w-inds., Don’t Let It Go To Your Head

Title: Don’t Let It Go To Your Head [Ryohei/Keita/Ryuichi]
Authors: mousapelli and darkeyedwolf
Rating/Warnings: R for blowjobs and shounen soccer violence.
Summary: Ryuichi loses every single shred of his dignity for two chocolate bars and an omake reel.
AN: I am so not going down for this alone. Keita voted for himself. My beta wishes to remain nameless.

Don’t Let It Go To Your Head

The twelve-year-old captain of the local soccer league finally says “yeah, okay, two chocolate bars for half a quarter, but then he has to be on your team,” and that’s when Ryuichi realizes the last of his dignity is forever, completely gone.

Keita and Ryohei are laughing at him — well, Keita is attempting solemnity, but a broad grin manages to break free as he hands over the goods (“half now, half after you’ve seen his defense”) and Ryohei’s just smiling behind his hand, the bastard, who does he think he’s fooling? Ryuichi kicks the ball, aiming for his head.

It misses by a clean three feet.

“Ogata-san!” a cameraman calls, “Ogata-san, we didn’t catch that, can you miss again for the DVD footage — ?”

Whatever he’s getting paid, Ryuichi decides, it isn’t enough.

Of course, the game winds up being one of the more embarrassing moments in his career, and considering some of the things the entire band’s been put through for the sake of Japanese TV, (like the Day In The Life w-inds. special where they somehow got separated in a Shibuya mall and Ryohei wound up hapless in a lingerie store, all while the cameras rolled) this is really saying something.

Ryuichi isn’t terrible at soccer, see. He just can’t seem to make the ball go where he wants it to go. Halfway through the bribe-designated time, the seventh grader orders him to the sidelines on the far end of the field, where he is to stand very still and not attempt to help.

“Do your best, Ryuichi!” Ryohei says, with a little head bow and a smile that is entirely too amused at his expense.

The camera guy zooms in on Ryuichi’s face. He takes the opportunity to pout a little, and tell all the girls watching that they should send Ryohei the little pink bra number with the hearts, because he’s unfortunately lost his.

Out on the field, Keita starts laughing so hard he misses a simple pass, and the seventh grader shakes his head and mutters something derogatory about boybands.

Ryuichi’s team is losing miserably, of course.

The embarrassing part is that not even double the bribe is enough to convince the kid to let Ryuichi continue playing on his side, so Ryuichi winds up switching – and the 12-year-olds immediately pull ahead.

“Keitaaa,” Ryuichi whines, retying his ponytail to include the bangs this time, as if that will help. Maybe he should just shake it all loose actually, and then claim that he can’t see. “Can’t we go back to playing wiffle ball with toddlers?”

“It’s almost over,” Keita promises with the fakest smile this side of the Long Road trench coat fittings. “Want to be the goalie? Just stand in front of the goal and pretend you’re trying to kick it in.”

Ryohei, who has given up all pretense of being a decent human being, is whooping with his hands braced on his knees.

The 12-year-olds, who apparently don’t think abusing Ryuichi is a good enough reason for a timeout, are still playing, and their rat bastard of a captain gives the ball a solid kick right up the center toward their goal.

It’s a direct challenge to Ryuichi, and it’s coming right for him. He grins maniacally as he realizes that not even a penguin in a body cast could possibly miss this kick, and what’s more, Ryohei is still laughing at Ryuichi’s pain and thus not looking. All signs pointing to “Kick that Motherfucker,” Ryuichi charges the ball.

It’s like a gift from the gods of soccer, Ryuichi thinks to himself, and it’s just then that his foot comes down squarely on top of the ball, and it rolls out from under him in what is sure to be DVD omake gold as his body goes flying. Ryuichi has just enough time to wish he had a shirt the exact shade of the endless expanse of blue above him before there’s a New Paradisian explosion in the back of his skull.

“Ogata-san!” He hears from what feels like far away. “We didn’t quite get that, could you…”

Ryuichi cracks his eyes just enough to see a blurry Keita scream “JUST SHUT UP, WOULD YOU?” and he would laugh except breathing makes his skull pound.


“Oh my god,” Keita throws the sponge back into the sink and claps his hands over his ears when the cheerful dingle dingle of the bell pierces the serenity of the kitchen. “Why did you give him that?!”

“I didn’t give it to him!” Ryohei retorts, scowling. “I thought you did!”

There’s a pause where they just stare at each other; dingle dingle goes the bell.

“Oh, it’s on,” Ryohei says, and they join forces for a two-man invasion of the living room.

