30 Color Somethings: Gravitation
folder
Gravitation › Yaoi - Male/Male › Yuki/Shuichi
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
9
Views:
5,157
Reviews:
17
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Gravitation › Yaoi - Male/Male › Yuki/Shuichi
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
9
Views:
5,157
Reviews:
17
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Gravitation, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Black and Blue All Over
Author Note: Fans of Dextrous Lefty will recognize her OCs, Marcus Fletcher from "Play It Cool" (http://anime.adult-fanfiction.org/story.php?no=600041593 and sequels), as well as her Takahashi Masaru from "Just Lose It" (http://anime.adult-fanfiction.org/story.php?no=600042017 and sequels). DL gave permission to use her characters (actually in 2008, but I'm just getting around to it). Oddly, while this prompt suggests some hardcore yaoi is coming, this is almost a lime . . . almost . . .
9. Black and Blue All Over
“Suck me! Suck me! Suck me!”
Everyone in Japan knew the about the new number one hit by Bad Luck with THE Ryuichi, formerly of Nittle Grasper. The sales in t-shirts, candies, lollipops, and, of course, cds and dvds were all record-breaking.
But it was the sex that was the best part—at first.
Well, it wasn’t exactly clear if Ryuichi was having any, but he sure could. But then he was Ryuichi—he’d always been able to have his pick of lovers—older, younger, male, female, Japanese, Chinese, Korean, French, Indian, Russian, America . . . especially American. Probably it had something to do with the stuffed rabbit, the members of Bad Luck concluded in a van trip to yet another TV gig.
Suguru was normally the level-headed one, the essence of discretion, but even he had succumbed to the spirit of lust and sexual frenzy that seemed to surround the band. He’d been photographed with several beautiful men and women, come in practice sessions with shadows under his eyes, even one hickey.
Shuichi’s voice was often husky—but they knew it wasn’t from singing their latest song so many times . . . he didn’t even hid the marks from Yuki on his neck. His story was that his very own vamp had bitten him, and he wasn’t lying. The debate over if it was stage makeup or if his romance-novelist lover was actually one of the undead had caused a run on Yuki’s books and had his publisher demanding Yuki hurry with his current manuscript.
As for Hiro . . . well, he’d been blue and lonely, and now he was having his fill. He was just as bruised as Shuichi, for his fans couldn’t seem to keep their hands and mouths off him. He’d lost count of the number of people who’d licked at his crotch, their hands and mouths trying to get into his pants. He had had more sex in the last week than he’d had in all the years of his life before, and at the end of three and half weeks, he was beginning to think he’d now had had more sex than all the times he’d masturbated before they’d written “Suck Me.”
After six and half weeks, well, it was all too much. The crowds, the fans, everyone it seemed had become astoundingly forward, astonishingly “unJapanese.” Ryuichi and K admitted that the grouping, exposing, and explicitness of the offers was approaching almost American levels.
They were all drained, drained as if vampires truly were sucking them each night. And black and blue from the jostling, glomping, insanity that seemed to swirl around them.
Last night had been too much, much too much . . . something had been put in their drinks, they knew. Fortunately Tohma’s minions and Yuki’s own almost supernatural ability to create space around himself and Shuichi had ensured that the pair had emerged, if not completely untouched, at least inviolate.
K’s height, his guns, and his fierceness had protected Ryuichi.
Suguro had been saved by Takahashi Masaru, the owner of club they’d played at, although what exactly had happened between the green-haired keyboardist and the club owner wasn’t quite clear. Whatever it was, it had clearly left Suguru completely exhausted and unable to focus.
But Hiro, Hiro had been violated. One minute he was dancing and flirting, and the next he couldn’t stand. His memory was hazy, but he remember not being able to talk, to control his body. Mouth after mouth had been under the table, leaving him with a cock so sore it hurt to piss. And his thighs and arms were covered with bruises, his lips were swollen, and hickies had been just everywhere. He had one on his freaking tongue, his tongue!
He’d spent the day at the hospital. Fortunately both his doctor and some frantic internet searches had told him that the chances of getting AIDs from someone going down on you were infinitesimal . . . it was so very NOT reassuring.
Something had to be done. They were all going lifeless, not even needing makeup to look pale, thin, bitten, and bruised.
Then the murders had happened.
Two men and woman who’d been at the club that night were dead.
Violently.
