Kis-My-Ft2, Addictive

Title: Addictive [Kitayama/Fujigaya]
Rating/Warnings: R
Summary: Kitayama is totally doing it on purpose.
AN: Written for Shiritori.


“Danji pressed his cold lips against Teppei’s own warm ones,” Kitayama read, eyes agleam with cruel amusement, or maybe that was just glare from the laptop screen. “The other mitten fell, forgotten, into the snow as they pressed closer, the spark of their passion warming them more than any mitten ever…”

“STOP IT!” Fujigaya finally roared. “If you’re going to look up skeazy fanfiction, could you at least read it to yourself?!”

“This one’s actually pretty good.” Kitayama’s eyes lifted just long enough to glimmer in amusement, before they were glued back to his screen. “Ooh, dialogue. ‘Oh, Danji,’ Teppei gasped, cheeks turning to a delicate pink, ‘I want to feel you inside my—'”

“Finish that sentence.” Fujigaya brandished his flatiron. “I dare you.”

“Don’t be such a grump,” Kitayama said, rolling his eyes. “It should make you happy that fans are emotionally invested enough in our characters to write anything about them.”

“Whatever, just put that away and hurry up. Honestly, you’re worse than Tackey with that thing.”

“Aww, does that make you Tsubasa?” Kitayama set aside his laptop and stretched, baring a stripe of tanned belly. “Looking forward to ten more years, partner~.”

Fujigaya gave him one more dirty look before stomping out of the dressing room, grumbling to himself that Kitayama could be late again and get fired, for all he cared.

Knowing his luck, they’d probably just replace him with Matchy-san.

“He does it on purpose you know,” Yokoo said, voice mild over Fujigaya’s phone during lunch break.

“Isn’t that my line?” Fujigaya asked. “No shit he’s driving me insane on purpose.”

“No, idiot,” Yokoo’s eyeroll is entirely audible, “he’s trying to keep you from doing that thing you do, on purpose.”

“What thing?”

“You know exactly what I mean.” Yokoo pauses, and Fujigaya fidgets. “Yeah?”

So maybe Fujigaya has a habit of getting himself totally panicky over filming, and maybe there’s a direct ratio between how nervous he is and how many cigarettes he smokes. And maybe he’d worked up to practically a pack a day during Ikemen and that had sucked a lot. His mother and brother had staged an intervention, which mainly consisted of them stealing Fujigaya’s cigarettes out of his bag.

And so maybe, since Fujigaya spends his tiny snippets of downtime thinking about how annoying Kitayama is instead of how he could possibly fuck up his next scene, he’s had the same pack in his bag for four days.

“Yeah,” Fujigaya grunts.

“You should thank him. Not like you’re vocal frontman or whatever.”

“I’d rather die,” Fujigaya says, voice flat, and then hangs up on his supposed friend.

But when he gets praised by the vocal instructor for taking better care of himself, and then by Senga for his stamina, Fujigaya reluctantly has to admit that Kitayama’s methods are irritating yet effective. At the end of the week he catches Yusuke red-handed rooting around in his bag, and gets to tell him to buy his own fucking cigarettes, before hollering into the kitchen to his mother that that goes double for her.

“Yikes, I can see why this one only has two comments,” Kitayama makes a face at his laptop, “although some of the pet names are gold. Would you answer to ‘sweetie bear?’ How about “my little golden manjuu?’ Is that a tanning jab?”

“I know what you’re doing,” Fujigaya says, trying for casual but keeping his eyes firmly focused on mirror. And then, figuring just once can’t hurt, adds quickly, “Thank you.”

There’s a few seconds of silence, and Fujigaya almost turns around because if that tiny bastard even fell asleep or some shit, but just before he does, strong, tanned arms wrap around his middle.

“Mmm, you’re welcome, partner~.” Kitayama puts a lilt on ‘partner’ that makes Fujigaya squawk, then stiffen when Kitayama’s lips brush the back of his neck. “Say, want to help me out? All my skeazy fanfiction has left me with a little problem.”

He rocks his hips, his problem not little at all and rubbing right against Fujigaya’s ass. Before Fujigaya can start to struggle properly, one of Kitayama’s warm, strong hands is under his shirt and teasing the skin of his belly, and Fujigaya’s limbs refuse to cooperate.

“Please?” Kitayama asks, voice low. “You can call me your little golden manjuu. Wanna sample my filling?”

“Fine, do what you want,” Fujigaya hisses, already pushing into Kitayama’s hand. “Just shut the fuck up!”

Fujigaya ends up shoved halfway up onto the makeup counter, sweats hanging off one leg, no choice but to cling to Kitayama’s neck for balance as Kitayama pounds him up against the mirror. It probably looks ridiculous but feels hotter than hell, and Senga had been right about the stamina, because Kitayama totally loses it first, groaning his release into Fujigaya’s shoulder.

“Fuck, we really are like Tackey and Tsubasa,” Fujigaya sighs, and Kitayama mumbles that now he needs a cigarette.

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