Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/5425565.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Eyeshield_21
  Relationship:
      Sakuraba_Haruto/Takami_Ichirou
  Character:
      Sakuraba_Haruto, Takami_Ichirou
  Additional Tags:
      Masturbation, Sexual_Fantasy, Secret_Crush, No_Plot/Plotless, Plot_What
      Plot/Porn_Without_Plot
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-01-13 Words: 1889
****** Shouldn't ******
by tastewithouttalent
Summary
     "Takami shouldn’t have bought the magazine." There are some
     unexpected temptations in being in love with a model and some
     advantages that come with that.
Takami shouldn’t have bought the magazine.
He knew it was a bad idea the moment he saw it sitting in the rack at the
store, was already regretting glancing as he read Sakuraba Haruto printed
across the cover under the endearingly awkward smile of the individual in
question. The magazine promised ‘exclusive insight’ into Sakuraba’s life, all
the trapping of intimacy that Takami doesn’t need, not when he sees Sakuraba on
a daily basis for hours at a time. But it wasn’t the lure of the article that
caught his eye; it was that smile, the drag of Sakuraba’s mouth up into shy
pleasure that held his attention, and it’s not until the cashier asks him if
he’d like to buy anything else that he even realizes he’s at the front of the
line. And then: “Yes,” fast, before he can think better of it, and he’s
reaching for the magazine, sliding the glossy weight of it free of the rack to
set on the counter. “This too, please.”
He shouldn’t have done it. Takami knows he has a problem -- he’s not so blind
to his own feelings as to deny the rush of heat in his veins every time he
thinks about his teammate -- and he decided long ago that the best way to
handle his own interest was to ignore it as much as possible and hide it when
he can’t push it down. Buying a magazine with Sakuraba’s face splashed over the
cover is a terrible idea, a moment of weakness he can’t afford to indulge in,
and he spends the entire walk back thinking about getting rid of it, about
tugging the magazine free of his bag and tossing it in the trashcan he walks
past on his way home. But he walks past the trashcans without pausing, without
even reaching for the weight in his bag, and by the time he’s unlocking his
front door and stepping inside he knows any resistance was long since rendered
futile.
He goes straight for his bedroom. The magazine feels like evidence, like
something he has to hide as soon as possible, even before he unpacks the few
groceries he bought into the cool of the fridge. He shuts the door behind him,
sets the bag down, and then he’s pulling the magazine out, his heart going
faster as if he’s been caught with something far more illicit than a
compilation of ads and photo shoots intended for a younger and more feminine
audience than Takami is.
He intends to leave it on the desk, to slide it facedown to the back corner to
be picked back up later, after dinner in the quiet hours before bed; but it
comes out face-up, and there’s that smile again, soft and inviting even in
still-frame. Sakuraba’s clearly been dressed up for the shoot, has his
shoulders hunched in as if to hide the full breadth of them, and Takami is
fairly sure either makeup or Photoshop is responsible for the smooth of his
skin and the oversaturated color of his eyes. But it’s still Sakuraba,
identifiably the same person Takami sees sweating through football practice at
the club every day, and his mouth looks like it always does, so close to
reality that Takami can imagine the other smiling like that at the end of
practice, as he shakes his hair back from the mess his helmet makes of it or
while he’s stripping his practice uniform off his shoulders. Takami can picture
Sakuraba looking back over his shoulder at him, can bring the sweet of this
expression to his own mental concept of Sakuraba, can imagine stepping in
closer to reach for his elbow, to…
“Oh no,” Takami says, soft and resigned because he knows this is a bad idea.
But he’s reaching for the bedroom door anyway, clicking the lock into place
nearly soundlessly, and then doubling back, the weight of the locked door
behind him commitment to what he’s about to do even before he’s reached for the
magazine again. He slides the weight off the desk, crosses the floor to his
bed, and then he’s twisting to drop over the sheets, to fall back across the
mattress while he fumbles the magazine open to the cover story in the center.
The pages ruffle, glossy sheets slipping over themselves, and then there’s
another glimpse of Sakuraba’s face and Takami’s fingers catch and draw the
magazine wider. It’s a half-page image, this time, interrupted with the text of
an interview along the bottom, but Takami doesn’t even skim over the questions
about Sakuraba’s favorite kind of food or what his ideal date is. He’s twisting
the pages back instead, rolling them around the spine of the magazine so he can
hold it up one-handed while he unfastens the front of his jeans with his other.