Had they been the ones that had sent playboy guitarist of THE J-Pop band of the moment, Bad Luck, to the hospital? The ones that had put those bruises clearly photographed on lead singer Shuichi when he had visited that same friend at the hospital? The ones that had Suguru so exhausted he was as green as his hair?
Who had killed them?
Why?
No, the three who’d died weren’t murdered.
Yes, they were.
They were Yakuza hits.
Oh, no, they were Yuki Eiri’s victims—the vampire novelist had drained them of blood because, well, he was a vampire and they had dared to touch his Shuichi . . . No they had touched Hiro and put him in the hospital!
No, no, not at all. Obviously it was aliens that had drained them, and these aliens weren’t interested in tickling or loving humans anymore . . .
They had obviously already taken over Suguru’s body and were the reason for his greenish color . . .
No, Suguru and Shuichi didn’t dye their hair . . . everyone from their planet had green or pink hair!
Then the press decided the three had been run over by an out-of-control Prius . . .
The truth that they had sold their photos of that night and used the money to get plastic surgery was disappointing . . .
But soon the press was caught up in the mysterious vanishing of Bad Luck!
Where were the men who’d made that scandalous video, now banned in several Islamic nations and the American Bible belt?
Yes, that video, the one in which they danced and sang with fangs and had “blood” running over their lips or dripping from their necks.
No, not that one . . . the one where “Yuki Eiri” faced-fucked “Shuichi Shindo” in a bathroom stall . . . that was clearly some pornographer's pathetic attempt to make some money . . .
But where was Suguru?
Where was Hiro?
Where was Shuichi . . . and that sexy Yuki Eiri?
Inquiring minds wanted to know.
The religious zealots had got them . . . they were being held and tortured by an ultra-conservative cult . . .
No by real vampires, enraged at their revealing the truth . . .
By horny fangirls and fanboys who were raping them nightly . . .
No, they were the ones raping their fans, holding vampire orgies . . .
The aliens had them of course . . .
No they were trapped by millionaire vampires . . .
Millionaire Yakuza, not vampires!
No, not Yakuza, but by a millionaire CEO with a secret double life of unspeakably perverted vices . . .
Actually the last one was true, at least for Suguru. Takahashi Masaru was a millionaire and a CEO. And he did have a secret life as a gay dom with a taste for bondage, discipline, and a little sadism and masochism . . . and Suguru was secretly spending time at one of his very, very private estates . . . and handcuffs and dildos and ropes and chains and enough leather to outfit an entire biker club was involved . . .
But Suguru wasn’t there against his will . . . yes, he be might black and blue in some spots, even limping on occasion . . . but he was, as Ryuichi and Shuichi agreed, sparkly again.
As for Hiro, he was out of country. And yes, he was in San Francisco with a former serviceman that you didn’t really need to ask or be told was gay. His new bodyguard was the sort of gay that wore camouflage pants or shorts beneath skimpy tanks that left far too much—or far too little—covered of his tan body. And what a body it was, a body that was stripper-worthy, underwear-model-worthy, SEAL-worthy, and red- or green- or rainbow-beret-worthy. Yup, Hiro’s new bodyguard, Marcus Fletcher, was a guy that could have stepped off the covers of thousands of romance novels about hot military men or sexy mercenaries . . . He was the real deal, too, with the scars, the PTSD, and the ability to fight with just about every weapon from a pocket knife to an M203 grenade launcher, but needing none of them to be lethal.
As for the red-haired guitarist, he found it bizarre to suddenly find that most people in the parts of town he was in were more interested in his bodyguard than in any J-Pop star. And that he, too, was very much interested in Marc’s body, no his protection, ah, his training . . . yeah, he liked training very much with Marc Fletcher, so much so that he had to hire a different bodyguard to allow Marc to become his personal trainer . . .
Yup, Marc was did a lot of hands-on personal training that left Hiro with a few black and blue marks here and there, sometimes a limp . . . but he too was sparkly again, very sparkly . . . And no Ryu and Shu were not saying that just because he’d picked up some American club clothes that literally glowed in the dark or glittered with crystal . . . it was Hiro’s eyes, his laugh, his words, his riffs, his dancing, his essence that was sparkly.
As for Shuichi, you couldn’t really say he’d been the prisoner of a mad, depraved and perverted monk, locked away in a secret monastery. It had just been a weekend, and Yuki had locked him out of the den, so he could hold a conference call with his editor. Yuki’s family’s shrine was no gothic monastery, and the only thing close to an insane monk was Yuki’s little brother, and yes, he was rather perverted . . . but depraved was much too harsh . . .
