Chapter Text
“Wait, Megumi!”
A woman’s voice calls out to him as he walks in through the employee only entrance and shrugs off his jacket.
“Don’t you dare step on that stage looking like that.”
Ah, yes, Tsukumo Yuki. He turns to find her storming over with a determination he recognizes all too well. This is his sign to run for the hills. Before he can pivot away she seizes his arm, dragging him over to a vanity and sitting him down. Deft hands squeeze his cheeks as she forces him to look in the mirror, being poked and prodded with brushes and pencils.
“We can’t let our resident pretty boy go out there looking half-dead and gaunt, can we?” He rolls his eyes while she squishes his face between two fingers. “Who put this shade on you, I know you don’t think it’d work.”
Megumi mumbles into the back of her hand while she wipes the tinted gloss off his lips, “Blame Kirara. She said it looked good, I wanted to smoke.”
“It washes you out. You look like a clown.”
Scowling, he blurts, “And you’re an old hag.”
“Okay, queer.” She scoffs a laugh, and he does, too. “You would go broke without me, and you know it, babe.” He makes no effort to deny it, and pouts through her prodding. There’s still some time before he has to go out, and the nicotine in his system calms the nerves telling him his livelihood depends on just how beautiful he can be tonight.
Yuki is the most experienced dancer out of their lot, and, for all intents and purposes, Megumi’s family. She actively lies about and refuses to tell people her age, but she can’t be more than thirty-three, and treats every one of them like they’re her precious cherubs. Because of her, Megumi dresses with the “girls,” to skirt the men’s sexual harassment. Because of her, Megumi has a job. Because of her, Megumi wasn’t a street rat at age sixteen. She is a pure, cosmic force: Starr Rage.
At last, she pokes his cheekbone with an eyeliner pencil, a signature beauty mark that intensifies his pale, bland face. “There you go, kiddo’,” she pops the cap back on and pats his powdery face.
Sweats abandoned on the floor, Megumi shivers in nothing but a tiny, backless leotard. The nerves before a performance flare for a brief second, but he quickly steels himself to the prying eyes that would be trained on him. None of it really matters—if he does the same thing as always, he’d get paid. If he can just have fun, the way he usually did on stage, he’d be just fine. But tonight, his anxiety rebounds back to the surface, and his chest throbs, his sternum too tight around his lungs.
A sharp slap to his ass snaps him back to reality. His skin still stings when Yuki slings an arm over his shoulder, leaning on him. “Y’know, there’s this guy at the front…” she whispers to him, breath close to his ear, “and he’s just your type.”
Scoffing, he shrugged her off, “You need to shut up. I don’t have a type.”
She ruffles his hair, “Sure, Megs. Oh, and apparently he’s a big tipper, too.” He sighs when she adjusts the tall ears on his headband, and fights the urge to shove her. “Go get em’, Bunny.”
The name she called him echoes through the loudspeakers moments later as he rushes backstage. Their host introduces him with a spiel praising him to hell and back. Triple checking himself in the mirror, tying himself into the hellish heels that always made his feet look gory, he snatches his black feather fans as the intro music begins. He puts on his stage face, prepared to perform.
That’s all any of this is—an act. He isn’t Megumi anymore; he’s Bunny while on stage, as silly as the name used to be to him. He sways onto the stage, strutting while keeping himself shrouded in the soft feathers. Unlike what many of his coworkers do, and what patrons expect of him, most of his fun was the burlesque. The mystery. The men on the edge of their seats until they fall to their knees, spit dripping from their mouths. The buildup of tension, of want, of dying to see more than just his long legs strutting down the length of the platform, until fwish!
Harsh LED lights don’t bother him much anymore, but the hooting and hollering always did. It comes with the gig, but it feels damn near insulting to his art, even though he’s entirely aware that’s what they paid him for. Eroticism. Heat. Pale thighs. Bent backs. Ass. Hips. Waist. Bruised knees. Thin legs. They demand every part of him, and he wants to make them earn it.
Though, notably, one man isn’t hooting, or hollering, or catcalling, or yelling some obscenity. One man at the front who stares at his face with a sharp, iron intensity. Megumi tastes copper on his teeth, and he doesn’t have the time to unpack it before his next chunk of choreography. His props discarded, he’s freshly vulnerable in front of the hungry, shadowy eyes staring at him.
But there’s that one man. Just up front and off to the side who sits with wide legs, arms stretched across the back of the squishy suede sofa. One man who isn’t frothing at the mouth and begging for more skin. In the lead up to his routine, he gets a closer look at him, and their eyes lock. That’s when he chooses him as the “goal” for tonight. He’s muscular, lightly tanned, and when he angles himself to the side to scratch his neck, his profile is strong and his jaw sharp. Even as he turns, his eyes are still on Megumi.
Damnit, he complains as he spins slowly, lifting his leg to begin his choreography. He’s totally my type.
Pole dancing is as fun as it is physically straining. Spinning suspended in the air, only the crook of his knee or calloused hands to support him is liberating. Part of it is the sex appeal—but most of it is the strain, the art, the effort. When he isn’t working, he’s at Yuki’s studio choreographing; when he isn't at the studio, he’s resting, nursing sore muscles and bruises; when he isn't resting, he’s working, bearing the brunt of his career and hoping the customers are generous.