“Just how long did you really think you’d get away with this?” Keita asks, crossing his arms. Ryuichi grins up at them from the couch, the ice pack on the back of his head crinkling as he shifts.

“It’s been three and a half hours so far,” he says.

“What moron even comes up with this stuff?” Ryohei wrinkles his nose and reaches down to pluck the bell out of Ryuichi’s fingers.

“I hit my head!” Ryuichi protests. “My brains are addled!” He goes to throw a hand to his forehead dramatically, then winces when he bangs his head back into the icepack.

“Clearly.” Ryohei rolls his eyes.

“Poor baby,” Keita croons, reaching down to tweak some pieces of hair out of Ryuichi’s face. “Want me to fluff your pillow?”

“Uh…” Ryuichi eyes Keita suspiciously, but he wavers because that’s actually the reason he rang the bell this time. “Yes?”

It turns out Keita actually isn’t being suspicious, and Ryuichi feels just a tiny bit squirmy about abusing the flicker of concern in Keita’s eyes as gentle hands urge him up enough to plump the pillow. At the other end of the couch, Ryohei nudges Ryuichi’s feet up enough to sit down and eyes them both speculatively.

“Oi,” Ryohei slouches a bit and cards some hair out of his eyes casually, “want to come down here and fluff me as well?”

Ryuichi’s eyebrows shoot up, which hurts, and he turns his head gingerly just enough to see Keita’s reaction, because there is no way, no way, that Keita has watched enough American porn to know what a ‘fluffer’ is.

Actually, Ryuichi isn’t sure how Ryohei knows what a ‘fluffer’ is. But he came to grips long ago with the fact that if it’s bad news for either Ryuichi or Keita, Ryohei knows it.

“Hm?” Keita’s hands leave Ryuichi’s shoulders and his brow wrinkles, and Ryuichi’s world almost settles back on its axis before Ryohei pats his lap in exaggerated explanation and Keita gives a low, enlightened, “Ooooooh.”

“Hey,” Ryuichi protests as Keita goes to Ryohei and slides onto his lap, knees pressing down the couch cushions on either side of Ryohei’s thighs. Ryohei tugs the back of Keita’s shirt loose and slips hands under it, up the long, curved expanse of Keita’s spine, and Keita settles into his lap way more enthusiastically than is necessary. “Hey!”

“You can join in if you like,” Ryohei smirks at Ryuichi’s with half-open eyes, rubbing one cheek against Keita’s sternum, and Keita purrs, that traitor, and tips his head forward so that his too-long hair is brushing over his cheekbones.

Ryuichi pushes himself up on his elbows, then moans as his skull feels like it’s splitting and the room spins. He collapses back into the pillow and whimpers at the blurry bandmates rubbing against each other on the far end of his couch with a heinous lack of sympathy.

“Not faaair!” he whines, kicking at Ryohei’s hip weakly with his heel. “I’m injured!”

“You should be resting anyway,” Keita murmurs in a sick imitation of concern while Ryohei peels their t-shirts off and drops them over the edge of the couch. Ryuichi’s vision clears just in time to see Ryohei lean up and flick his tongue against one of Keita’s nipples.

A world-class pout would be firmly affixed to Ryuichi’s lips if his jaw weren’t dangling at the speed with which Ryohei manages to flip both his and Keita’s jeans open. The angle of Ryuichi’s view, cruelly, is perfect as Ryohei wraps long fingers around both of them, and Ryuichi whimpers and wonders whether watching Keita’s slow thrust into Ryohei’s practiced grip is more or less torture than trying to move his head.

More, he decides when Ryohei presses a sharp, perfect bitemark against Keita’s collar, but at least all the blood in Ryuichi’s body is draining southwards and reducing his headache. His own fingers curl in a pale imitation of Ryohei’s.

“Don’t you dare,” Ryohei says idly, letting his head tip back against the back of the couch, baring his throat for Keita nuzzle. “You just sit there quietly, hmm? That’s what you get for jerking us around.”

“Mm, go ahead and try it.” Keita turns his head to smirk at Ryuichi, eyelids heavy. His breath hitches a little when Ryohei squeezes harder. “The jerking isn’t bothering me.”

“You are both such unbelievable assholes,” Ryuichi curses through gritted teeth, and it’s impossible to tell whether his whine or Keita’s is louder when Ryohei twists his thumb over the heads of their cocks.

Keita isn’t typically in it for the long haul, and today is no different as Keita presses his forehead into Ryohei’s shoulder and shudders against him. Usually Ryohei has a bit more stamina, but nothing reduces him to a slick heap quicker than utter submission on Keita’s face. And stomach.

“Hmm,” Keita says after a few moments, and Ryohei shivers a little underneath him, “still pouting?”