“This is a bad idea,” he says, murmuring the words aloud as if they’ll have
some kind of effect on the drag of his own hands at his clothes or on the way
his fingers are going shaky on the adrenaline of anticipation. His zipper comes
open, the weight of his jeans eases, and then he’s pushing his fingers down
against the tremor of tension in his stomach and he’s past the point of
stopping even before his hand brushes against the half-hard shape of his cock
going hot inside his boxers. Takami lets a breath go, judgment and resignation
blurring to a slur on his tongue, and then his fingers are closing around
himself, and when he draws friction up over his skin he can feel the relief of
it sweep out into his veins like a wave. He groans faint and low in the back of
his throat, and then he’s settling into the bed, bracing his arm out over him
to hold the magazine while his other hand strokes up over the resistance of his
hardening cock. It’s better than his imagination has been, better to have the
shape of Sakuraba’s eyes and the curve of his lips visible right in front of
him; Takami is going hotter faster than he expected, as if the wide-eyed image
on the page in front of him is the sun to heat his blood to steam without any
effort at all. He can see the shape of Sakuraba’s shoulders against the
clinging t-shirt they put him in, and the shape of the clothing is all wrong
for the Sakuraba Takami knows but he can appreciate the aesthetics of it, can
see the way the pale shade brings out flecks of color in Sakuraba’s wide eyes
and the way the muscle in his arms presses tight against the sleeves. Takami’s
breathing harder, his cock swelling under the rhythmic stroke of his hand, and
then he thinks to let a sheet slide free of his hold and he sees the image on
the next page over.
“Oh god,” he blurts, and he’s rolling over, twisting onto his stomach without
letting go of the grip he’s got around his cock. The magazine falls flat on the
bed, spread open on this new page, and Takami rocks his weight back over his
knees, braces himself on his free elbow as he speeds the drag of his hand.
Sakuraba’s peeling the too-tight shirt off on the next page, his shoulders
flexing through the motion of dragging it up over his head, and Takami can’t
see his face but he can see the curve of Sakuraba’s spine, can see the sharp
dip along his hipbone cutting down to the top edge of his jeans. Sakuraba’s
skin looks like it’s glowing gold, shining in whatever lights they had trained
on him, and it makes him look like he’s in direct sunlight, like summer heat is
kissing its way along the expanse of bare skin the image shows. Takami’s skin
goes hot again, shudders through a wave of warmth, and then he curls his
fingers under the promise of the page and turns to the next, and of course it’s
what he knew it would be. Sakuraba’s across the entire page, a hand lifted to
push his hair back from his face and his smile the more endearing for the
shadow his upraised arm casts over his features. His shirt is gone, cut
entirely from the frame, his jeans so low on his hips Takami imagines he can
see the promise of gold hair edging against the line of denim just over his
button. His hips are sharp lines, dipping down past the promise of that
waistband, and then there’s his shoulders, the one raised with his arm and the
other curling forward in a motion that would hide the strength there if he had
a shirt on to hide behind. As it is it just shows off the weight of muscle
across his chest, the flexing tension along his stomach, and Takami can’t
breathe, can’t drag his eyes away from the image. He wants to press his mouth
to the edge of Sakuraba’s hip, wants to lick up the flat of his stomach; he
wants to see the shudder of breathing coming pleasure-fast in that gold-tanned
chest, wants to see the line of those shoulders gone slick and glistening with
sweat. Takami can imagine the dark of Sakuraba’s lashes dipping heavy over
bright eyes, can picture the soft of the other’s smile going slack on a groan
of satisfaction, can see Sakuraba’s cock twitching under Takami to spill over
the tension of his stomach and Takami...and Takami’s coming, his vision hazing
to white as he jerks through the electricity of heat that surges through him.
His movement stutters, his strokes falling out-of-rhythm as he comes, and
somewhere distantly he’s cringing about the sheets but at the moment he’s
gasping for breath, tasting Sakuraba’s name at the back of his tongue like the
unvoiced moan is demanding to be set free. His movement slows, the heat eases;
and then Takami blinks his vision back into focus, and sees the picture of
Sakuraba again, and hisses through another jolt of sensation as the last
aftershock of orgasm shakes down his spine to leave him spent and shaky with
resolved tension. His hand is sticky, his sheets a mess; when he pushes back up
over his knees and takes stock his jeans are dirty too, damp from pressing too
close to the wet of the sheets. Takami sighs, lets himself go, and gets up on
shaky legs to clean his bed and his clothes as best he can before he faces
reemerging from the bedroom.
He knows he should get rid of the magazine. It’s already been a source of
temptation; he should throw it out before his resolve collapses again, should
remove the possibility before he can give in to it once more. But he leaves it
where it lies, changes his jeans and his top sheet without even closing the
weight of the pages on themselves, and when he finally does reach for it it’s
to fold it shut with as much care as if the images are Sakuraba in truth before
he lifts the edge of his mattress and slides the magazine under it to protect
it from a casual glance around the room.
Takami shouldn’t have bought the magazine, but that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t do
it again.
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