aroceu's ficstill on the payroll
by aroceu
Summary:
For a minute there, I lost myself.
Ohm finds Nanon on the football field, after hours.
Notes:
inspired by this interview. title and summary from "karma police" by radiohead.
He doesn’t get a text about it, not a call or an Instagram story. Just a feeling. A pull, a want, a need, even though the silence between them feels like a canyon, a gap he’s not allowed to bridge.
Ohm follows the feeling anyway, to his car and the streets and then the recreational sports field, outside of the GMMTV building. He parks and ignores the looming feeling above him, the guilt and regret knitting itself into one. Unanswered texts and disjointed attempts at communication, until they’d reached this impasse that sounds like I won’t ruin this for you if you don’t ruin me. He doesn’t know how they got here, when all those months ago they’d been sobbing on stage, about how much they love each other.
But, maybe he does.
What’s between their bodies is a different story, and this is nothing new, even though his heart is hammering in his chest as he makes his way into the stadium. A part of him hopes this feeling is wrong: that it’ll be empty, and he’ll have an excuse to practice his kicks for an hour, then grab coffee later and leave. He won’t have to worry about what comes next, at least for a little bit.
Another part of him is horribly, infuriatingly relieved when he sees a figure in the goal at the end of the field, practicing blocks against a ball launcher in the middle.
Ohm strides over, and the figure in the goal doesn’t stop until Ohm’s at the ball launcher, turning it off.
Nanon stops from where he had been blocking the balls and stares at him.
Wordless, Ohm kicks over one of the footballs nearby. Only a few have managed to get past Nanon; it’s on par, though he scoffs scornfully anyway. He sees Nanon narrow his eyes, and a sick thrill of pride rushes through his chest.
Ohm bounces on his feet, eyeing where he should aim the football. Nanon’s already crouched in a defensive position, and Ohm almost wants to hit him, make it hurt.
He instead kicks the ball to the far right side—left, from Nanon’s standpoint. Nanon grabs for it right away, blocking it from making the goal.
Alright. Ohm goes to one of the other footballs Nanon had blocked back earlier, a little farther down the field. He starts dribbling it a bit closer, and Nanon straightens up a bit, rolls his eyes like he’s making fun of Ohm for making the kick easier, harder to block for Nanon. The blood simmers under Ohm’s skin, but he tries to ignore it. He’s still in his gear from working out, muscle tank and tight shorts, the sweat dripping down from him in waves. He’s straining himself, he knows, but he’s never been able to hold back when it comes to Nanon.
He kicks the ball, but Nanon blocks this shot too. Ohm doesn’t really expect more, but then Nanon puts his hands on his hips and cocks his head to the side, like, Is that all you’ve got? Ohm jogs over to a few balls side by side on the other side of the field and kicks those towards the goal, too, not even bothering to aim for the empty spaces. Nanon blocks them both, his reflexes quick, sweat dripping down his forehead.
His skin glistens in the low stadium lights. It’s evening; Ohm doesn’t know why Nanon’s out here practicing so late, anyway. He should be with his friends, his family, his mom and his sister, not here in the otherwise empty football field long after hours. Ohm wonders if Nanon expected him to come. Wanted him to come.
He kicks another ball towards the goal, but gets blocked by Nanon again. Nanon kicks it away easily and sighs, scowling at Ohm. “I had a harder time practicing against the ball launcher,” he says.
Breaking the unspoken rule of no talking—Nanon’s not afraid, meeting his eyes in a way he hadn’t met them in months, not when they weren’t Pat and Pran. Ohm doesn’t know what to do, he finds, more terrified of breaking the status quo than it itself. He swallows and doesn’t answer, going for another football, kicking it blindly into the goal.
Nanon catches it. “Ohm,” he says, and that infuriates him too, in ways he doesn’t even understand. Ohm doesn’t care, doesn’t want to care—finds another ball, kicking it towards the goal’s direction, maybe at Nanon. Blocked again. He grits his teeth, going for another, then another, then another.
“Ohm.” Nanon’s not even using his full body, now, smacking the balls away or kicking the ones that get too low. At this rate, Ohm might’ve kicked back all the balls that were already on the field, but as Nanon keeps blocking them, they roll back, allowing Ohm to kick them again and again. He keeps aiming them for the goal, aiming for Nanon—one of the balls flies up to Nanon’s head that he just barely catches it, millimeters away from his skull.
Ohm doesn’t care. He doesn’t know what he wants, except that he wants it to hurt.
Nanon throws the ball down, the one that nearly hit his head. Ohm goes for another ball, but then Nanon’s marching over to him, grappling him by the shoulders, making him stop. He’s blocking Ohm now too, not just his shots. Ohm meets his gaze, frenzied, wild—and the look in Nanon’s eyes is only concerned, worry etched into every shade, glistening and brown under the moonlight.
The fire in Ohm’s chest rages. “Are you—” Nanon starts, but Ohm doesn’t let him finish, shoving him back, pushing down to the ground, crashing with a thump that sounds like it hurts. That guilty pleasure rushes through Ohm again; he crowds into Nanon’s space, on top of him, arms bracketed around his body. He thinks about kissing him, but that would be too tender. Ohm doesn’t know how to kiss any way else.
They’re both hard. It’s not a surprise, not a position they’ve never been in before. Ohm can feel the bulge of Nanon’s erection through his thin shorts, the tight jersey; his own is unmistakable, restrained by the elastic against his stomach. Nanon stares up at him, a guileless question.
