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Peachy Keen	By : Tcharlatan Category: > Die/Kyo Views: 866 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of pure fiction. I do not personally know any of the members of Dir en grey, and do not profit from this work.

Chapter List
- 1-Peachy Keen
- 1
Today sucks. It just… it just fucking sucks.
It wasn’t supposed to. It was supposed to be my damn day off – the first I’ve had in weeks – and I had fully intended to spend it sleeping in at least until noon, and then getting some much-needed quality time with my lover. Instead, I got a phone call at six in the godforsaken morning, demanding I come in to the studio in an hour to meet with some new executive asshole who’s worried some of my lyrics are going hit a snag with the censors. So I had to drag myself out of my warm, soft bed, gritting my teeth against Die’s disappointed whine, and throw on the cleanest clothes I can find, praying the meeting would be a short one. I would have grabbed something to eat, but we haven’t been home for a meal in ages; even if we did have any food, I wouldn’t trust it. Not a big deal, I figured I had time to pick something up on the way. One of my shoelaces snapped in half while I was tying it, and I had to scrounge up another pair before heading out to the elevator. It was out of service. So I took the stairs – all fifteen fucking flights of them – to the parking garage, and our rarely-used car.
Which wouldn’t start. It wouldn’t even try to start; I turned the key and got nothing. I tried half a dozen times with the same result and before giving in to the urge to punch the dashboard, cursing when all that did was split my knuckles. I don’t know from shit about cars; I can only just barely even drive. Maybe there was some simple fix, and if Die had been there – instead of nestled all alone in our big, comfortable bed, goddamn it all – he would have laughed at me and worked his stupid, mechanically-inclined magic on the bloody thing to make it work again. But he wasn’t. But that was fine! Whatever! I got along for years without driving; I know the bus routes around here well enough to get to the studio.
When I got outside, it was pouring down rain. It wouldn’t have been that big of a deal, except that the covered area of the bus stop was full of people – all of them holding umbrellas, the fuckers – so by the time the bus I needed came lumbering past, I was soaked. There was only one seat left and I gave it to a teenager wearing some endearingly obscure rock band’s tee-shirt. She gave me a weird look though, probably thinking it was a prelude to me hitting on her or something. It might also have had something to do with the fact that my hand was still bleeding a little over the tattoos from where I punched the car. Even if it wasn’t bothering her, it was obviously upsetting the woman on my other side, trying to shield the sight from her toddler, so I ignored the sting in my knuckles and tucked that hand into my pocket and hung on with my undecorated off-hand.
I went to dig my music player out of my messenger bag only to realize that I had left it – and my cell phone – back at home, charging. So I made the trip to the tune of other people’s incessant chatter. At the next stop, some gross bastard got on and crowded up against me, smelling like he hadn’t bothered to wash in weeks. When he reached up to grab onto one of the straps, my nose filled with the acrid stench of moldy human sweat until my eyes watered and I could hardly stand to breathe. For half an hour, I tried to choke down enough oxygen to stay conscious while inhaling as little and as rarely as possibly, shuddering in disgust every time the bus hit a bump and caused the putrid man to crush me against the side of the seat I was standing next to. I got off two stops early, favoring a six-block jog through the rain to another minute on that bus.
When I got to the studio, I found Kaoru standing out front smoking, and it was the first good thing to happen all morning. I had been pretty sure it was just going to be me and Inoue, and though he’ll usually take my side in issues with the higher-ups, it’s by no means guaranteed. Kaoru always has my back, and he can make sure Inoue does too. By that point, though, I had a wicked headache building in the back of my skull, and never before have I regretted quitting smoking as much as I did in that moment, craving the comfort so much my stomach turned over. We spent a few minutes making small talk – me quietly, bitterly coveting his nicotine the entire time – before going inside.
As glad as I was that he was there, he kind of made me feel like I should have put a little more effort into getting dressed. He didn’t go all out to impress the guy or anything, but he looked very… put together, with his black button-down hanging open over a white tee shirt, sleeves rolled precisely over his elbows, and immaculate black jeans. Besides being soaked, I only just then realized I was wearing one of Die’s oversized baseball jerseys, and a pair of hopelessly wrinkled jeans whose bottom hems were frayed to death and mud-stained. I found myself dreading the new exec, not sure how confident I could be standing up to him when I felt like I looked like some kid off the streets.
