[Fic] Vulgar - Ruki/Reita - [1/1]
Title: Vulgar
Rating: R
Warnings: Mentions of sex, foul language
Genre: Drama, AU
Disclaimer: the GazettE belong to themselves. This story is entirely fictional.
Synopsis: Ruki fucks. He likes to fuck.
Notes: Another random fic.
Ruki fucks. He likes to fuck. He likes the friction of skin against skin, the way hips clash as he pounds into them, the harsh pants that throb in his eardrums. He likes how his clients nip at his bottom lip whenever they lean in to kiss him, the blush that spreads across their face at the realization they’re naked in front of a stranger. And he especially likes it when they orgasm, features twisting into expressions only he can see, the lust in their eyes deep and dark and sultry.
The man underneath him is no different, moaning and gasping at every thrust and rub. Lithe, calloused fingers clutch his body in a desperate grip, bleached blond hair sticks to his forehead. His back arches. He leans down and presses a pair of plush lips to the base of his throat, running a damp tongue over pale skin marked with goosebumps and bruises. Heat surrounds him on all sides, muscles slick with sweat and springs creaking beneath their weight.
When he finally comes, the release is messy, spilling onto the mahogany sheets around them. He rolls off and sprawls across the bed, head resting on a velvet pillow. The ceiling spins before his eyes, black spots threatening to consume his sight and send him into oblivion.
Ruki heaves himself upright. He doesn’t want to move, but he needs to stay awake. Another customer is arriving in two hours, and if the room isn’t ready by the time he gets there, the appointment has to be rescheduled. There’s only one thing he hates about his job, and that’s having repeat customers.
His hand roams over the nightstand, searching for cigarettes. It brushes over a box of Marlboros, buried below stacks of paper and what suspiciously feels like a woman’s thong. Taking one out, he bites down on it, then curses when a lighter is nowhere to be found and spends five more minutes looking. Bare feet carry him to the balcony overlooking Tokyo, and he leans heavily on the railing. The air is cold, his stomach is covered in dried semen, and the lady living across the brothel is shrieking at him to put some clothes on, but he doesn’t care. His chest has ached long enough.
Sounds of his client moving around drift into his hearing. Faint curses and grunts punctuate the jingling of a belt buckle. He smirks, remembering how hard it was getting those damn jeans off his legs, and inhales. The smoke settles into his lungs, coats his tongue in ashes before dissolving into patterns his artificial-blue irises are too tired to trace. Closing them, he sighs, feeling the metal press against his ribs, euphoria leaking out of his veins to be replaced by bitter nicotine.
A soft cough reaches him, and he turns. Standing in the doorway is his client, dressed in a white shirt and navy denim, brittle tawny strands stuck up in all directions. One hand is stretched out towards him, a folded bill tucked between slender digits.
“Your pay,” he says, and Ruki is surprised at how deep the other male’s voice is, how the baritone washes over him without a single catch or lilt. They hadn’t spoken before getting into bed, had skipped straight to sex rather than wasted time knowing about one another. He prefers it that way, fucking to talking, letting pleasure overwhelm his senses instead of murmured words. All of his meetings operate the same way, and all of his customers are happy to comply. Better to screw someone and leave quickly than say too much and be on the front page of the tabloids the next morning.
This time, however, the client is here and obviously waiting for a response. He takes the money cautiously, noting how his chocolate eyes glance at the brief touch. The dollar is worn and faded, smooth against his palm instead of crisp or wrinkled. It’s a welcome change from fees usually being thrown at his face or left under the soiled covers for him to find.
“That’s enough, right?” Again, he raises his head. The man is still standing there, his hands now shoved in his pockets, uncertainty on his features. “S’all I have left in my wallet.”
Ruki nods, grasping the cash tightly. “Yeah.” A pause, and then he adds, “Thank you.”
The mussed head bobs once before walking back inside. Cool wind tousles his hair, sending shivers down his form. He sucks in a second breath of smoke and watches the embers fall onto the steel frame, replays the man’s voice in his mind even as the rustle of clothing being picked up from the ground and the distant creak of the door tell him he’s leaving.