Tonight, people are loud, hanging on his every movement, and a dull sense of pride makes his chest tight, afraid of his own hubris. As he stares into the crowd, watching people’s wallets shift, hands rifling through cash or searching for any remaining fives, his eyes fall back to that one man. That off-pink haired man who looks so vague under the shifting lights, who is still leaning back, but with one hand covering his lips.
This routine breathes that effeminate sensuality that he still doesn’t believe he has. It’s slow-paced, less showy than a lot of his coworkers’ sets, and relies more on muscle control than complex moves. After dragging himself in a smooth twirl around the pole, he deviates to collect the tips from the group of men at the front. To his delight, peach-hair had a couple of bills tucked between two fingers, elbows pressed to his knees, leaning in with those sharp and catlike eyes. He looks less excited than his buddies, and Megumi can see a furious, blood hungry blush whenever the lights flashed white.
Adding a small, slightly planned deviation from his choreo, he grabs his tips from the men lining the stage, intentionally skipping over peach-hair. Megumi waits until his friends goad him, throwing elbows while he tries to play off his rejection with a broad smile. He smiles like a teenage boy and hunches forward, scratching the back of his neck to hide his embarrassment.
Then, sauntering towards him with slow, measured steps, the fondness in Megumi’s stomach emboldens him. His patron isn’t looking anymore, which pisses him off more than it should. Touching customers is strictly against his rules; he only did it to assert boundaries or in private rooms (even there, he was stingy).
He seizes the man’s wrist.
Almost keeling over with affection, the shock on the man’s shadowy face sends a rush of power through him. Pulling him closer, and closer, he presses the cash to his thigh, dragging his hand to the bone of his hip. He gets the memo, and tucks his money beneath his skintight leotard. Rather than let him go immediately, he drags his hand down his leg again, catching on his garter.
His palm is rough, calloused like his own, and warm like a humid summer afternoon. A small gasp escapes Megumi at the prolonged touch, feeling like a kid brushing hands with their middle school crush. The stranger’s—the patron’s—face is one less of shock, and more pure adoration. Slack jaw, cheeks illuminated and re-illuminated in the multicolored lights. The affection—no, attraction—on his face is like nothing he’d ever seen before. Raw, genuine, uninhibited desire. It makes his skin tingle and sting.
Trying to play off how affected he was, he bends at the hips, gives his soft pink hair a ruffle, drags his knuckles down his stunned face, and releases him. A shiver visibly wracks his patron when he winks and turns tail. Literally turns tail, a subtle sway in his hips to accentuate the fluffy white ball clipped at the apex of his thong.
Nobody had ever been allowed to touch him on stage, and he knows he’ll get shit for it from Yuki. His club doesn’t care about touching dancers if they consent, but she’d rag on him for breaking his firmest rule for one man. In all honesty, Megumi couldn’t justify stepping off that stage without knowing what that man’s hands felt like against his skin.
Throughout the rest of his set, he keeps searching for his intense, lingering eyes. Every other person watching him in the club dissipates until it’s just them. Just him. Every spin, trick, and turn, he pleads for a stranger’s undivided attention—and he is gratified every single time he wins it. He tracks his blazing eyes every time he lifts his leg, and even in the dark, hazy club, he can sense the ardent attention.
Peach-hair and his friends have some more money to give, and Megumi wants to laugh at himself—either he’d gotten far more feminine, or these macho, straight-looking men were somehow secure enough in their sexualities to tip him.
He swears his knees start bleeding during his floor work, but that doesn’t matter, of course. If he learned one thing from sprained ankles in the middle of ballet performances, it’s the imperative “the show must go on.” Back arched, ass high in the air, he slides to his stomach slowly, mourning the eventual scars on his forearms. He waits there, kicks his feet, and motions for them to pay up. Several eager hands slap bills into his palms, and he bats his lashes at peach-hair, who'd yet to give up his cash.
Now that he's close enough to get a good look, he notices that he’s an abnormally handsome man. Not in the classic sense of perfect bone structure and an adonis-esque look. He’s unique, soft faced, and almost boyish. He can’t be any older than Megumi, if only by a year or two.
Coping with the passing thought of maybe he’d go out with me, he sticks his tongue out playfully, sure to display his piercing. Shifting his palm towards him and waiting for his payment, his patron rolls his eyes, a soft, inaudible laugh accompanied by a reflexive, toothy grin. Elated at the sight, Megumi offers an uncharacteristic smile, rolling onto his back, lifting his legs to show off his thin, lean thighs. He slides his hands down his chest, tucking the cash into the sides of his leotard before finishing his floor work.
Using the pole to pull himself up, he spins low to the ground before he’s back on his feet. As his song ends and he collects the bills from the floor, he notices the rip in his sheer socks. While he curses himself internally, their host praises him, and calls him their club’s precious pretty boy, and compliments the crowd for eliciting an all too rare smile from their aloof, uninterested Bunny.
Only, it isn’t the crowd. It’s one specific man who makes him feel stupid with desire, who he refuses to look back at as he makes his exit. If he’s lucky, he'll catch him on the floor and offer him a private “moment”; he seems interested, at the very least. Or, maybe Megumi just found the most attractive man of the night and is deluding himself into some kind of reciprocation.
