,750 words
Originally written for this prompt at the latest JE Kink/Smut Anonymeme.
And no, I still can't believe I wrote this. :| I wrote something else, too, but I want to see if I can continue it over there for a bit longer before I try to repost.
Whenever Shiro had a nightmare when he was younger, he would grab his special yellow blanket and hurry down the dark, narrow hallway, cold toes pit-pattering against the polished wooden floor.
Jiro complained that he could have just crawled in with Goro, since they slept in the same room and he sounded like an elephant with two broken legs every time he went past Jiro and Saburo's door in the middle of the night. But that was a stupid idea - Goro would have kicked him flat out on his butt within two seconds, never mind that Shiro was his special big brother. It was like how he was picky about his sheet corners matching up, how he fussed if Saburo tried to eat crackers in his bed. Shiro used to try to piss Goro off by introducing him as his younger sister, but that didn't last long. Even if he cried like a girl, Goro had one heck of punch.
Shiro pauses outside Ichiro's door, fingers clutching the blanket wrapped around his shoulders. This is stupid; he isn't five years old anymore, he's twenty-six. He isn't sure when it stopped becoming about nightmares.
The want itching under his skin gets the better of him, though. Shiro slides the door open quietly, blinking as his eyes adjust to the darkness of his brother's room. Ichiro's room is in almost the exact center of the house, and it has no windows. It's smaller than Shiro and Goro's room, and a lot smaller than the one that Jiro and Saburo share (although they really need the space, between Jiro's extensive CD collection and Saburo's propensity for bringing home stray pets), but he has it all to himself. He was lucky like that, being the oldest.
Shiro loves his idiot brothers, but it was hard to find a quiet place to just be alone in the house, growing up with five other guys. He remembers hiding in a corner of the laundry room when he was younger, when he'd get bullied on the way home from school, so he could cry without his brothers seeing. He remembers the gentle rock-and-tumble of the washing machine soothing his shakiness, the warm smell of clean sheets permeating the air.
Ichiro never seemed to mind Shiro crawling into his bed in the middle of the night. He was their gentle older brother, even though he could be kind of grumpy and lazy. He didn't mind if they bothered him. They all got along, but they all loved their Ichiro-niisan. He was Jiro's drinking buddy and Saburo's partner-in-crime for experiments, pranks and spying on the girl's changing rooms, back in junior high. He was Goro's idol, because he could dance, fish, draw and do anything with a sense of self-ease that Goro could never quite muster.
And to Shiro - well, that was almost too dangerous to even think about.
Shiro can tell that Ichiro is already awake as he drops his blanket at the foot of the bed and slides under the sheets next to him.
"'Niichan?" he whispers, curling in close to the warmth of Ichiro's body.
"Shi-chan," Ichiro mumbles, only about half-awake. His eyes blink lazily, eyelids droopy. "Couldn't sleep?"
Shiro nods into Ichiro's shoulder, keeping his arms tucked close against his chest. Ichiro lets out an agreeable rumble and strokes one hand slowly up and down Shiro's back, messily rucking up his t-shirt, just like he used to do when Shiro was five and terrified that there were monsters under Goro's bunk.
"This is stupid," Shiro says, and Ichiro's hand slows to a stop on his back, before starting again, more uncertainly.
"I don't mind you coming here," Ichiro says, half-whisper, half-mumble. "It's okay."
"It isn't," Shiro snaps. "We're not kids anymore. I just - fuck. You should be married."
That sounds much more random than it did inside his head, but he doesn't know how to say any of this. They shouldn't be here, like this. Shiro didn't think he would still be here, ten years ago. He was going to go overseas, going to become a director. He should be slipping into some girlfriend's bed, instead of his brother's. It's taken their mom's death for Shiro to realize it wasn't just her being sick that made them stay.
Ichiro laughs softly. "I don't really care about getting married." One of his hands moves up to smooth through Shiro's hair, fingers stroking soothingly. "I'd probably be a crappy husband, anyways."
When Shiro was sixteen and Mom had gotten sick for the first time, he had crawled into Ichiro's bed the night that she and Dad had gathered them all around the table and talked to them in soft, reassuring tones. Shiro couldn't deal with it; Goro's trembling lip, Jiro's anxious questions, Saburo's unstoppable tears. Ichiro had let him cry into his chest until his shirt was soaked through, he had let Shiro cling to him like a child and just held him and whispered softly to him: I know, I know. It hurts. I love her, too.
That hadn't been half as embarrassing as waking up the next morning with a sleeping Ichiro wound all around him, Shiro's morning erection brushing against the bare skin of Ichiro's waist.
