Welcome to my writing blog, where you will find Tumblr reposts of the works I post on AO3 (both original work and fanfiction). I mainly write ridiculously self-indulgent fanfictions of pieces of media I like. Mostly reader-insert. Mostly smut. Mostly JJBA.
✮ Very much open to feedback and criticism as along as it's constructive! It helps me a lot! ✮
Pick a fic and enjoy! ヽ(o＾▽＾o)ノ
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➽ Most of the dividers I use are made by @cafekitsune, @adornedwithlight, and @firefly-graphics.
➽ Blinkies made on blinkies.cafe.
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✪ BY FANDOMS ✪
⋆ JoJo's Bizarre Adventure (15)
⋆ Chainsaw Man (3)
⋆ Dorohedoro (2)
⋆ Carmilla (1)
⋆ Hooky (1)
⋆ Panty and Stocking with Garterbelt (1)
⋆ No fandom (50)
❂ BY THEMES ❂
⋆ Reader on their period (10) (yeah, that's a whole category in itself)
⋆ Non-smut (3)
⋆ Non-reader-inserts (6)
⋆ ⚢ F/F (12)
⋆ ⚤ F/M (23)
⋆ ⚣ M/M (7)
⋆ 😈 KINKTOBER 2022 (31)
⋆ 😈 KINKTOBER 2023 (21)
✒✒✒ ALL THE FANFICTIONS, UNSORTED ✒✒✒
⋆ Bambi
(F!Narancia x F!reader, 1.8k words, SMUT)
⋆ Blackout bliss
(PSWG, 0.9k words, nsfw joke fic)
⋆ Busy doin' nothin' (add some music to your day)
(Pesci (JoJo) x reader, 2.2k words, SMUT)
⋆ Constant Chill Deep Inside [part 1/2]
(Risotto Nero x reader, 2.3k words, hurt/comfort)
⋆ Constant Chill Deep Inside [part 2/2]
(Risotto Nero x reader, 3.4k words, SMUT)
⋆ Horny Devil
(Power (csm) x F!reader, 6k words, SMUT)
⋆ Horny Devil (Part 2)
(Aki x F!reader x Power (csm), 3.4k words, eventual smut)
Part 2 of Horny Devil, and a remix of [KINKTOBER 2023] ◇ DAY 20: CUCKQUEAN.
🔗 Read it on AO3
"Aki! Fuck off! It's mine! MINE!!!"
The strawberry blonde girl screamed in protest, contorting her body in an effort to free herself from the makeshift ties binding her to the chair. Its wooden feet scraped and struck the floor under her violent jerks. "I'm the one who found it! Who seduced it!! Who brought it here!!!" Her voice was strident like this of a harpy, and bellicose all the same. "You have NO right to take it away from me!! You bastard!!!"
"Watch your mouth, Fiend." Hayakawa hissed at her, his pale cheeks still tinted in red from anger, alarm and physical effort. He turned his head to face you before immediately looking away, as if he had just suddenly become aware of your current state.
You were sitting on the bed, legs bent to your chest— entirely naked. Still trying to process what was happening. 'Fiend'? You looked at the girl tied to the chair. Her baseball cap had fallen from her head and was lying on the floor a couple of feet away; baring two red horns sprouting at the top of her head, sticking out from her pinkish strands... Your blood ran cold as the realisation finally hit you.
"You... You are... You have lied to me..." You stuttered to the Devil, not daring to make full eye contact with her— it?
Aki scoffed. "So you were telling the truth? I'm impressed you managed to seduce such a good-looking person."
'Good-looking'? Despite your predicament and you heart already thumping inside your chest, the indirect compliment sent a rush of blood up your cheeks.
Instinctively, you looked at your neighbour's face.
Dark blue irises behind a jaded gaze— an unusual eye colour when paired with jet black hair, of which some raven strands, too short to be tied up in the straight topknot, fell on his forehead, partially hiding the man's delicate features. Even the dark circles under his eyes gave him an undeniable charm.
You had never observed your neighbour so closely, or at least for so long, before; only walking past him on the passageway, exchanging not much more than a mutual 'hello' before your back turned to each other as you went on in your respective directions. An encounter of which you had until then only retained a bleak complexion and a general weariness, clinging to the silhouette dressed in suit and tie.