And that rumor about Shuichi being trapped underground with a vampire, was ridiculous . . . he’d merely gone on a romantic submarine trip with Yuki in his tuxedo. Just because a man wore a custom-fitted Tom Ford tuxedo and looked too sexy, too perfect, to be a mere human didn’t mean he was a vampire. Yuki definitely was NOT a vampire, Shu assured each of his friends . . . he had a reflection because the hotel they stayed at in Vegas had mirrors on the ceiling, and in the bathroom, and well around the spa, and Shuichi had seen Yuki reflected in them all.
And ginger was NOT a problem . . .
Hiro and Suguru hadn’t told Shuichi it was garlic that was supposed to be a problem for vampires, but Ryuichi had. He’d sent the vacationing couple bushels and bushels of it . . . which had enraged Yuki, but not incapacitated him, no, not at all . . . he’d been quite engorged, no, enraged, yes, enraged, but he had gotten over it . . .
The submarine? The one in Vegas or the one at Disneyland—or the one in Long Beach? Yuki had worn the tux only for the ride on the Vegas one, and it was the one they’d toured at Long Beach that was the cause for the black and blue bruise that had been seen on Shuichi’s forehead . . . it really had been a door, well, a doorway . . . submarines had these bizarre oval doors, and Shuichi had just been so excited, he’d not quite made it through . . .
Yes, the rumor that Yuki and Shuichi had joined the mile-high club was sort of true—they’d had sex in the air in a plane, not flying like bats in the air. And strawberry slushies and strawberry daiquiris had NO blood in them, none at all . . .
What about the blimp incident in New York? Well, that was K’s fault . . . and no, he wasn’t going to explain just what Yuki had put in the slot of his vending-machine costume . . .
The press conference held by Tohma, president of N-G, was well attended. But the sadly, his explanation was disappointing. No, Bad Luck wasn’t cursed by their name, and vampires and aliens, did not exist, as everyone knew. The reason crazy things happened to Suguru, Hiro, and Shuichi, could be explained by a simple concept: gravitation.
Lord! Nothing was more of bore to the press than physics . . . and the rumors that a whale boy was living in Tokyo Bay were much more interesting than some dull lecture on natural forces . . .
Gravitation, yeah, right . . . how lame! It was almost as lame as that supposedly “real” video of Yuki Eiri and Shuichi. And no way was Hiro sleeping with that trainer of his . . . he’d banged his way through at least three-hundred women like a Trojan at the hot gates . . . ah, no, a Spartan, and no, wait, he wasn’t “Spartan” like that . . .
9. Black and Blue All Over
“Suck me! Suck me! Suck me!”
Everyone in Japan knew the about the new number one hit by Bad Luck with THE Ryuichi, formerly of Nittle Grasper. The sales in t-shirts, candies, lollipops, and, of course, cds and dvds were all record-breaking.
But it was the sex that was the best part—at first.
Well, it wasn’t exactly clear if Ryuichi was having any, but he sure could. But then he was Ryuichi—he’d always been able to have his pick of lovers—older, younger, male, female, Japanese, Chinese, Korean, French, Indian, Russian, America . . . especially American. Probably it had something to do with the stuffed rabbit, the members of Bad Luck concluded in a van trip to yet another TV gig.
Suguru was normally the level-headed one, the essence of discretion, but even he had succumbed to the spirit of lust and sexual frenzy that seemed to surround the band. He’d been photographed with several beautiful men and women, come in practice sessions with shadows under his eyes, even one hickey.
Shuichi’s voice was often husky—but they knew it wasn’t from singing their latest song so many times . . . he didn’t even hid the marks from Yuki on his neck. His story was that his very own vamp had bitten him, and he wasn’t lying. The debate over if it was stage makeup or if his romance-novelist lover was actually one of the undead had caused a run on Yuki’s books and had his publisher demanding Yuki hurry with his current manuscript.
As for Hiro . . . well, he’d been blue and lonely, and now he was having his fill. He was just as bruised as Shuichi, for his fans couldn’t seem to keep their hands and mouths off him. He’d lost count of the number of people who’d licked at his crotch, their hands and mouths trying to get into his pants. He had had more sex in the last week than he’d had in all the years of his life before, and at the end of three and half weeks, he was beginning to think he’d now had had more sex than all the times he’d masturbated before they’d written “Suck Me.”
