Kis-My-Ft2, Miyata Isn’t Always the M

Title: Miyata Isn’t Always the M [Tamamori/Miyata]
Rating/Warnings: NC-17
Summary: Miyata’s actually pretty pissed off that Tamamori gets himself trapped by fangirls.
AN: Written for the Ebikisu Kink Meme for the prompt “Jealous, angry and dominant!Miyata and Tamamori being very turned on by this abrupt change,” and also sort of loosely based on that time that musikologie and I witnessed Tamamori get himself trapped by a bunch of fans somehow in Yokohama Arena.

Miyata Isn’t Always the M

When Miyata slams open the bathroom door, the bathroom seems empty except for the small ‘eek!’ of surprise at the loud noise. The person hiding doesn’t make any other noises as Miyata stomps in, but there’s really only one place somebody can hide in the small bathrooms of the theater.

“Tama?” Miyata asks, not bothering to keep the annoyance out of his voice.

After a second, feet appear in the bottom of one of the stalls. “Miyacchi?” Tamamori’s voice asks, nervous. “Did you come to save me?”

“Open the door, idiot,” Miyata demands, and a second later the stall door indeed swings open to reveal a sheepish Tamamori perched on the toilet, cell phone still clutched in his hand. Tamamori’s face is all pleased relief, and it makes Miyata’s irritation rachet up several more notches. “What are you even doing in here?!”

“Um…” Tamamori looks down to fiddle with his phone unnecessarily. “I left my hat somewhere and I thought maybe when I went up to get on the carts? So I came up, but then I got lost on the way back down and took the wrong stairs, and when I came out, there were all these fangirls and I got caught in a bunch of them and…”

Miyata just glares harder, and Tamamori swallows.

“So when we went by the bathrooms I quick ducked into the men’s and then I was stuck here,” Tamamori finishes in a rush. He dares a glance up at Miyata’s face and shrinks a little more. “So I mailed you. Are you angry?”

Miyata doesn’t answer but flips open his own phone to call Fujigaya quickly, telling him he’s found Tamamori and that the staff can stop searching, he’s safe and not kidnapped.

“Ne,” Tamamori tries again, “are you…”

“Of COURSE I’m angry!” Miyata snaps, making Tamamori jump. He doesn’t resist when Miyata reaches in and yanks him out of the stall by the wrist, then throws him up against the wall. Miyata runs hands over Tamamori roughly, ignoring his protests. “Who gets lost in their own venue and comes out right in the middle of the fangirls?! Why didn’t you tell anybody where you went?!”

“I was just looking for—” Tamamori starts.

“You could’ve been HURT, idiot!” Miyata cuts him off. “Those girls could have done things to you! What if they’d knocked you down! What if they’d come in here after you! Did any of them try anything with you, huh?!”

Tamamori shakes his head, eyes darkening with understanding. “You…Miyacchi, are you…jealous?”

“They don’t get to touch you,” Miyata snarls, the panic that had been squeezing his chest for the last twenty minutes finally subsiding and leaving behind just the frustration and the anger, that Tamamori let himself get caught by them, put himself in a spot where they could’ve done anything they wanted to him. “What if they came in here? You trapped yourself, you complete moron!”

“I’m okay, really.” Tamamori reaches for Miyata, but Miyata grabs his wrists and shoves them up against the tile next to Tamamori’s head with a dull thwack.

“They don’t get to touch you,” Miyata hisses again, fingers tightening around Tamamori’s wrists. The small, soft noise Tamamori makes is the last straw, and adrenaline from both the show and the panic boil over suddenly, closing up Miyata’s throat. Instead of saying anything else, Miyata leans in to seize Tamamori’s mouth, rough and possessive, taking everything he wants from Tamamori and forcing Tamamori’s head back against the wall.

Tamamori’s gasping for air by the time Miyata lets him get any, but Miyata still isn’t satisfied. He wants to prove that Tamamori is all his, that no one else is allowed near him, to make it so that Tamamori never forgets again to keep it that way.

“Don’t move,” he growls. “Don’t even try to get away.”