And sneakers.
You lowered your gaze to the pair of blue Converse, which were currently soiling the bedroom floor by their mere presence on Hayakawa's feet— a presence indicative of the man's quick responsiveness to seeing an unknown pair of shoes in the entrance of his apartment.
A much needed quality, when hosting none other than a Fiend in your own home.
Speaking of whom: its— her high-pitched voice made itself heard, that once friendly voice which was now sending ghastly shudders down your spine.
"It smells good," she muttered. (You needed a few seconds to realise what — who — the 'it' was.) "And I bet it tastes good..." She risked a hungry glance in your direction; the same look that you had previously mistaken for simple lust, when the girl had lowered herself in front of your bare sex a few minutes ago. A cold sweat trickled down your temples as you realised what terrible death you had narrowly avoided.
Or rather, had been narrowly saved from, thanks to your neighbour's intervention.
A plaid fell on your shoulders.
"Are you okay?" Your saviour asked.
You unfolded your limbs and adjusted the plaid on your body, your bare legs sticking out. "Thank you... Yes, I... I think so. She's a Devil, right?" You tilted your chin toward the horned woman.
Hayakawa nodded. "The Blood Devil."
"Ah." You instinctively looked down to your thighs before swiftly redirecting your gaze to your surroundings, carefully scanning the floor for your discarded underwear. You cringed internally upon feeling the sticky substance gathering between your legs, and very likely staining the sheets underneath.
You had always wondered how people concerned by the matter proceeded when finding themselves in critical circumstances... For instance, when attacked by a Devil. Granted, in your present situation, the threat was apparently under control; your bodily condition more of an embarrassing but minor bother to take care of than a real hindrance to your survival.
Not that it suddenly made the subject all the less awkward to bring up to a near-stranger. You knew you probably shouldn't have held shame for a natural occurrence you couldn't control, but still: What were you supposed to say? 'Excuse me, Mister Hayakawa, I'm currently repainting your bedding in red. Need hygienic protection ASAP. By the way, have you seen my used one? It must still be next to my panties.' The made-up monologue made you smile internally, if of sour comedy.
Menstruating or not, you needed to get dressed up anyway. Finally localising your panties, you stood up from the bed with the intention of picking them up and quickly retreating to the bathroom of the apartment.
Unfortunately, your body was not able to hold a vertical position for long: your legs almost instantly gave up under your weight.
While your conscious brain was still partially numb to the full ambit of death nearly closing its talons around you — instead currently focused on the specific matter of your period —, it seemed that your body, on the other hand, had processed the stakes of the recent events and the ghastly end you nearly avoided way quicker; entering a state of shock without you having much control over it.
Aki's reflexes came into action before you were able to crash on the floor, his arms wrapping around your form and supporting your body in time to cushion your fall back on the bed.
***
A wave of panic hit Aki as he guided his neighbour's trembling form back on the sheets. He usually didn't have to take care of Devil victims: it wasn't in his field of competences, as the Public Safety Commission had a structure dedicated to assist civilians harmed by Devils— be it physically or psychologically.
At least the woman before him fell into the latter category, he tried to reassure himself.
Of course, it had to fall on his direct neighbour. Power rarely half-assed making his life a perpetual series of hassles, always finding new and creative ways to be a nuisance— but this time, she had truly outdone herself.
He let his eyes trail on the hunched back covered by the plaid.
What he knew of the woman sitting on his bed could have fit on a postage stamp. Her sole impact on his life consisted in making him wait a few minutes, standing in front of the French window, for her to finish hanging out her laundry and walk back inside her apartment, before he could finally step outside and onto his own balcony.
He often wondered: would he have acted differently had he worked a different profession? Would he have allowed himself to step in his neighbour's presence— in her field of vision, had he not rubbed shoulders with the stench of Devils and death on a daily basis?
From discussing about it in evasive terms with other Devil Hunters, he knew it was a common feeling within his line of work, to mentally classify one's own being as part of the world of Devils rather than the realm of humanity; to see oneself as barely much more than an expendable trooper, assigned with the additional mission of sparing citizens from the reminder of Devils' existence, something which your own very presence was— Soul figuratively soiled by the proximity with unworldly entities and the violence exerted against them (and more concretely by the contracts with said entities, of course).
