'cherry bomb' - [Aoi/Uruha] 1/1
Title: cherry bomb
Genre: Romance with a hint of metaphorical smut :D
Pairing: Aoi/Uruha
Notes: Ohohoho~
Prompt:
i honestly wonder what the gazette does with their old costumes
does uruha have a box with his old costumes in it in his closet?? does he pull out that black miniskirt he wore once and try it on to see if it still fits or something
does it make him feel pretty????
this is all i want to know [ x ]
- : - : -
It doesn’t fit anymore.
The fabric is stretched taught, white cracks in the leather from being shoved haphazardly in a drawer for far too long -
from being torn off in haste backstage, lighter fluid sliding across his flesh, ashes everywhere and a guitar banging against his knees while Aoi spits through his teeth with a rough bite to hurry the fuck up, Shima or start taking lessons from your sister and
from Aoi’s fingernails digging in deep like tonight was it, moon crashed into his shoulder blades as he took Uruha from his knees, mouth hot along his hidden freckles here, fingers crooking against the backs of his quaking knees - teeth pulling at the fabric with a promise of waistband friction, until Uruha arches against the brick, the neon OPEN sign across the street splashing them in red and Uruha does - he opens, wide, swallowing Aoi whole and
from Aoi’s toes crinkling the fabric the sixth morning-after, Uruha’s sheets still tangled around his ankles as he drags himself across the chipped floorboards for a cigarette, blue smoke clouding their eyes and Aoi pressing his lips to Uruha’s knuckles, mouthing little confessions that are too heavy in this dawn light so Uruha pretends he can’t hear the whispers along his fingertips, the croons tangled in his black roots, the “I think I might lo-“ against his clenched jaw and -
- and Uruha can almost remember the way his name fit into Aoi’s mouth as his lips dragged out the little deaths in his chest, pleather skirt hitching up to his jutting hipbones. A messy sprawl of words Aoi would breathe out, the four vowels mangled in his throat, choked off somewhere between the younger’s shoulder and spine.
And the first time it happened, Aoi’s nails grazing the hem outside the dive - their eyes still caked in smeared kohl with sweat gleaming on their necks, the burn of their stolen Menthols making their grins sharper - Uruha watched him with a slow roll of his head, still on his fifth drag. And Aoi watched Uruha watch his hand move further, tracing the fake folds of snakeskin, before dipping lightly beneath - Uruha swallowing at the feather-light touch to his flesh.
And - it was good.
Warm.
Uruha hadn’t had heat in his apartment for three weeks.
But.
“Do you know what you’re doing?” Uruha didn’t move his hands to stop him, and he could have - his body slight and lean but his grip steel, months of slugging a bluegrass potbelly across the stage each night carving hard callouses into his palms that could have scraped Aoi’s wrists raw, but -
He didn’t do much of anything except tip his head back along the wall, hairsprayed tresses crunching, and kept his eyes on Aoi’s own heated stare.
Lifted his hips slightly, letting Aoi’s fingers slide up higher
- and, fuck, this wasn’t Michiko’s clumsy, pink-nailed grasp, her black locks catching in her lip gloss as she held him soft like a dying dream, like a disconnected answering machine, like doors slammed and come-back texts never sent; it was firm, heady, I’m here and you’re breathing -
letting Aoi have him if he wanted -
“Do you want what you’re doing?”
- him.
Because Uruha remembers Aoi’s bruised knuckles, skin shredded and red with embers wrought and hell - but not as ripped-open-wide as Aoi’s gutted snarl outside the bar after a rough setlist, the one salaryman smirking too wide at them and Uruha had felt it before it even hit - the sharp smack of metal and smell of shattered bone - as the man drawled after Aoi’s smoke trails, “Does that lip ring get in the way of cocksucking?”
He remembers how Akira had to slam own fist into Aoi’s chest to stop him, Aoi’s hands ripping open the man’s bloodied face.
But Aoi nodded with a sharp jerk of his head, even as Uruha finally broke away from the wall and gently took his trembling hand and placed it on his flat chest. I’m not a delicate thing.
Aoi let out a ragged breath, pupils blown wide and hair stuck to his gaunt cheeks, fingers splaying open like falling eagles. And Uruha kept him there, his hips aching to move - to sweep up and lose themselves until bone cracked.
Until Aoi bunched up the fabric of his shirt tight, leaning in close - fuck, so close - the streetlights creating ghosts on his face; the chilled air coaxed the last wisps of smoke from their mouths before Uruha sunk his claws into Aoi’s skin (his heart) and slammed their chests together.