Inoue joined us outside the small conference room, looking irritated. It was by no means the first issue we’ve had over my lyrics, and I suspect he’s getting tired of dealing with them. He’s a good guy, and a hell of a manager, but I know we’re not the easiest band to handle, and as much as I try to do right by everyone, I tend to be the source of a disproportionate number of our problems. But he’s a professional, so any frustration he was feeling was wiped from his face as we entered the room, leaving only calm, neutral competence. Inside, we were met by a man with stylish salt-and-pepper hair – just enough grey to show he has experience and the energy to use it, like a goddamn men’s hair dye commercial – wearing a crisp black suit and a plastic smile. I hated him immediately.
When he overlooked me entirely and greeted Kaoru by my name, I was too busy choking on my own indignation to correct him, so Kaoru had to interrupt him and introduce me, and the man’s friendly façade flagged. For a second, he stared at me like I was some unidentified mess clinging to his shiny Oxfords before he could pull back up his smiling mask, and my hands clenched so hard I dug trenches into my palms. He asked – uncertainly, as if we were joking with him – if we were sure I was the Kyo Nishimura. The vocalist. Of Dir en grey. Who writes all of the lyrics. Who wrote all of those lyrics. Next to Kaoru’s cool, dark brand of untouchable confidence, the bastard couldn’t seem to believe that I was the source of the problematic words. I can understand the reasons for his confusion, but it didn’t make his reaction any less galling. Finally, he seemed to accept that I was the cause of his current distress, and we could move on.
Hours crawled by as the asshole tried to convince me to strip out almost half of what I’d written for the new album, line-by-line offering brainless, cheap bastardizations of my intentions. The words “shock value” and “gimmick” and “trendy” were thrown around enough to make me sick, and more than once I had to fight down the urge to just leave. Inoue produced a collection of the lyrics from all of our previous songs, arguing that the newer ones are no more profane than anything we’ve already published. Kaoru cited artistic license, insisting that if we try to censor ourselves now it will go against everything we believe in as a band, and everything our fan base has come to expect from us. I could hardly manage to do more than sit and seethe because the son of a bitch hardly even looked at me through the whole thing, and never once spoke to me like a reasonable, rational adult no matter how polite I forced myself to be the few times I contributed to the discussion.
We managed to talk him down, but we had to do it practically one verse at a time, and it was noon by the time Kaoru and I parted ways under the awning again. He offered me a ride home, but he sounded – and looked – worn absolutely ragged, and I was reminded that it was supposed to be his day off too. I couldn’t help but feel guilty for how much of his time he’d given up just to be there for me, and we live in opposite directions from the studio; as badly as I wanted to be home right goddamn then, I just… I just couldn’t ask any more from him than I’d already taken.
So here I am now, basking in the wonder that is public transportation yet again. I at least managed to get a seat this time, but I’m soaked and shivering, the chattering of the other passengers is exacerbating my headache, and I can smell someone’s food reminding me that I haven’t eaten yet today. But it’s fine. It’s FINE. I’m just going to go home and pretend none of this morning ever happened. Change into some dry sweatpants, eat some lunch, maybe take a hot bath… just spend the rest of the day hiding from the world and relaxing. Just a few more blocks and I’ll be-
-COLDWETCOLDSHIT!-
“GAH! WHAT THE F-?!”
I’m out of my seat in a hot second, but it’s too late to do any good. I stare down at myself, arms held out in disgust, and try to reconcile my anger and shock at now being covered in some teenager’s fruit smoothie. He’s apologizing profusely and other passengers are quick to dig out tissues to offer me, but for a second I can’t register any of it through my incredulity at how much today FUCKING SUCKS. I’m not a violent or even particularly short-tempered person usually, but after the morning I’ve had, fighting down the urge to punch this poor kid in the mouth is like trying to swallow a gob of hot tar. I manage – barely – because it’s not his fault that the bus hit a pothole, and the last thing I need right now is to be arrested for assault. I’m gritting my teeth so hard I’m worried they might crack as I very deliberately set to cleaning myself up with the tissues I’ve been offered, doing my level best to ignore the kid’s persistent apologies as they wear at my last frayed nerve.