The memory of that morning is still so vivid in Shiro's mind: the sharp thrill stinging his belly, the slide of the sheets between his toes as he moved slowly, the stickiness of the July morning heat and whistle of the cranky old air conditioner groaning to life. Stabs of fear in his chest as Saburo walked past outside the bedroom door, yelling something about pancakes. Most of all, he remembers the steady, growing thrum in Shiro's head as he moved faster, more desperately, grinding himself against his brother.
Shiro had gone to hide in the laundry room that day, too, for the first time in about eight years. He felt sick with guilt and shame and fear; their mom's illness, his horrible, weird lust and everyone's tense, grim faces all tangling up in his stomach.
It was wrong. Shiro tried not to think about it again - it was easy enough during the day. They were all busy with packing for Mom's trip to the hospital, with trying to make sure that Dad didn't get too drunk, with hugging Saburo before he started crying again so they wouldn't all start crying, too.
During the night, it was harder. The window in his and Goro's room slanted moonlight right over his bunk, sharp, white light and deep shadows shifting in the tucks and valleys of his blankets. Shiro stroked himself under the covers, trying not to breathe too loudly. Goro, sleeping below on the bottom bunk, was a light sleeper. He couldn't get his mind off the flesh-memory of Ichiro's skin, hot and sweaty against his, the slide of their ankles against each other. He squeezed his eyes shut and let his mind loose; Ichiro straddling him, eyes intense as he rocked down against Shiro, their bare cocks sliding together, Ichiro holding him, kissing his shoulders, his collarbone as he slid into Shiro, inch by careful inch.
He stifled a groan in his elbow as he spilled himself out over his hand, letting the room come back into focus as his breathing evened out.
At some level, he could see the dark humour in the whole situation. He was always the weird kid of the family, the loner, the one who liked to stay in his room and play games alone. And now he was fantasizing about his brother fucking him. That was pretty weird.
He had gone back, though. It hadn't even taken a week. Even when he kept waking up hard and ashamed, with his brother wrapped around him like a lover, he still went back. He was pretty sure he caught Jiro giving him one of his annoying, knowing looks one night before he went to bed, but he ignored it.
"I don't think it's wrong," Ichiro says, softly, out of nowhere, and Shiro jumps. He'd been so lost in his thoughts that he hadn't noticed that his brother was still awake. "It's just us, isn't it?"
"You can't possibly think that," Shiro says, hearing his voice rise in pitch alarmed. He hates that Ichiro always knows what he's talking about. "You know better than that."
Ichiro shrugs. Shiro can't see his face in the dark, just the faint glitter of his eyes. "Maybe I don't care." He strokes his hand carefully down Shiro's back again, letting it rest just above the waistband of his boxers, fingers slipping slightly under the elastic.
They're both holding their breath; Shiro's starting to feel a little hysterical. This is his brother. They've dressed up in old gym shorts and stuck feathers on their head to create impromptu comedy gags for Goro's birthdays. They've showered together and jerked off to bad porn together - Ichiro used change his diapers, for fuck's sake. It's beyond weird.
Shiro doesn't care either, though. That's where it all falls apart. He can feel Ichiro hardening against his hip, their breathing staccato in the darkness of the tiny bedroom. Ichiro's fingers slip down the back of his boxers, hands absently skimming the curve of Shiro's ass and Shiro can barely stifle a gasp.
It's slow, slow and quiet and careful. Shiro doesn't want Ichiro to be gentle, he wants him grinding desperately against him, hands pinning him to the bed and kissing him like he can't stop. He wants Ichiro to fuck him, the thick burn of his cock deep in Shiro that he forgets who they both are, and every reason that they shouldn't do this. But the walls are thin and they're surrounded by their brothers, sleeping on all sides of Ichiro's tiny closet of a bedroom. They rock against each other under the covers, underwear shoved off and kicked to the foot of the bed, foreheads pressed together - not even kissing, just panting, quiet wordless moans - please, want you, just you, ohgod.
Shiro can't even bring himself to feel ashamed when he finally comes, biting down on Ichiro's shoulder, shaking. He reaches out in a haze, wrapping a hand around his brother's cock, finishing him off as Ichiro's mouth falls open, a wordless groan.
"See?" Ichiro whispers afterwards, as Shiro groggily grabs the tissues off the nightstand. "It's just us. It's okay."
"Shut up," Shiro says amiably, cleaning them both off. He's still can't justify this in his mind. Maybe he never will. But he feels comfortable, satiated. They curl up together like matching puzzle pieces, and sleep peacefully. They can work out the hard questions in the morning.