A mission he was spectacularly failing at the present.
What would happen now?
The thought of redirecting her to the Commission briefly crossed his mind before he quickly discarded it: he would have to explain what had happened— inevitably putting in trouble Power, him, and consequently Denji (the poor boy having nowhere else to call a home).
No; he had to take care of things by himself this time.
'Things' being the half-naked individual trembling like a leaf on his bed.
Aki's training resurfaced into his mind, in the form of snippets of Himeno's voice: "You really need to learn how to regulate your breathing. Can't let them feed on your fear. It's a life-or-death matter." (A sigh.) "Don't pull that shit ever again." The tone was more one of concern than of true reprimand.
The memory dated from right after Aki's first mission: an encounter with a minor Devil, which had nearly turned into a disaster because of Aki's fall into panic. He remembered feeling his entire body freeze in place and shake like a leaf; his mind perfectly aware of his surroundings, but incapable of sending the mere command of action to his physical sheath— face likely displaying the same dazed expression as the woman sitting before him.
A bittersweet feeling of nostalgia made its way in the Devil hunter's heart at the memory of the authoritative, raspy, yet strangely mothering voice of his mentor. "Let's try again. After me: Inhale..."
"...Exhale," he gently ordered, standing in a squatting position next to the trembling individual. A stuttered breath escaped her lips.
As Aki kept on guiding her breathing into a calm pattern, he noticed that a part of the plaid had slid from her shuddering form, revealing a bare shoulder and breast. Without thinking, he reached for the edge of the plaid with the intention of readjusting it over the naked body; unfortunately, the hurried move caused his hand to brush against the exposed breast.
As soon as he felt and saw his hand brush against the nipple, his heart missed a beat and a feeling of deep mortification immediately seized him. He didn't want the woman to think that he was taking advantage of the situation— for her sake primarily, the orphan he had become at an early age knowing all too well the sickening feeling of distress from being taken advantage of while in a vulnerable and precarious state; a feeling the adult he was didn't want to inflict on anyone. (But also, if he was being totally honest with himself, a bit egotistically for his own sake, as he didn't want to be mistakenly accused of outrageous intentions.)
"Sorry," he blurted out while immediately retreating his hand.
Thankfully, it seemed that the blunder had brought his neighbour out of her panicked state and back to reality. "It's okay," she replied, and even sent Aki a soft smile before she readjusted the plaid herself.
Seeing that the woman took no offence from his involuntary contact, the Devil hunter allowed himself to relax. He placed a hand on her back — a ‘safe’ area, covered by the thick plaid — and began rubbing it up and down.
***
All caught up in trying to redirect your attention back to your breathing — diverted by Aki's accidental contact with your chest —, you almost started upon feeling the weight of his hand against your back.
You mentally castigated yourself when the chaste, consoling gesture of his palm slowly rubbing up and down your spine elicited not-so-platonic feelings in your mind and body.
Indeed, the mere grazing of your nipple by his hand had been enough to ignite back the cinders of your previous passions shared with Power; cinders maintained warm by the agitation and surge of adrenaline caused by seeing Mr Hayakawa not only barge in the room where the Fiend was about to eat you out, but also tackle your sexual partner down on the floor and swiftly tie her up to a chair with some of the clothes lying around.
It certainly didn't help that as observed a minute before, your saviour, now that you had the occasion of seeing him closer and for a prolonged time, revealed himself to be an unequivocally handsome man.
Without fully realising it, you gaped at the pale figure, studying the delicate features imprinted with weariness. Your desire for him was growing with each stroke of his hand against your back, your nipple tingling with the phantom memory of its contact with this very hand. Your aroused mind crafted scenarii of his skin meeting your bare one once again— this time with more intention, more fully, and for a longer moment.
Suddenly, Aki's gaze shifted, meeting yours. You quickly averted your gaze, feeling your cheeks heat up terribly, as if Aki had been able to read your mind — and consequently your erotic fantasies — with this short eye contact.
***
The woman quickly looked away, fleeing his gaze. As a reflex, the Devil hunter did the same, redirecting his eyes to Power— realising that she had been unusually silent in the last minutes.