After finally relaxing his posture backstage, he sets the crumpled wads of money on the prop table, reaching into his bodysuit and collecting the bills he’d tucked away. At last, he pulls the cash tucked beside his hip, sighing mindlessly while remembering how it got there. Lost in thought, moved by the warmth of his palm against his freezing skin, he almost misses the numbers plastered on the paper.
Five bills with a stark, shocking 100 at the corner of the green paper.
Five hundred dollars? Five hundred? Five-zero-zero? $500?
Megumi must be imagining things, but no matter how many times he rubs his eyes, squints, and flips the paper around, the number doesn't disappear. He has no clue how long he’d been standing there, unbreathing and sinking into the floor, when Yuki snaps her manicured fingers in his face. Even that doesn’t stir him, and it takes a sharp slap to the shoulder to break his trance.
“Megumi, you—”
“These say one-hundred, right?” They stand shoulder to shoulder, “I’m not, like, imagining things, right?”
Yuki howls a crackling praise, slaps his ass, and dumps the bowl of his back-row tips onto the table. “Alright, Bunny!” He scowls, flushed from her painful show of affection. His skin stings from her handprint, and she snatches a slip from his hand, holding it up to the light. “Not even counterfeit, too… Keep that shit in your shoe, or you’ll be public enemy number one, hon.” The girl following him steps up, and he and Yuki are silent the entire time, hiding the money in their palms. She cracks her back audibly before her name is called, and they wait until she’s strutting on stage to relax.
Massive tips weren’t unheard of—he’d gotten a hundred here and there—but this was a first for him. He doesn’t work at one of those classy, up-scale clubs that requires a certain tax bracket to even enter. Their club is decent at best, a nice venue but too close to a highway and five minutes from a three star hotel. He considers himself blessed to make five hundred in a week, let alone in one night.
“Oh, and don’t let them take a cut of that,” she advises, folding up the bills and handing them back. “You got pretty comfortable up there. Trying something new?” Her elbow digs into his shoulder when she leans on him, still almost as tall as him despite his ankle-breakers.
As anticipated, she picked up on his obvious taste, and saw just how much attention he paid that one guy. “Shut up.” He gathers all the twenties and fifties, flattening, folding, and tucking them into a little sewn-in pocket inside his leotard. “He offered that before I let him touch me, too.”
“That was him? Oh, Megumi,” she gathers his small bills, wadding them together as he wedges five hundred bucks into his sixty-five dollar heels. “Get your cute butt out there, go thank him—or fuck him, for all I care.”
Immediately aggravated by that suggestion (and the fact that she can read his mind so easily), he snatches the cash she rolled, “Fuck you. What kinda’ role model are you?”
“An incredibly flawed one, Bunny,” Yuki wraps her arm around his shoulders, full of a wild pride, as they make their way back to the dressing room.
Hurrying, embarrassed by his urgency, he shoves the small tips in his locker, and shuffles to adjust his face in the mirror, leaning over a vanity. Swiping at some smeared lipgloss and reapplying his beauty mark, his body shakes. Anticipation buzzes beneath his skin like summer cicada songs. Incessant, overwhelming, constant. He doesn’t need to step out for a smoke to feel alive, and he doesn’t even think of it.
He turns from his vanity, starting to rush away thoughtlessly before he pauses. Debating himself for a moment, he gives in without much dialogue, and starts rifling through his bag. Tucking two condoms in his shoe and two packets of lube in his laces, he scans the room to see if any of the other dancers noticed his behavior. Even then, he doesn’t care; tonight, he made more than $500, and will hopefully fuck a young, hot, rich guy.
Scurrying turns to strutting when he crosses the threshold of the visible club. His friends and coworkers peruse the floor, lingering by patrons or serving drinks. Some people offer him post performance tips, and he’s lucky his resigned personality is accepted as his stage persona. All he does is thank them and walk off as abruptly as his beauty allows. Most men are easy, but he figures that mister five-hundred might be a little… different than most.
His pretty, peach-pomme prince charming of the night is off at a far table crowded with empty, sweating drinks—his group still crowded at the front. Much to Megumi’s delight, he’s fascinated by the back wall (completely ignoring the dancer, which, while vaguely disrespectful, pleases him to no end) and doesn’t notice Megumi’s approach. Instead of stopping to chat him up, he simply ruffles his wavy hair as he passes, blessing him with another view of his almost bare ass and fluffy tail.
It takes far too much willpower not to look back at him. Too tempted to meet his eyes, lure him in and gnaw on his body, muscle and bone, until he can’t feel where his body ended and the stranger’s began. He’s young, muscular, good looking, and Megumi sorely dispels the visceral, heart-pounding, (severely X-rated,) images that flood his mind and throat simultaneously.
During this girl’s dance, he ignores the people standing to offer him tips, simply snatching his cash as he beelines for the bar. Yuki would have some complaints and choice words for him, he knows, but none of it matters. He kneels on the stool with his ass raised, leaning on the bartop, and hopes his patron is watching. Cheek in palm, he waits for the bartender to approach him, a grimace across her soft features.