Ryuichi growls something conveniently incoherent. Chuckling, Keita slides off Ryohei to his feet and scoops up a T-shirt from the floor to wipe himself off. He shakes it out a little so that only Ryuichi can see that the shirt is actually Ryohei’s. Keita lets the shirt drop back to the ground with a smirk and tucks himself back in, but doesn’t bother to actually button his jeans.

“Hey, careful!” Ryuichi protests when Keita grabs his shoulders and starts moving him around, but Keita shushes him and leans him forward enough to slap the pillow off the couch. Ryuichi is still trying to figure out what the kiwi-fruiting hell is going on when Keita settles in behind him as a surrogate pillow and pulls Ryuichi back against his chest.

Even as gentle as Keita is, Ryuichi’s head still spins for a few seconds, and when he blinks the dizziness away, he finds Ryohei turned sideways on the couch and settling in between his knees.

Ryuichi blinks some more as Ryohei tugs his zipper down. “Wha…”

“Just relax,” Keita breathes against his ear. “Your head.”

Ryuichi opens his mouth to protest, but the wet line Ryohei is drawing along the underside of Ryuichi’s shaft with the tip of his tongue makes him twitch and then curse.

“What did I just say?” Keita wraps an arm tightly across Ryuichi’s chest and holds him down. Ryuichi just whimpers because his gaze is focused directly on Ryohei licking his palm.

Ryuichi had made fun of Ryohei’s lips, once, when he was young and stupid, but that was before he learned that having those lips wrapped around any part of him…or Keita…or just about anything…was pretty much the fastest way to make his head explode. No pun intended.

Keita shifts a little, settling Ryuichi more firmly in between his legs, and makes a smug noise that Ryuichi knows from long experience means “See, I told you the wider couch would be worth it.” He lets the hand that isn’t restraining Ryuichi slip down to ruffle Ryohei’s hair.

Ryohei’s smirk tightens his lips around Ryuichi quite nicely, and Ryuichi lifts one of his own hands to rub the back of Keita’s neck, because he knows an apology when one is rubbing a denim-covered bulge against the small of his back.

“Thought I was being punished?” Ryuichi says in between quick breaths, and Keita laughs against his ear and tightens the arm around Ryuichi’s chest when he arches against it. Ryohei raises an eyebrow, asking if Ryuichi really wants him to stop and answer his question.

The thing about Ryohei’s blowjobs is that they aren’t long and sweet like Keita’s, but they aren’t fast and deep like Ryuichi’s either. The thing is that you want to hold on, you do, and Ryohei makes these soft noises like he could do it for hours, but the sight of Ryohei’s lips sliding down far enough to brush against coarse curls is certainly more than Ryuichi can take, even without the head wound.

“Easy, easy,” Keita says, soothing Ryuichi’s shaking with long fingers and warm palms. Since he’s already dizzy, Ryuichi tilts his head back to kiss Keita, slow and lazy, anchoring himself with the hand still wrapped around the back of Keita’s neck.

“Hmm,” Ryohei interrupts, releasing Ryuichi with a final lick, and then he squirms up carefully to sprawl across Ryuichi’s chest without jostling him too much. He reaches up to tug Keita down for a kiss of his own.

“Attention whore,” Ryuichi says fondly, letting his head slump back against Keita’s shoulder and putting the non-Keita hand between Ryohei’s shoulder blades.

“Better than being just the regular kind,” Ryohei retorts against Keita’s mouth, making him snort.


“No kids,” Keita says, making the ‘please get down from the water tower, sir’ hand motions. “No soccer. I promise.”

“Get out of the car, Ryuichi,” Ryohei commands, and Ryuichi sulks out of the bucket seat, wincing at the sunlight that makes his head ache again. Keita pats his shoulder, and Ryohei looks stern but offers the sunglasses out of his pocket.

“Ah, Ogata-san made it!” the director exclaims, looking vastly relieved and cheerful. Ryuichi takes advantage of the tinted lenses to wish the director would die, bitch, die. “I have excellent news!”

He steps aside to reveal a disgruntled seventh-grader breaking pieces off the biggest chocolate bar Ryuichi has ever seen. He meets Ryuichi’s eyes and gives a derisive snort. The kid’s freaking munchkin friends are kicking the hated ball back and forth behind him.

“Rematch!” Keita says, and Ryuichi hears the traitors slap a high-five behind his back.

But the real indignity is when they slap his ass before running off to join the other barbarian children.

“Ogata-san,” the director calls, “we didn’t quite…”

“Oh GOD shut UP!” Ryuichi roars, then clutches his pounding head.

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