She was looking at her victim with an indecipherable expression on the face, not quite predatory: or at the very least not in a brute, uncalculated form of it.
Something else was at play under her half-closed eyelids; something Aki wasn't used to seeing in the Blood Fiend, who usually displayed simple, straightforward facial expressions. As he studied Power's features, working his brain in an attempt to unravel what was hidden being them, the answer suddenly materialised in his mind, crystal clear.
Lust.
Power was looking at the woman next to Aki with lust, an appetite of sexual nature brewing behind her focused gaze.
This took Aki aback, as he had never seen Power show and act on other desires than those of eating, sleeping, disobeying, and drinking human blood. But what surprised him even more was the emotion striking his own mind upon the realisation.
Jealousy.
He tried to rationalise the feeling into a sense of duty, a drive to protect his neighbour from the Fiend; but he quickly gave up on this sorry explanation and faced the facts: to his great shame, a more primal part of him saw Power as a potential sexual rival rather than the life-threatening menace he should have.
He adjusted his position in an attempt to regain some composure, but the shift only resulted in making him become aware of the tightness of his pants. A quick glance downward confirmed his fear: the black suit pants were evocatively stretched at the crotch. Great, he thought, bitter. His libido, almost non-existent these last few years, had to choose this critical moment to manifest itself.
It had indeed been a while since the Devil hunter shared a sexual act with someone, or even with himself: too busy, too tired. Especially these last months, with one Devil and one teenager at home— the latter barely less badly-behaved than the first.
He stared again at Power, racking his brain on how to manoeuvre the situation.
The girl-Devil suddenly noticed that she was being watched. She turned her head to look at Aki; her grave, lustful expression shifting into a falsely afflicted one that the man knew all too well.
"C'mon, Topknot..." She whined from her chair. "Can I just... Have one lick between its legs? I won't bite, promise! Nothing more than licking..." She punctuated her plea by trailing her long, hungry tongue on her lips.
***
The Devil's words were enough to throw you back into a state of alert— yet somehow, a small part of your brain still kept enough awareness for your alarm to be tinged with a deep feeling of embarrassment from hearing your former sexual partner literally beg the man next to you for access to your private parts.
Speaking of whom: Hayakawa was no less unaffected by the raunchy request, judging by the pink hue colouring his cheeks. He had interrupted his strokes on your spine when the Fiend started speaking, and you could feel the way his hand tensed and involuntarily pressed itself against your back through the plaid.
"Quiet, Po– Blood Fiend!" He exclaimed, voice reaching the high notes as an effect of his distress and haste to silence the Devil.
It failed miserably as she went on, by no means intimidated. "Actin' like you don't know me? Ya can't even call me by my name? How rude of you, Akiii!" She stretched his name in an unpleasant screech. "You're not going to steal it from me, don't you?" She said while cocking her head to the side. "After all, guys like to lick there too... Even when there's no blood! Do you want to lick there too, Aki?"
Hayakawa's cheeks turned a full crimson— not only from anger. "Where have you learn—"
"Denji's mags," the Devil said, a cocky expression on the face. "So? You're not going to eat it in my place, right? Take my prey away from me when I did all the work? Is that why you saved it?" Her gilded eyes quickly shifted between your form and Hayakawa's: now at him with a beseeching gleam, now at you with a sheen of crave.
If a minute ago the absurd idea that your neighbour could have read your erotic thoughts had faintly crossed your mind before it was brushed off as quickly as it came, this time you truly contemplated the possibility that the Fiend could read your shameful fantasies like in an open book, with how intensely she was staring at you on the moments the quick metronome of her eye motions fell back on your form.
Not able to support such dreadful stare any longer, you turned your head to the side; causing Hayakawa and you to lock eyes once again.
At this instant — as if by some arcane sorcery — a silent, mutual agreement sprouted between him and you.
Perhaps, at that very moment, your mutual sexual energies matched frequency by some yet unknown physical phenomenon; perhaps you both could read the other's lascivious thoughts after all, or at least subconsciously grasp some fragments of it thanks to some kind of feeble telepathic powers... In any ways, the terms of the nonverbal agreement was crystal clear for the both of you.