The bus reaches my stop and I get off of it as fast as I can. The elevator’s still broken, and I just stare at it for a moment. I’m shaking with the effort to suppress screams or tears – not entirely certain which, maybe both – of frustration, and my hands are clenched into fists as I start up the seemingly-endless stairs. A couple people pass me on their way down and give me odd looks. Maybe because I’m soaking wet and thoroughly disheveled, maybe because my hair and clothes have been dyed mottled orange by the smoothie. Maybe because I’m stomping on every single step like a raging madman. I ignore them completely. The stomping is exhausting, but I keep it up all the way to my apartment, forcing every last irritation from the day out through my feet and into the floor. I slam the door to the apartment on my way in, then turn around and open it and slam it one more time for good measure.
“Kyo?” Die’s voice comes floating out of the kitchen as I wrestle my shoes off and kick them aside. He’s fussing with something in a big pot on the stove and turns to face me as I walk into the room. “What’s with all the sla-aaahahahahahahaha! Holy shit!”
I sigh, my shoulders slumping. Being laughed at is not what I need right now.
“Awww, Baby…” he croons apologetically, abandoning whatever he was doing to come wrap his arms around me. He’s shaking just a little, and I know it’s taking everything he has to be sympathetic and not laugh at me, and I huff even as I press into him. He’s warm and almost entirely naked and he hasn’t showered yet so he just smells like Die; even if he’s going to make fun of me, standing with him like this is the best I’ve felt all damn day. And to his credit, he never once falters in pulling me close, petting my hair and kissing my forehead soothingly even as his skin contracts and goosebumps wash over him in response to my cold, wet clothes.
“I’m having a bad day,” I grumble into his sternum.
“I see that. What the hell happened?”
“Inoue called at like… six in the damn morning and said I had to come in and talk to some new suit about the new album’s lyrics!”
“Mmhmm?” he murmurs encouragingly, his kisses trailing down to my cheeks.
“And the car wouldn’t start, so I had to take the bus, and this gross, smelly guy kept bumping into me every time the stupid thing moved.” Did he just… lick my face a little?
“Awww…” No… that would be weird, even for him.
“And when we got to the meeting, the bastard thought Kaoru was me and didn’t believe us when we told him I wrote the songs.”
“Mm… hmm?” He sounds distracted now, and one hand has slid down to settle on my hips.
“And when we finally convinced him who I was, Kaoru and Inoue had to argue with him over like… half of the lyrics I wrote; he said they were just for shock value and tried to make us change them all to stupid, irrelevant bullshit!”
“Mmhmmm…”
“He hardly even talked to me, and every time he did, he acted like I was some unstable, unreasonable kid, and he didn’t listen to a damn… word I… said…” I frown when I feel his lips moving against my neck, now mouthing openly at my skin as his other hand reaches up to fuss at the top few buttons of my shirt. “Are you listening to me?”
“Not really. Baby, why do you taste so damn good?”
“Because some fucking kid on the bus spilled his goddamn smoothie all over me!” I seethe.
“Mmmm… peaches…” he murmurs. “You think this shirt can be saved?”
“What?” My back hits the edge of the counter before I even realize he’s been moving us, and my frustration flares a bit at the added confusion his question brings along with his lack of attention. “How the hell should I know?! Probably not?”
“Good.”
He fists his hands in either side of the shirt and yanks, snapping most of the buttons off in one pull, the rest in a second, sending the little plastic disks scattering across our kitchen floor. I manage a quasi-intelligible protest before he has me bent backwards over the counter and he’s lapping at every square centimeter of my flesh he can reach. It’s so different from the usual kissing, sucking, biting that I’m accustomed to; his tongue, so hot, leaving trails, so cold, ticklish and slick over the most obscure parts of my chest. He doesn’t focus on sensitive areas, but everything becomes sensitive under his overbearing ministrations, and I’m panting by the time I manage to get myself back together.
I love Die, I really do – so much it scares me sometimes – and I crave sex just as much as the next warm blooded, twenty-something male. Combining the two is usually an easy recipe for a very happy Kyo. But sometimes I’m not in the damn mood and I just want him to fucking listen to me because I’m having a bad fucking day.