Nobara scoffs, flicking one of his plush bunny ears. “You’re a whore, y’know that?”
Obviously, she didn’t mean it in earnest—and at this point he'd been called it so many times that if she did, he wouldn't care. “Just a little.” He sighs, frowning despite his win, “Five hundred dollars. Like, what the hell?”
She snorts, mixing something with classy alcohol he didn’t recognize. Deft hands work without thinking, offloading her tasks while she shrugs, “Well, now you have to fuck him.”
Coming from her, it’s less of a command and more of a prediction. Even she saw his immediate infatuation from all the way behind the bar. “I’d probably do it anyway.”
“That much is obvious.” She adds a shot to the drink she’s making, “And his alcohol taste is shitty, just so you know.” Megumi rolls his eyes, waves a hand to disregard the judgement.
A hum that signals his disinterest, “Non-issue.” He swings a leg down, knowing he’d be scolded for slacking, and lets his head hang, drooping like a puppy. A resounding pulse of sore, achy muscles overtakes him. His thighs, arms, core, ankles, wrists, all of him. “My body hurts.”
“Quit complaining,” she spits, as if she knows the toils of ripped tights and bruised, bloody knees. “Here, by the way. For tonight’s toy.” A tumbler of dark liquid clinks when she slides it towards him, ice shifting in the crystalline glass. Just after, she makes a pay me gesture, expecting a tip for her generosity. (And, additionally, reading his exact intentions for visiting her). Begrudging, he pulls a five from his hidden pocket, slapping it into her palm while she pulls a face of raw offense. “You’re cheap, Megumi.”
“I’ll buy you cigs next time I’m out.”
“Thank you,” she chirps, finishing the drink she’s making, setting it on a tray beside her. Annoyed, Megumi composes himself before leaving the bar, peeved when his person of interest isn’t looking at him.
This attraction threw him into an uncomfortable stupor. He almost never lets patrons touch him, not anymore. He never cared if some douche was looking at him or not. And he never, ever let himself be charmed by a man, let alone one who was paying him.
But, he has to stay strong—stay off his knees until he gets him into a secluded space where he can settle the desire building in his abdomen. The walk over gives him some time to panic, to think about what to say, or how to “secure” him for the night. He can’t fuck this up; if not for the cash, but for the knowledge of what this man’s tongue would feel like sliding along his skin.
His perfect stranger is fidgeting with the end of a corded bracelet, looking towards the stage but clearly disengaged. The shifting lights discolor his face, but he just looks like a mosaic in stained glass.
“Thanks for this month’s rent, handsome.”
Megumi cringes at himself with his opening line, setting the new drink before him. Maintaining a mask of nonchalance isn’t a difficult task, and he thought it made him seductively apathetic. He leans on the high-top table, trying to stay as visually enticing as possible.
Flinching a bit, his customer seems caught off guard, before he relaxes, a strange weight falling from his shoulders. He stops fidgeting, looking up at him with a cute, playful confidence that caught Megumi off guard. Fuck, he’s even hotter up close—bordering on cute. He can already feel the overlapping bruises yellowing on his kneecaps.
“It’s the least I can do,” he grabs his drink, a subtle cheers gesture to him before taking a swig, he hisses slightly as it stung his throat. “Y’know, supporting local artists, or something…”
A knee-jerk laugh puffs past his lips, small and more like a huff than anything. Megumi wants to slam his head against the wall. He feels like a schoolgirl, twirling his hair over just a few words.
“But just the art, of course.” He pretends to pick some dust off the man’s shoulder, mostly to distract himself.
“Well,” he begins, gesturing vaguely, the liquid sloshing in his glass, “Can’t say the artist didn’t change my decision. But only a little bit.”
Pouty, he teases, "That's too bad.” He tuts, “And I let you touch my leg. That’s more than most men can even dream of, with me.” Bold, he slides his hand down the stranger’s arm, maintaining his gaze despite how those brown eyes pry him open and cauterize his skin back together.
That sweet, anxious smile crosses his face, “So I’ve heard.”
Interest piqued, Megumi fidgets with the cuff of his button up, slipping his fingers beneath the silken hem. “You’ve been talking about me, then? All bad things, I’m sure.”
The muscles on the back of his hand twitch beneath cold fingertips, “Horrible things,” Megumi tugs on him, dragging his palm up his hip, and he seems to squeeze unconsciously. “Ha- you, uh,” he struggles, “One of my friends said- uh, you… The last time some guy grabbed you, he left with a broken nose.”
Peeking at the back of his hand, a small, still-yellow bruise on his knuckle lives as evidence of that night. It must’ve been weeks ago, and he savored the crack of bone beneath his hand in every memory. “Was it really broken?”
His laugh strikes like gentle thunder, powerful but subdued, a secret saved for him. “That’s what he said. I’d love to have seen that,” he reaches to investigate his punching hand, twisting it from side to side. “Your form must’ve been good, too. No thumb damage—impressive.”
Megumi doesn’t feel the need to share that it wasn’t the first time some handsy guy was on the receiving end of his reactive fist. “Wanna’ see my form up close?”
He gives a guarded smile, but it’s seemingly genuine, “Hey, hey, now—” he pulls his hands back, gesturing in surrender, pleading innocence. “Hands are off. Even though having my—what is it—fifth broken nose by your hand would be an honor.”