Ohm hates it, hates this control Nanon has over him and doesn’t even know it. Doesn’t care. Doesn’t know if it’s real or Ohm is making it all up in his mind, tossing and turning and caring too much about what Nanon thinks. Maybe that explains everything; maybe it’s nothing, all made up in his head, too. Even though they’re right here, Nanon looking up at him like he trusts him even though he has no reason to, even though months of fucking and talking and not talking and fucking hasn’t changed anything, not a single bit.
But Ohm doesn’t want to think about that right now. He doesn’t want to think about anything, except for the way there’s so much of Nanon against him, his sweaty thighs against his own, their erections barely brushing together through their clothing, the rise and fall of Nanon’s chest, the outline of his breastbone visible through the tightness of his shirt. He’s so hot and wet all over and waiting, and when Ohm tucks his fingers down, between them, beneath them, Nanon complies, spreading his legs, like he’s trying to get Ohm’s fingers where he wants them.
Here’s the other thing about Nanon, too: when he wants something, he doesn’t just ask for it. He takes it when he can, takes it as Ohm’s hand slips beneath his shorts—Nanon’s not wearing underwear—presses between his cheeks, as the sweat drips down from his back. Even the sweat isn’t enough for lubrication, but Ohm doesn’t care. He wants it to hurt. He slides the tips of three of his fingers over Nanon’s hole, and Nanon gasps, throwing his head back on the grass. Three is a bit much, so Ohm downsizes to two, rubbing over Nanon’s rim, watching and trying not to watch his reactions, Nanon bucking against his fingers, Nanon curling up against his body like he wants it, wants more of it. Wants Ohm.
Leaving Nanon’s shorts on is too generous. Ohm strips them off, but Nanon isn’t even bothered, spreading his legs further, getting synthetic grass on his ass and thighs. “Shit,” Nanon says, but Ohm doesn’t care, spitting on his hand crudely, rubbing it over his cock, keeping his eyes on Nanon’s hole, puckering, so he doesn’t have to look at Nanon’s face. It’s not enough and it’s raw and it’s going to hurt, and Ohm pretends not to notice as Nanon bunches his shirt up, exposing his belly and chest, holding the bottom of his jersey in his teeth in the way that he likes. Maybe a few months ago Ohm would’ve devoured him, biting at his stomach, leaving bruises and marks for Nanon to hide later.
But right now all he’s thinking is that he has to get this over with, even though it’ll happen again. He knows it; it can’t not happen again. Not with the eager way Nanon tucks his legs up as Ohm pushes in, both of them hissing at the friction, the pain. Not with the way Nanon doesn’t even resist as Ohm bottoms out, all the way in, taking him and taking him, gasping and moaning but not pushing him away. Ohm hurts all over, feels so full even though he’s the one filling Nanon up, reaching into him like he might touch his heart, just this once. So much of Nanon’s skin is on display that Ohm can’t help himself from bending down and biting, the fat next to his nipple, before groaning and fucking Nanon without abandon.
Nanon’s body is folded up into him like he’s a small thing, even though he’s not, even though there’s so much of him around Ohm, his sweat and smell and skin, that Ohm is dizzy with it. He tries to focus on the mindless pleasure that feels more like pain, of his too-dry cock driving into Nanon’s too-dry hole, wincing and refusing to let up with each thrust. The hem of Nanon’s shirt is still in his teeth, but when Ohm looks at his face again, Nanon’s watching him with stars in his eyes, dark and glistening, and it’s too much. Ohm looks away, focuses on fucking, focuses on giving Nanon what he wants and leaving, because that’s what it feels like, every time.
Somewhere between their thrusts, and the painful slapping sounds of Ohm’s thighs against Nanon’s ass, and the rawness on Ohm’s dick that turns him on more than anything else, Nanon drops his shirt from between his teeth. “Ohm,” he says, and he’s still looking at Ohm, and Ohm turns away. Can’t look as Nanon grabs his face with one hand, trying to get Ohm to face him. “Ohm,” he says again, and Ohm rocks into him and fights back until he can’t, until Nanon grabs him by the back of his neck and drags his face down and kisses him.
Something like a sob escapes Ohm’s throat, and he fucks Nanon harder. Nanon kisses him and kisses him, biting at Ohm’s lips, licking the tears trickling down his face, nipping and soothing like he’s trying to tell Ohm it will be okay. It won’t; Ohm hasn’t believed that for a long time now. This isn’t the first time, nor will it be the last time, just another page of whatever this is between them until it stops, like it always stops. He lets Nanon kiss him, lets himself kiss back, lets the tears fall from his face to Nanon’s cheeks, salt mingling with their spit. Lets himself get lost in it, lost in the ache of his cock and his chest, until Nanon’s rubbing at himself between their bodies and Ohm is joining him, their sweaty hands stroking together, feeling it when Nanon’s cock tenses in his hand as he spills between them and over his bare stomach. Ohm gasps and opens his mouth against Nanon’s and comes inside of him, staining his walls and messy, grunting and emptying himself, all that he can, knowing that it’s only to be washed out and cleaned away again.
He’s out of breath when he pulls out. Nanon’s still watching him, silent. Ohm wonders if Nanon started this, the status quo, or him.
It’s too late to think about that now.
He shoves his shorts back up—he’d barely taken them off to fuck Nanon. Wipes his face until it’s dry, bringing the collar of his shirt up to his nose and eyes so there’s nothing there anymore. Adjusts his hair, shoves it back. He’s sweaty not just from the gym now, but no one will notice the difference. Nanon stares at him.
Ohm doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t say anything. He stands up—then, because there’s a football nearby, kicks it into the goal. Without a goalie, it hits the back of the net easily.
He leaves the field.
Nanon, half-naked in the grass, with his shorts around his ankles, watches him go.