And it was a gunshot - a knife stuck in their throats as their teeth clacked together, lips bruising and chapped from weeks of rations, weeks of no heat, but this was heat. Warmth as Uruha dragged his bottom lip across the sharp edge of Aoi’s diamond cheekbone. Hellfire as Aoi shoved a knee between Uruha’s thighs, skirt hitching, and broke the moan from behind his teeth.
They’re stumbling with tangled limbs, neon-soaked puddles splashing up their legs as they try to hide their flushed flesh and panting maws in the dark. Uruha gasps with a strangled growl as his back hits the brick wall further down the building, Aoi snaking his arms around his ribs and pushing up, up until Uruha has to wrap his legs around Aoi’s narrow waist. And it’s almost impossible, Uruha’s legs too long and body too broad; Aoi’s arms only used to holding up waif ex-girlfriends with their stilettos clicking together behind his back.
But Aoi shakes out his shoulders and grits his teeth, knuckles whiter than Atlas’ and hips snapping beneath the other’s skirt to get something, anything - him - and Uruha can’t stop the little quakes of his pulse, the deep guttural moans that slide past his mouth and into Aoi’s, “come on, come on”. Aoi gulps down each one, licks a searing strip across Uruha’s collarbones, and “I want, I want this” -
and fuck, Uruha is arching, bowing backward like a dirtied prayer against the brick, against Aoi’s fevered touch sparking in his bones.
Because he’s not always kohl-eyed and laced up with ribbons.
So he bites Aoi’s parted lips, grips his raven-rooted locks tight and pulls him close
and crashes their bodies together
again-again-again
to remind him -
But Aoi is still there, still - I still - will always -
.::.
And later, after the skirts became garters and garters became pants - after the kohl bled to liquid eyeliner and hair darkened, after the knee-high socks were shredded and that graphic tee burned - Uruha reached way back into the bottom drawer. The floorboards creaked when he shifted to dig his hand deeper, the wood still scarred from countless nights of panting insistence that the bed was too far away. His fingers brushed against the familiar, slick fabric and Uruha slowly examined it with a self-deprecating tilt of his lips.
It was a wreck - rips and tears and stretch-marks of rough handling. Fingerprints and handprints and tongue-prints marring every inch of the pleather until Uruha could connect them in warped constellations of the old days, of before.
“Do you miss it?” Ruki had once caught him staring at an old Shoxx magazine at the newsstand, glossy eyes with too much eyeshadow and too little food gaping up at them. The layers of contorted fabric, the come-hither stares that they all had shoved into the mirror to practice beforehand, the devil-may-care purse of his own bowed lips.
And Uruha had shrugged, “There’s nothing to miss, we’re still doing it. And better.”
But Ruki had nodded knowingly, a gleam behind his sunglasses as he smirked over his scarf, “Sometimes?”
With the magazine paid for and tucked under his arm, his free hand absently thumbing the rolled up pages, Uruha had given the younger a wan grin, “Sometimes.”
Uruha slipped the skirt over his calves, slowly inching his way up over his thighs. The slight, anticipating chafe brought out a small, nostalgic smile as Uruha kept tugging. And tugging. And - tugging -
But it was fruitless, the fabric bunching at his mid-thigh, nearly groaning with effort. Uruha was pretty sure he could hear a tinny wail if he was quiet enough, the skirt refusing the budge any further.
Well.
Uruha gazed down at the disgruntled cloth with an almost disappointed frown.
“Feeling pretty?”
Whipping his head up, Uruha blinked at Aoi leaning against the doorframe, his eyes roving over the taller man’s hunched form with a teasing grin.
Uruha straightened with a flourish, stumbling slightly as the skirt clung desperately to the muscles of his lower thighs. Aoi rose a brow, smile widening as he slowly crept forward, matching each backwards step of the younger with his own until the backs of Uruha’s knees hit the bed.
“Aoi, you still have shaving cream on your face - ”
But Aoi lunged, cradling Uruha’s nape as they both fell into the rumpled sheets - flushed, wet cheek sliding along the fluttering pulse in Uruha’s neck.
A tangle of legs, a skirt pulled off with more force than either man was willing to admit, and a pleased huff, Aoi lifted himself up from Uruha’s pink-bruised neck to gaze down at the other’s ungainly sprawl beneath him. Uruha watched him steadily, eyes like whiskey in the dim light. And it was warm, the familiar sweep of Aoi’s hand across his forehead to brush back his too-long bangs. The nudge of their knees to each other’s hips. The silent confessions on their mouths, behind their words. The skirt on the floor.
And Aoi nodded, absolutely positive.
“Gorgeous.”
:.:.:.:.
A/N: I don't really post much here anymore... and even though this was posted on tumblr, I felt like I should put it here too, for old times' sake :)
I hope you guys enjoyed! ♥