Tamamori doesn’t answer, eyes wide and dark, just licks at his lips with the tip of his tongue. When Miyata slides his hands down Tamamori’s body, Tamamori keeps his wrists exactly where they are, and when Miyata’s hands run even lower, they find Tamamori already hard.

Well, then. If Tamamori wants it that way, Miyata doesn’t see any reason to hold back.

Tamamori’s in his jeans from the last encore, and when Miyata rifles his pockets roughly, he comes up with a condom as usual. It’s convenient for that moment, but it still makes Miyata’s anger spark hot again.

“Why do you have this kind of shit in there during a show?” he demands as he yanks Tamamori’s belt open and shoves the jeans down his hips. “Fuck, you’re just begging for it, aren’t you?”

Tamamori’s pupils are already wide with want, and he seems torn about whether to nod or shake his head. Instead of either, he murmurs Miyata’s name, low and needy, sending a wave of heat down Miyata’s spine, and Miyata growls for Tamamori to turn around already.

He drops to his knees and yanks Tamamori’s jeans down a little further with one hand, sucking the first two fingers of his other hand into his mouth. Tamamori jerks against the wall when Miyata slides the first one in, working Tamamori open with casual roughness. He’s usually so careful with Tamamori, but this time he wants Tamamori to feel it, to still feel it every time he moves for days.

Judging from the way Tamamori is panting against the wall, he’s not going to tell Miyata to stop.

With both fingers inside Tamamori, Miyata leans in to lick at the skin where it’s stretched around his fingers, keeping his fingers just barely slick enough and making Tamamori twitch against him.

“Miyacchi,” Tamamori begs, voice catching, murmurs things like he’s not totally in control of his mouth, for Miyata to hurry, to take him, please, hurry up. Miyata wraps his free arm around Tamamori’s waist to find Tamamori’s cock hard and wet at the tip.

For a moment he hesitates, wanting to flip Tamamori over and swallow him whole, to make Tamamori watch him as he sucks him dry, but Tamamori is tight and hot and pushing down on Miyata’s fingers, and fucking Tamamori seems like it might get the lesson across just a little better.

The groan of complaint Tamamori gives when Miyata pulls both his hands away earns him a slap on the ass, the pale skin there rising pink, Tamamori’s shout of surprise equally pleasing.

“Don’t move,” Miyata orders as he stands and tears the condom open, struggling not to thrust into his own hand as he rolls it on. “I’ll tell you when you can move.”

He grabs Tamamori’s hips to hold them steady and pushes in, steady and just a little too fast, forcing Tamamori’s body to submit to him. Tamamori’s trembling under his hands but doesn’t shrink away or push back; as ordered he stays as still as he can until Miyata pulls their hips flush together, buried as deep as he can be. They’re both still for a moment, except for Miyata leaning up to nose at the hair lying against the back of Tamamori’s neck, still damp with sweat from the show.

He bites down at the hot skin there, and Tamamori jerks against him with a low moan, tightens around him until Miyata has no choice but to move.

The rhythm he sets up is fast and deep enough to put “Firebeat” to shame, fingers digging in tight to keep from slipping on Tamamori’s sweat-slick skin. It drives the air out of Tamamori’s lungs in whines and half-pleas and is in no way sustainable; it’s only a minute later when he orders Tamamori roughly to touch himself, knowing he won’t last long himself.

He feels it all along his cock and over the rest of his skin when Tamamori cries out in release, Tamamori squeezing impossibly tight around him, making the backs of his thighs burn with the effort of thrusting through it. Tamamori gives a choked whisper of Miyata’s given name, and that’s it for Miyata as well, knees nearly spilling him to the ground when the storm of his own orgasm dims his vision at the edges.

He collapses against Tamamori’s back, the heat and dampness of his skin against Miyata’s cheek even through Tamamori’s T-shirt, and slides arms around Tamamori’s waist, squeezing as tight as his exhausted limbs can manage.

“Still not allowed to move,” he comments.

“Wasn’t gonna,” Tamamori answers vaguely, humming as one of his aftershocks makes both of them shiver. “Miyacchi’s pretty hot when he’s angry.”

Miyata wonders if maybe this sort of punishment might backfire after all.

♥Kis-My-Ft2/ABC-Z KINK MEME♥