Now that he looks closely, his nose is rather crooked, a scar or two running sidelong across his skin. It’s far too endearing for what Megumi is used to, but he tries to ignore it. His frustration spikes when he realizes there are no hands on him, “No, no—” he grabs his wrists, stepping closer and almost wobbling when he holds his hips, “Hands on, boy. That was an innuendo, since you missed it.”
“Oh, my bad.”
He snorts, irritated by how authentically gentle and saccharine this man is, and how it pulls that goopy, desperate need for love hot from Megumi’s core. “Uh-huh,” he agrees, guiding his palm to his ass, “You can touch and see all you want.”
Shuddering, the man’s grasp tightens over to the soft fat. Megumi’s breath hitches, almost making some noise he couldn't take back. Shocked by the heat rushing to his stomach, he can’t form a quip to get him out of this one. Before realizing it, his fingers are tangled in pink hair, scratching along his scalp and he watches how his eyes glaze over. Megumi would savor that expression until the day he died. Raw, sexual, submissive.
Stumbling, his patron tries to speak, “What- what kind- kinda’ incubus are you, huh?” Nonchalant, so fake it almost hurts, Megumi shrugs, letting his other hand roam, trailing down his chest and squeezing his thigh. “Fuck, fuck—fuck off—you’re…”
The way his customer pulls him in is more of a release of tension; they’re both yearning to be as close as possible, like the idea of parting makes them panic. Megumi fights the urge to jump him right there.
“Use your words, you can do it…” he coos, very patronizing and very intentionally to destabilize him once more.
An off-yellow light flickeres across his face, accentuating every warm feature: subtly tan skin, sun kissed, perhaps even sun blessed; dark eyes that rouse a devastating forest fire two continents away, sucking all of the heat and energy and electricity from the room. A frenzied blush along the apples of his cheeks makes him look so young, flustered by his uncompromised affection.
“You’re mesmerizing.”
The compliment shouldn’t shatter him like it does. Not beautiful, not pretty, not hot, not sexy, not fuckable; not whorish, not a faggot, not a slut, not easy, not damaged goods.
Mesmerizing.
Megumi’s scarred hands are sensitive, every linen stitch, every strand of hair skin tingling and arousing. Maybe he’s making it up, but this patron’s cologne wafts towards him as the front door opens. Animalic, almost like the coarse fur of a tiger, and cedar resin, blends so perfectly with his balmy, salty skin that it almost makes Megumi angry.
“And you’re hard.” He deflects from his weakness, inordinately moved by his scent.
The other man chokes on his breath, eyes wide before he glances away, “That’s so irrelevant to the conversation at hand.”
Tugging at his ear, he wants those eyes back on him, and is met with immediate compliance. Of course—of course—he’s obedient. Megumi craves it with white hot intensity that thawes his insides. “You know just how relevant that is.” He leans in, voice dropping, hopefully still loud enough over the music, “We can go somewhere more private, free of charge.”
Caught for breath, he seems to be at war with himself. “I- that’s not what I was trying to do—you don’t have to- I’m not expecting you to—”
“I wasn’t expecting you to.” He scratches his patron’s head again, delighted by how he leans into it. “You’ve already paid four times my normal rate. It's not a problem.”
“I don’t- I can’t ask you to do any more, even if I paid you.” There’s guilt dirtying his face, and Megumi hates it.
Even then, he doesn’t really understand why this man paid him so generously without expecting sexual favors. And for once, Megumi, the idiotic whore he was, wants to give sexual favors. With all of this touching, too—ass, waist, hair, thigh—it’s taking over his rational thought. For once Megumi isn’t doing it for money. And his prize isn’t even interested in him.
Scoffing, offended and surprised at his own desperation, he feels his constitution falter. This man keeps pulling him in, and the mixed signals are starting to make his chest hurt. “Can I be completely honest?”
“Sure,” his voice is still a little shaky.
Looking off, Megumi sighs, “I hate being on the floor. Even if you aren’t expecting something, another guy is. We can just go somewhere, talk, maybe keep up the teasing,” he meets his eyes again. “Or, you can actually fuck me, because I’m pathetic enough to say that I’m turned on.” Pouting, pulling a face he knows men can’t resist, he pushes the patron’s bangs out of his face. “Actually, I’ll only ask once: fuck me, pretty please?”
Laughing with his full chest, the stranger’s guilt disappears, replaced with a barely restrained fondness. Megumi’s throat tightens. “Y’know,” his words are cut with a chuckle, and his voice is breathy, weak. “It’s awfully loud out here, don’t you think?”
Smirking, rolling his eyes, he stays in the warmth of his grasp. “So noisy.”
A sharp squeeze to his ass makes him yelp, and the man’s hand slides to his hip, snapping the hem of his bodysuit playfully. Suddenly he’s on his feet, wrenching him around by the hips, erection pressed flush to his back.
Whispering to him, close enough to hear, close enough to feel the breath against his ear, close enough for him to chuckle as Megumi wavers, “Then, lead the way, Bunny.”