After six and half weeks, well, it was all too much. The crowds, the fans, everyone it seemed had become astoundingly forward, astonishingly “unJapanese.” Ryuichi and K admitted that the grouping, exposing, and explicitness of the offers was approaching almost American levels.
They were all drained, drained as if vampires truly were sucking them each night. And black and blue from the jostling, glomping, insanity that seemed to swirl around them.
Last night had been too much, much too much . . . something had been put in their drinks, they knew. Fortunately Tohma’s minions and Yuki’s own almost supernatural ability to create space around himself and Shuichi had ensured that the pair had emerged, if not completely untouched, at least inviolate.
K’s height, his guns, and his fierceness had protected Ryuichi.
Suguro had been saved by Takahashi Masaru, the owner of club they’d played at, although what exactly had happened between the green-haired keyboardist and the club owner wasn’t quite clear. Whatever it was, it had clearly left Suguru completely exhausted and unable to focus.
But Hiro, Hiro had been violated. One minute he was dancing and flirting, and the next he couldn’t stand. His memory was hazy, but he remember not being able to talk, to control his body. Mouth after mouth had been under the table, leaving him with a cock so sore it hurt to piss. And his thighs and arms were covered with bruises, his lips were swollen, and hickies had been just everywhere. He had one on his freaking tongue, his tongue!
He’d spent the day at the hospital. Fortunately both his doctor and some frantic internet searches had told him that the chances of getting AIDs from someone going down on you were infinitesimal . . . it was so very NOT reassuring.
Something had to be done. They were all going lifeless, not even needing makeup to look pale, thin, bitten, and bruised.
Then the murders had happened.
Two men and woman who’d been at the club that night were dead.
Violently.
Had they been the ones that had sent playboy guitarist of THE J-Pop band of the moment, Bad Luck, to the hospital? The ones that had put those bruises clearly photographed on lead singer Shuichi when he had visited that same friend at the hospital? The ones that had Suguru so exhausted he was as green as his hair?
Who had killed them?
Why?
No, the three who’d died weren’t murdered.
Yes, they were.
They were Yakuza hits.
Oh, no, they were Yuki Eiri’s victims—the vampire novelist had drained them of blood because, well, he was a vampire and they had dared to touch his Shuichi . . . No they had touched Hiro and put him in the hospital!
No, no, not at all. Obviously it was aliens that had drained them, and these aliens weren’t interested in tickling or loving humans anymore . . .
They had obviously already taken over Suguru’s body and were the reason for his greenish color . . .
No, Suguru and Shuichi didn’t dye their hair . . . everyone from their planet had green or pink hair!
Then the press decided the three had been run over by an out-of-control Prius . . .
The truth that they had sold their photos of that night and used the money to get plastic surgery was disappointing . . .
But soon the press was caught up in the mysterious vanishing of Bad Luck!
Where were the men who’d made that scandalous video, now banned in several Islamic nations and the American Bible belt?
Yes, that video, the one in which they danced and sang with fangs and had “blood” running over their lips or dripping from their necks.
No, not that one . . . the one where “Yuki Eiri” faced-fucked “Shuichi Shindo” in a bathroom stall . . . that was clearly some pornographer's pathetic attempt to make some money . . .
But where was Suguru?
Where was Hiro?
Where was Shuichi . . . and that sexy Yuki Eiri?
Inquiring minds wanted to know.
The religious zealots had got them . . . they were being held and tortured by an ultra-conservative cult . . .
No by real vampires, enraged at their revealing the truth . . .
By horny fangirls and fanboys who were raping them nightly . . .
No, they were the ones raping their fans, holding vampire orgies . . .
The aliens had them of course . . .
No they were trapped by millionaire vampires . . .
Millionaire Yakuza, not vampires!
No, not Yakuza, but by a millionaire CEO with a secret double life of unspeakably perverted vices . . .
Actually the last one was true, at least for Suguru. Takahashi Masaru was a millionaire and a CEO. And he did have a secret life as a gay dom with a taste for bondage, discipline, and a little sadism and masochism . . . and Suguru was secretly spending time at one of his very, very private estates . . . and handcuffs and dildos and ropes and chains and enough leather to outfit an entire biker club was involved . . .
But Suguru wasn’t there against his will . . . yes, he be might black and blue in some spots, even limping on occasion . . . but he was, as Ryuichi and Shuichi agreed, sparkly again.