“D-Die!” I growl, pushing a bit at his shoulders. “What the fuck are you- gah!”
He flips me over and the counter is goddamn cold against my wet, naked chest, but it’s so freaking hard to argue when his tongue is running up behind my ear and one hand is pressing against my stomach, slipping into the waistband of my pants. I’ve always found a hand in my closed pants somehow more exciting, more illicit than even the groping of nude flesh, and the son of a bitch knows it, fingertips teasing just at the top edge of my nether hairs. My skin shivers and heats under his touch and I find myself groaning in spite of myself, just a little bit. He licks his way down my spine then up my side, ending with his teeth sinking into my shoulder and his hard-on pressing into my ass.
“Anh! Damn it, Die, would you-”
“Hang on,” he interrupts me, panting against my neck once before I feel him stretching away from me, his hips keeping me pinned in place with tiny, impatient grinding motions, “Just let me…”
I hear a cabinet overhead open and close, and the sink runs briefly off to one side before the hand on my belly is undoing my pants and jerking them down past my hips to let them fall around my ankles. A warm, wet cloth rubs up between my legs, rasping between my cheeks and over my entrance with just the tiniest bit too much friction to be purely pleasurable. I grunt and squirm at the bizarre sensation, but it’s short-lived, and I can’t help but wonder what he’s up to. There’s a pop and a clack, like a tin can being opened, and I twist around, trying to see what he’s doing, but he presses one hand between my shoulder blades, keeping me prone. I only catch a glimpse of his face; grinning and feral with something like hunger.
“What ar- UEEH!”
Cold! Fuck, it’s cold, and wet, splashing against my ass and up my back and into my hair and I flail and curse as my entire body shudders. Little crescents of yellow and orange spill off my back and over the counter and a can with a picture of an overripe peach on the front bounces across my vision briefly before that damned devilish mouth returns, sucking and biting at my lower back. I want to keep objecting – want to be mad at him for his one-track mind and insatiable appetites – but goddamn, the thought and feel of him feeding on me like this is just too good, and the whisper of his boxer-briefs hitting the floor brings out a Pavlovian hunger response in me. I can be mad later. He’s pretty worked up, too; I can feel him panting impatiently against my skin, can hear the frenetic strokes of flesh over flesh as he pumps at himself. He sucks my ear into his mouth and I reach back to grab onto his hair, yanking at it, and he groans licentiously, hips rutting against the top of my ass for a moment before he spills all over my back.
Hitting his orgasm doesn’t stop or even really slow Die. He grabs at one of the fruit slices on the counter, swiping it through the puddle he made on my back before pressing it messily against my lips, his eager growl rumbling straight to my groin. “Eat it.”
I part my lips and he pushes it in, and the last of my resolve to argue this romp vanishes as a moan works its way out of my chest. I’ve tasted Die’s cum more times than I can count, but somehow that bitter, salty, sticky mess becomes the most decadent treat when paired with the sweet tang of peach. I swallow and he feeds me another, grabbing at my hair and tugging my head back to lock our lips together in a rough, sloppy teeth-and-tongue battle over the morsel. I can feel him – already half-hard again – against my hip, and I arch my back, rubbing against him in an invitation that makes him groan and swear. His weight on top of me disappears, then those palms are splayed just under my ass, grabbing wide handfuls and spreading me open, and I have no time to wonder what he’s doing before his tongue runs hot and slick up the inside of my thigh.
“Fuck… Die! Unh!”
I rise up onto my toes, spreading my legs as much as I can and canting my hips back to give him room as he wraps his lips around my balls one by one and sucks them clean with a deliciously raunchy slurping sound. Then his tongue starts to trail up into forbidden territory. My eyes go wide and I scramble at the counter for some kind of purchase, finding none and wringing a desperately undignified squeal from me as he begins to lap and prod at my entrance. It’s so… it’s… I can’t… FUCK! It’s just so damn vulgar and I swear I can feel every individual taste bud against overstimulated nerves as he pushes his tongue deeper and deeper into me. I want to scream but my breath keeps hitching in my throat and all I can manage are gasping squeaks and I can’t seem to stop myself kicking and squirming and clawing at peach- and sweat-slicked granite. I don’t want him to stop – I don’t EVER want him to stop this – but I swear if he keeps it up my heart’s going to burst in my chest and I’m going to cum all over our kitchen with my final gasping breath.