Frustrated with the way he said his stage name, his tongue lingering over the vowel too long, he pulls away and snatches his wrist. Nobody said it like that, and he never wanted to hear anybody but him say it again. It would sound wrong coming out of anyone’s mouth but his. So, so wrong that it makes him nauseous to think about.
The private rooms are booked out for the night, so their only option is the men’s restroom at the far side of the club. Megumi drags him along like it’s a task, as if he’s oh so inconvenienced to be taking a beautiful man for a messy, public hook up. But, inevitably, they exchange coy glances and soft, sweet smiles that made no sense for his aloof, indifferent demeanor.
By the time they’re through the door, this stranger is all over him: licking the nape of his neck, biting his artery, pressing his erection against his ass, and pushing him to an empty stall towards the back of the room. For a mildly-run-down strip club, the bathroom is well maintained; Yuki refuses to allow the club to be a nasty, smelly cesspit of sweat and arousal. He wouldn’t lick the floor, but he’s more than content being pushed against the wall as the door slams and locks behind them.
Instead of focusing on his neck any longer, his nameless patron actually kisses him. He tastes like scotch and lingering lychee—bittersweet and miserable and perfect. While Megumi typically hates the taste of anything but tequila, it mixes with the lingering cigarette musk in his mouth to spin something even more addictive on their tongues. This stranger licks his teeth and bites his lip; he kisses with a ferocity that’s almost sacred, a touch that should only be shared between lovers.
It’s too soon that Megumi folds, the aches and pain in his bones replaced by a sickening urge to be doted on. While his partner for the night trembles with desire, groping along his waist before sliding his hands down his back. He grabs his ass so tightly that he almost moans, and the squeeze forces a sharp, hot zip of pleasure through his groin. It’s been a long time since he’s been so turned on, and he wonders if this will ruin sex with anyone else for the rest of his life.
Without thinking, he’s fumbling for the buttons on this man’s shirt, his hands shaky and unstable. He’s not used to being kissed; most of the men he hooked up with were straight, and too uncomfortable with their sexuality to do anything that could be considered “intimate.” But not him, not this charming, sweet, flustered man with his pretty face and barely contained lust.
While this stranger attacks his neck, leaves hickies he knows he’ll be reprimanded for but can’t seem to resist, he feels the adrenaline high that must be why people do drugs. They kiss again, making out for a little too long for people who are overwhelmed with desire. Soon enough, Megumi is lowering himself, desperate to be on his knees, until he’s jerked up with a grasp on his upper arm.
“Nah,” he squints like Megumi has lost his mind. “None of that, handsome.”
They’re back at eye level, and he pouts, half way to fuming, “I’m about to blow you, and you tell me nah? I make a living being on my knees.”
Now that they’re in the light, he can see the full extent of his partner’s face. His eyes are brighter than he expected, a soft golden brown that reminds him of something antiquated and dusty. He has sparse freckles along the bridge of his crooked nose, and shallow double eyelids that accentuate that wild, tiger-like gaze.
“Yeah, exactly.” He mutters, leaning in to lick up the cartilage of his ear, biting the open metal gauges in his lobes.
Megumi argues, feeling strangely secure to push back against him, “I’m doing this unpaid, and I want to be on my knees for once, so why don’t you just—”
“Because I…” he twists him around by the hips, making him yelp and slap a palm over his lips, “I want to be on mine.”
He drops to his knees instantly, giving Megumi no time to refuse before sinking his teeth into the muscle of his ass. His bite is so much harder than it was on his neck, and part of him wants him to leave a mark that’ll last forever. There’s seemingly no rush in his service, because he takes the time to gently touch the inside of his thighs, squeeze them, and worship him with his lips.
When he expects to be turned around, this perfect stranger yanks his bodysuit to the side, and abruptly spreads him out. The wet and slippery muscle swiping at his hole is messy and almost pious. But he doesn’t just lick him aimlessly, he’s tactful, sucking on his rim and flexing his tongue, surprisingly skillful. It’s not just his tongue doing the work, he’s pulling Megumi’s hips back and forth, rocking him against the wet friction slowly, perfectly.
His life is totally fucking ruined.
When his tongue breaches his hole, his legs waver beneath him, his ankles nearly giving out in his ridiculous heels. He only stays standing because of the man beneath him, his weight supported by the tight grip on his upper thighs. All he can do in this situation is bite his lip, desperately try to balance himself against the stall, and hope he makes so little noise that others try to join in.
“You taste good,” the stranger whispers into his skin, hardly audible but unmistakable.
Letting out a long suppressed breath, he bites the muscle of his thumb to keep himself as quiet as possible. “Sh- shut up, freak.”
A small hum vibrates against his hole, and he lets out a full moan, ashamed of himself when a small laugh follows the sound. He pulls back to plant a kiss high on the back of his thigh, just above his garter, and bites it moments later, “I like it when you’re mean, should I piss you off some more?”
“I’ll fucking kill you,” Megumi grits, reaching back and threading his fingers through smooth, peachy hair. His tongue slips back inside, desperately thrusting, tasting, teasing.
It seems that this man is enjoying rimming just as much as Megumi is, and whimpers, dejected, when he pulls back with a lewd smooching noise. “Damnit, I wish I could take my time with you.”
When he raises back to his full height, he’s back to attacking Megumi’s already bruised neck. “That costs extra.”