As for Hiro, he was out of country. And yes, he was in San Francisco with a former serviceman that you didn’t really need to ask or be told was gay. His new bodyguard was the sort of gay that wore camouflage pants or shorts beneath skimpy tanks that left far too much—or far too little—covered of his tan body. And what a body it was, a body that was stripper-worthy, underwear-model-worthy, SEAL-worthy, and red- or green- or rainbow-beret-worthy. Yup, Hiro’s new bodyguard, Marcus Fletcher, was a guy that could have stepped off the covers of thousands of romance novels about hot military men or sexy mercenaries . . . He was the real deal, too, with the scars, the PTSD, and the ability to fight with just about every weapon from a pocket knife to an M203 grenade launcher, but needing none of them to be lethal.
As for the red-haired guitarist, he found it bizarre to suddenly find that most people in the parts of town he was in were more interested in his bodyguard than in any J-Pop star. And that he, too, was very much interested in Marc’s body, no his protection, ah, his training . . . yeah, he liked training very much with Marc Fletcher, so much so that he had to hire a different bodyguard to allow Marc to become his personal trainer . . .
Yup, Marc was did a lot of hands-on personal training that left Hiro with a few black and blue marks here and there, sometimes a limp . . . but he too was sparkly again, very sparkly . . . And no Ryu and Shu were not saying that just because he’d picked up some American club clothes that literally glowed in the dark or glittered with crystal . . . it was Hiro’s eyes, his laugh, his words, his riffs, his dancing, his essence that was sparkly.
As for Shuichi, you couldn’t really say he’d been the prisoner of a mad, depraved and perverted monk, locked away in a secret monastery. It had just been a weekend, and Yuki had locked him out of the den, so he could hold a conference call with his editor. Yuki’s family’s shrine was no gothic monastery, and the only thing close to an insane monk was Yuki’s little brother, and yes, he was rather perverted . . . but depraved was much too harsh . . .
And that rumor about Shuichi being trapped underground with a vampire, was ridiculous . . . he’d merely gone on a romantic submarine trip with Yuki in his tuxedo. Just because a man wore a custom-fitted Tom Ford tuxedo and looked too sexy, too perfect, to be a mere human didn’t mean he was a vampire. Yuki definitely was NOT a vampire, Shu assured each of his friends . . . he had a reflection because the hotel they stayed at in Vegas had mirrors on the ceiling, and in the bathroom, and well around the spa, and Shuichi had seen Yuki reflected in them all.
And ginger was NOT a problem . . .
Hiro and Suguru hadn’t told Shuichi it was garlic that was supposed to be a problem for vampires, but Ryuichi had. He’d sent the vacationing couple bushels and bushels of it . . . which had enraged Yuki, but not incapacitated him, no, not at all . . . he’d been quite engorged, no, enraged, yes, enraged, but he had gotten over it . . .
The submarine? The one in Vegas or the one at Disneyland—or the one in Long Beach? Yuki had worn the tux only for the ride on the Vegas one, and it was the one they’d toured at Long Beach that was the cause for the black and blue bruise that had been seen on Shuichi’s forehead . . . it really had been a door, well, a doorway . . . submarines had these bizarre oval doors, and Shuichi had just been so excited, he’d not quite made it through . . .
Yes, the rumor that Yuki and Shuichi had joined the mile-high club was sort of true—they’d had sex in the air in a plane, not flying like bats in the air. And strawberry slushies and strawberry daiquiris had NO blood in them, none at all . . .
What about the blimp incident in New York? Well, that was K’s fault . . . and no, he wasn’t going to explain just what Yuki had put in the slot of his vending-machine costume . . .
The press conference held by Tohma, president of N-G, was well attended. But the sadly, his explanation was disappointing. No, Bad Luck wasn’t cursed by their name, and vampires and aliens, did not exist, as everyone knew. The reason crazy things happened to Suguru, Hiro, and Shuichi, could be explained by a simple concept: gravitation.
Lord! Nothing was more of bore to the press than physics . . . and the rumors that a whale boy was living in Tokyo Bay were much more interesting than some dull lecture on natural forces . . .
Gravitation, yeah, right . . . how lame! It was almost as lame as that supposedly “real” video of Yuki Eiri and Shuichi. And no way was Hiro sleeping with that trainer of his . . . he’d banged his way through at least three-hundred women like a Trojan at the hot gates . . . ah, no, a Spartan, and no, wait, he wasn’t “Spartan” like that . . .