All at once, my voice catches hold again and I find myself chanting mindlessly, “Die, Die, oh gods, Die, DIE, DIE!”
“You’re so fucking noisy,” he moans elatedly, swiping one hand through the peaches-and-Die-cream mess on my back and bringing it down to jam two slippery fingers into me unceremoniously. “Come on, Baby, louder. Sing for our neighbors, I want the whole goddamn complex to hear you.”
I oblige, because I can’t seem to think of a good reason not to and it just feels so damn good to wail at the top of my lungs when he affords me only a cursory preparation before replacing his fingers with his dick. It’s a hell of a stretch, but that’s never really been a problem for me. The knowledge that we’re both too lust-drunk to bother with such niceties is always more than enough to negate the minor amount of pain inflicted in these moments. He gives me the space of three deep breaths to adjust before starting to thrust into me wildly, in a broken rhythm that speaks only of mad desperation and an absolute surrender to want. I howl and moan and curse until my voice echoes all around us off the kitchen’s tiled surfaces, this song only he can make me sing spinning chaotically over the bass beat of our hips slapping against one another and his own lower, breathier grunts and groans.
My orgasm takes me by surprise and my voice breaks in the back of my throat, mouth falling open in a silent, gasping cry as I shoot my load all over the cupboard doors. Die continues to labor over me and in my hazy afterglow, I twist my head around watch him. Watch the dark eyes that had been boring into me glaze over, watch the whipcord muscles in his lanky arms flex and strain as he grabs at my hips for leverage, watch him throw his head back and bare a sweaty, elegant neck in ecstasy as liquid heat floods my insides. So fucking beautiful…
He collapses on top of me and I grunt as I’m crushed into the counter. It’s a good thing he’s so damn skinny or I’d kick his ass off. That’s what I tell myself, but I can’t deny the fact that I’m all-but purring as he pants against the back of my neck and languidly runs his tongue over every part of me he can reach, collecting the juice he doused me with. For a few moments, our heavy breathing is the only sound between us, and somehow it’s so peaceful, so right, that I damn near fall asleep here, bent over a sticky, disgusting countertop. Then Die starts to chuckle, quietly at first, then building into a full-on laugh against my shoulder.
“What’s so funny?” I ask warily.
“Waru-momo…”
I choke and sputter a bit and elbow him in the ribs for that truly painful pun, but I can’t help but laugh as well, just because it’s so stupid. He only squeezes me tighter against him and eases us back to fall somewhat gracelessly to the floor, wrapping his legs over mine and biting lazily at my neck a bit, obviously pleased with himself. A sudden, angry hissing from the other side of the kitchen leads him to curse and pull away from – and out of – me suddenly, but I can’t be bothered to move at the moment. Kitchen floor seems like a perfect place for sleeping. He returns a minute later and lays on me again, nuzzling into my hair.
“I burned you some soup,” he murmurs, sheepishly sweet. “In case you didn’t have lunch.”
I close my eyes and smile, warmed by his intentions. “Thank you, Die.”
His lips brush over my ear, whispering conspiratorially, “I was so disappointed when I woke up and you were gone. I stayed up late last night thinking about how I was going to wake you up.”
“Oh?”
“Mmhmm.”
“How’s that?”
“I was going to lube up real quiet-like, roll you on your stomach, and see how far I could get my dick up your ass before you woke up. I bet if I went slow enough, I could have gotten it pretty damn deep.”
I chuckle and sigh wistfully, “Sounds nice.”
He kisses my neck and squirms a bit as if settling in. “I’m sorry I interrupted your story, Baby. I’m listening now, I promise.”
“Huh?”
“Tell me about your day.”
“Oh…”
I blink and recall the seething, bitter frustration I’d been holding onto all morning. All I’d wanted was a quiet, relaxing day at home. Instead, I’m exhausted to the bone, with a sore ass, lying in a pool of sweat, cum, and peach juice in a kitchen that smells like sex and burnt soup, with my insatiable, ill-mannered boyfriend. I yawn and stretch, turning over to use his arm as a pillow.
“Today is just perfect.”
- 1
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Peachy Keen