“Aw, but don’t you like me? Free of charge?”
That Megumi can’t refute. He just scowls, only to be met with a too-bright, cheesy smile and the stranger’s off white, crowded teeth. Rolling his eyes, he kicks up his boot and slips the convenient lube packets from the laces, holding them before his partner’s face.
“Like is a strong word,” he grumbles, turning and running his nails along the slightly overgrown, dark undercut. “You’re just… a little less insufferable than the average man.”
A small, elated whine leaves his mouth, and he kisses Megumi like a boyfriend, like a lover, and he’s a little too alright with that. Again, it lasts too long for a dingy bathroom stall—it’s all tongue and teeth and spit. If this is the last time he touches anybody, he might be okay with it. He’s never quite enjoyed being touched; he’s been selling himself since he was eighteen, he never really had a chance to enjoy sex.
His client—well, not client, he supposes, this is transactionless—hooks his muscular arm beneath Megumi’s leg, and takes it a step further by slinging his shin over his shoulder. “F- Fuck, you’re insane,” he struggles to rip open the lube, his hands shaking in anticipation.
An eye roll and a smile, he purrs, “You’re taking too long…”
Almost immediately after, he hears the packet open, and there are two wet, freezing fingers inside of him. Pushing as deep as possible, it’s almost too easy to find his prostate.He gasps over the first brush against the sensitive nerves, and he feels precum seeping into his leotard. Of course, his patron notices this, moving his fingers fast and hard, never once missing his sweet spot.
He’s a mess beneath such skilled hands—rough, thick, and suddenly tugging his aching cock from his outfit. The perfect stranger works quickly with both of his hands in surprising asynchronicity. Two fingers working open his ass in a too-noisy, too-wet frenzy, while the other palm spreads the excessive precum across his shaft, lazily stroking the pierced head of his cock, worshipping the metal. Already worked up from the life changing rimjob, he feels every brush of his prostate, every single shift of the hand jerking him off.
“W- wait,” he whispers, eyes bleary and unfocused as a high builds within him, “Slower, slow- slow down, I’m gonna’ come—”
Though, there’s no slowing in sight, because a third finger slips inside of him, and the stretch makes him weak. The squelching and the diverse stimulation has him sighing up at heaven, his entire body wrought and stung with sweat as he comes. His orgasm doesn’t just come and go, he lingers in that high, mindless state for longer than he ever has until his body is far beyond his own control.
No matter how hard he clamps down over this beautiful, skilled, gentle, loving man’s fingers, his fingers don’t stop. He simply keeps grazing his sweet spot over and over, never minding his spasming walls or how noisy his whines become. All the pain in his body is gone, rapt in a mess of euphoria and misery.
“C- condom?” A voice startles through his blackout vision, prompting another small spurt of cum, caught in the other man’s hand.
Megumi is barely hanging on, and he mumbles, “Shoulder…”
His hand finally slows and he pulls out, but still rubs the lube around his entrance, making him shiver and grimace. Examining his free hand, completely soiled in cum, he meets Megumi’s eyes with a hint of mischief. He holds his palm to his face and licks himself clean. The visual is nothing like he’s ever seen before, and it’s annoying to see how pleased he is with Megumi’s reaction.
“Mm,” he licks the webbing between his middle and forefinger, unnecessarily lewd, “Tastes good.”
Completely taken, he chokes out, “Idiot…” He reaches a shaking hand to grab one of the condoms in his boot over his shoulder, and presses it between his partner’s eyes, if only to spare himself from being seen. Once his hands are free, he keeps his leg up, reaching to unbutton the trousers keeping their bodies so far apart. Ushering his waistbands lower, he reaches into his partner’s boxer briefs and pulls out his thick, hard, warm cock.
Not only is he almost scalding to the touch, he’s flushed and leaking and big. Huge, even. So big that he can’t comprehend it at first, but his mouth is watering and he wants to punch this guy because he desperately wants to see if it can squeeze into his throat. He’s so helpless, caught in a daze watching his hand struggle to wrap around his circumference.
Megumi knows that he should be a little scared, but all he can do is tremble with lust and true hysteria.
“Y- you think you’ll be okay?” He seems to understand the gravity of his size, but his words only come off as a challenge.
Scowling, he relieves some of his weight by leaning towards the other man, “Are you underestimating me?”
“Nope,” he ushers Megumi’s hand away, slipping the condom over himself. “Tight fit. You underestimated me… I’m hurt.”
“That’s the only size I have, you’ll live.” He can’t lie, he had a good feeling about this man; he’s the perfect man—just his type. Bubbly, easily flustered, muscular, and hung.
He chuckles, feeling around to align their bodies at last. “Poor you…”
Megumi clicks his tongue, “What do you t— fuck!” He’s rudely cut off by his hole being stretched within an inch of his life. His vision goes white, and the sharp moan that falls from his mouth is humiliating. This stranger doesn’t let him get a breath in, slowly pushing himself deeper and deeper. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t slam their hips together, but lets their bodies slide together as they each will allow.
“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he hisses, and turns his head to bite the inside of his knee. His sharp canines snag his sheer socks, tearing another hole into his already ripped tights. “You’re a fucking blessing… my God.”