The handle clicks quietly into place, echoing throughout the silence.
Rating: R
Warnings: Mentions of sex, foul language
Genre: Drama, AU
Disclaimer: the GazettE belong to themselves. This story is entirely fictional.
Synopsis: Ruki fucks. He likes to fuck.
Notes: Another random fic.
Ruki fucks. He likes to fuck. He likes the friction of skin against skin, the way hips clash as he pounds into them, the harsh pants that throb in his eardrums. He likes how his clients nip at his bottom lip whenever they lean in to kiss him, the blush that spreads across their face at the realization they’re naked in front of a stranger. And he especially likes it when they orgasm, features twisting into expressions only he can see, the lust in their eyes deep and dark and sultry.
The man underneath him is no different, moaning and gasping at every thrust and rub. Lithe, calloused fingers clutch his body in a desperate grip, bleached blond hair sticks to his forehead. His back arches. He leans down and presses a pair of plush lips to the base of his throat, running a damp tongue over pale skin marked with goosebumps and bruises. Heat surrounds him on all sides, muscles slick with sweat and springs creaking beneath their weight.
When he finally comes, the release is messy, spilling onto the mahogany sheets around them. He rolls off and sprawls across the bed, head resting on a velvet pillow. The ceiling spins before his eyes, black spots threatening to consume his sight and send him into oblivion.
Ruki heaves himself upright. He doesn’t want to move, but he needs to stay awake. Another customer is arriving in two hours, and if the room isn’t ready by the time he gets there, the appointment has to be rescheduled. There’s only one thing he hates about his job, and that’s having repeat customers.
His hand roams over the nightstand, searching for cigarettes. It brushes over a box of Marlboros, buried below stacks of paper and what suspiciously feels like a woman’s thong. Taking one out, he bites down on it, then curses when a lighter is nowhere to be found and spends five more minutes looking. Bare feet carry him to the balcony overlooking Tokyo, and he leans heavily on the railing. The air is cold, his stomach is covered in dried semen, and the lady living across the brothel is shrieking at him to put some clothes on, but he doesn’t care. His chest has ached long enough.
Sounds of his client moving around drift into his hearing. Faint curses and grunts punctuate the jingling of a belt buckle. He smirks, remembering how hard it was getting those damn jeans off his legs, and inhales. The smoke settles into his lungs, coats his tongue in ashes before dissolving into patterns his artificial-blue irises are too tired to trace. Closing them, he sighs, feeling the metal press against his ribs, euphoria leaking out of his veins to be replaced by bitter nicotine.
A soft cough reaches him, and he turns. Standing in the doorway is his client, dressed in a white shirt and navy denim, brittle tawny strands stuck up in all directions. One hand is stretched out towards him, a folded bill tucked between slender digits.
“Your pay,” he says, and Ruki is surprised at how deep the other male’s voice is, how the baritone washes over him without a single catch or lilt. They hadn’t spoken before getting into bed, had skipped straight to sex rather than wasted time knowing about one another. He prefers it that way, fucking to talking, letting pleasure overwhelm his senses instead of murmured words. All of his meetings operate the same way, and all of his customers are happy to comply. Better to screw someone and leave quickly than say too much and be on the front page of the tabloids the next morning.
This time, however, the client is here and obviously waiting for a response. He takes the money cautiously, noting how his chocolate eyes glance at the brief touch. The dollar is worn and faded, smooth against his palm instead of crisp or wrinkled. It’s a welcome change from fees usually being thrown at his face or left under the soiled covers for him to find.
“That’s enough, right?” Again, he raises his head. The man is still standing there, his hands now shoved in his pockets, uncertainty on his features. “S’all I have left in my wallet.”
Ruki nods, grasping the cash tightly. “Yeah.” A pause, and then he adds, “Thank you.”
The mussed head bobs once before walking back inside. Cool wind tousles his hair, sending shivers down his form. He sucks in a second breath of smoke and watches the embers fall onto the steel frame, replays the man’s voice in his mind even as the rustle of clothing being picked up from the ground and the distant creak of the door tell him he’s leaving.
The handle clicks quietly into place, echoing throughout the silence.