Just when he prays he might be done, he slips in further, deeper than any man has ever felt before. “G- God, you’re so… too deep…” he whispers, wavers, waits for his body to give out on him. “Keep… keep going. I want all of you.”
The nameless man laughs, hangs his head, “Your legs are too long, damnit—”
Suddenly, his other leg is lifted, and he’s completely weightless and full. His mind scrambles, and for a second he forgets where he is—that he’s alive, on earth, and getting railed by a handsome stranger in a public place. He forgets his own name, because he’s only a body in the best way. He’s brainless, and blissful, and he feels fucking beautiful.
He knows his partner has bottomed out because he can feel the coarse pubic hair against his ass. That, and he wonders if taking someone so deep is even safe, because gravity only pulls him lower and lower, forcing him to take every last centimeter. The thought of riding him until they both lose their minds crosses his, and he tragically realizes that this is the first and only time he will ever feel this good.
“Shit- shit, look at you…” His perfect stranger’s face is pulled into the softest expression he’s ever seen. A gentle smile, proud eyes, a look of genuine affection that would have been patronizing if it were literally anyone else. “You’re incredible, you take me so well…”
Sweating, bleary-eyed, Megumi tries not to go limp before he grabs onto his partner’s shoulders, “Of- of- of course I do…” he laughs, wild with glee, spasming around the intrusion threatening his insides. “M- move, fuck me, please…”
“As you wish, beautiful…”
Even though he doesn’t move fast, every movement is hard, rough, and so stimulating he can hardly open his eyes. Megumi has never cried during sex, but he feels the cool relief of tears slipping down his cheeks, and understands the kind of euphoria needed to make them fall. After this, he thinks he might choose to die, because how could he go back to his normal life after experiencing this high?
He wants this to last forever, but he’s already so close to finishing again. Clearly, his body isn’t used to such genuine pleasure, because he’s sobbing, growling, ripping at the seams as he bites into his partner’s carotid artery like he’s about to rip it from his skin. He wants to speak, he wants to tell him don’t stop, never stop, let me die in your arms, but he’s a mess of choked moans. There might be people in here, he doesn’t know, and, frankly, he doesn’t care. If anything, the whole world needs to know just how good he’s being fucked, and envy him to the point of simmering rage.
“Doing okay, baby?” The question is quiet in his ringing ears.
When he opens his mouth to respond, the effort is too distracting, and an orgasm threatens to steal him away. He catches himself, suppressing the high for as long as he can. He just mumbles, “Mm-hmm…”
“You’re drivin’ me crazy…” he whispers so close to his ear and a tingle runs down Megumi’s spine. “You’re grippin’ me like you’ll never let me go.”
A whine falls from him when the stranger licks up his cartilage and bites the top of his ear. He hates that he’s been exposed, he doesn’t want to let this man go. Apparently, neither does his ass. But, his body is begging him to come, to let go of himself and fall off the face of his consciousness.
“So… good…” Megumi tries, but regrets it immediately, biting down on the muscles between his partner’s shoulder and neck. His orgasm begins without his permission, and he must start moaning and spasming before he recognizes it, because a hand moves to block his cum from splattering all over his clothes. “F- fuck, God…”
“Ah, you’re so tight- fuck, fuck…” he whimpers, letting his neck fall to the side for Megumi to bite harder. “I’m close…”
Now that he's finished for a second time, all the friction feels like the worst kind of hell. His body instinctively starts to squirm, agonized, but he can hardly speak. “N- no mor- sta- stop, let me suck you off…”
All his movement stops, and he slowly, cautiously, safely pulls out. The emptiness is both horrifying and holy, but the depression hits harder than the relief. He misses his length immediately, but knowing he’s about to swallow him whole keeps him elated and alert.
Dropping to his already bruised knees, he’s suddenly a bit intimidated seeing his cock so close to his face. Still, he practically tears off the condom (that they should probably keep on, but he’s so lust laden he doesn’t consider it), and takes him into his mouth immediately.
His precum tastes like salty plums, somehow sweet as it seeps from his pretty, dangerously flushed tip. Megumi pushes his own limits, taking him as deep as physically possible, and yearns for that extra push that tests his windpipe. His eyes water when his throat squeezes around the intrusion, and he squints his eyes, letting a few tears fall before he flickers his gaze upwards.
Something is wrecked in the eyes of the perfect, tasty man in front of him. So, Megumi winks, and he falls apart, spilling into his throat. He’s bracing himself against the stall doors, the dark hair low on his stomach twitching with his orgasm, and covers his mouth desperately.
He pulls off and strokes him with his full hand, watching the shock fall over his face as cum splurts into his mouth. It splatters across his nose and cheeks and his eyelids, narrowly avoiding an eye infection with his long, fluttering lashes.
Once they’re finished for good, he sits back on his ankles. The exhaustion settles over his body while he nods off with the taste of the bitter, sacred pomegranate cum on his tongue. He gazes up at the man above him, the sweet, golden eyed, nameless man who he couldn’t forget if he tried.
Then, Megumi asks a question that he swore to never ask within the walls of this club:
“What’s your name?”
Without a moment of hesitation, he answers: “Yuuji. What’s yours?”