Hayakawa's hand shifted from its initial position on your back in favour of landing on your bare thigh. The coldness of his hand was not unpleasant against your heated skin. More secretive regions of your body heated up when he began some slow strokes along your limb— this time of an unequivocally less platonic nature.
"Pardon this Fiend's behaviour..." He began, remnants of his previous agitation still lingering in the tone of his voice he tried to maintain calm and poised. "She can be a handful..." He emphasised the last word by gently but firmly squeezing the meat of your thigh. You could feel a slight tremor going through his hand, likely caused by his nervousness. "That's why I think... She should..." His Adam apple bobbed along his throat. "...Be taught a lesson... A psychological one... She..." His breathing was stuttered, hitting your face in a warm sensation. "…Doesn't really understand with corporal punishment... Will you help me?"
"Yes..." You replied in a breath, giving a short nod while looking into Hayakawa's dilated pupils. Yours probably looked the same. "Gladly... If... If it needs to be done..."
He flashed you a little smile of relief— a delightfully awkward one, and he delicately brushed his slightly trembling fingers against your cheek.
He then got on his knees in staccato motions, glancing at you before shyly looking away. He instead turned his head to the Fiend tied to the chair. "I want you to watch very carefully, Power." He said in an authoritative tone, and gently pushed your legs apart with one hand on each knee. "Look at what you're missing by behaving so badly..."
He turned his head back to you— to your bloodied sex now into view, and placed a tender kiss on it.
***
The blood tasted like copper against his lips— a taste he was familiar with, and of a faint tanginess— a musky flavour he had not tasted in a while, and which went straight between his own legs.
A shadow of hesitation briefly made his way into his mind, questioning the appropriateness of what he was about to do; he quickly discarded it by rationalising his actions as a form of compensation— yes, he was currently making amends to the distressed lady for the terrible predicament she had found herself in by cause of his deplorable carelessness. A way of buying her silence to the Commission, hopefully.
His mind like so appeased, he stuck his tongue out and began licking in earnest.
"NO!" Screamed a panicked Power. "No, no Aki, stop! You fucking stop! YOU FUCKING STOP DRINKING MY FOOD!" Her anger was turning into despair, her screams merging into sobs as Aki was now lapping at your cunt like a parched man, blotches of red soon staining his lower face. "YOU FUCKING SCUM! NO!!! NOOO!!!"
Aki's neighbour smells especially tasty today...
While the boys are out, Power can't resist luring– er, inviting you into her lair.
🔗 Read it on AO3
⏩ Read part 2
Implied young adult!reader.
19/03/2025: Minor edits regarding how Reader refers to Aki (Mr Hayakawa).
A delicious, familiar smell reached Power's nostrils, pulling her out of the wreaths of that nebulous half-asleep, half-awake state on which we cling as much as we struggle against during lie-ins. She opened her eyes wide in one go, her Devil sight almost instantly adjusting to the room barely illuminated by the dim sun rays seeping from under the closed curtains. In the same abrupt fashion, she straightened up into a sitting position, disturbing a sleeping Nyako curled up against her chest. The cat, displeased but used to his mistress' abrupt demeanour, let out a short, irked mewling for form, before jumping off the bed and trotting out of the room to attend to some feline business.
Power inhaled deeply, taking in more fully the appetising smell of fresh, healthy blood. Such smell was synonymous with one simple, primal action: feeding. Power knew all too well how to identify a species' odour, and the one she was smelling right now was undoubtedly this of a piece of choice.
A human.
Something in the smell, however, was disconcerting her acute nose. A tangy scent, almost seafood-like, was mingling with the sweet aroma of copper; a scent that she quickly identified, as she often smelled it on her own human body.
Looking between her legs, Power frowned. Fresh blood? In this place? Weird.
Discarding her initial plans of sleeping in while neither Aki or Denji (who were out for the day) could scold her for it, she got up from the mattress, mechanically grabbed the baseball cap lying at the foot of the bed and let the smell guide her steps.
She ended up on the small balcony. There, she only had to turn her head to the side to have the prey in her field of vision. There it was, standing on the neighbouring balcony, leaning on the railing with a hand on its belly and looking at the horizon— or really, at the gray building facing theirs.
Power quickly identified the human as Aki's direct neighbour. She recognised it from the disinterested glances she would catch of it once in a while, of it hanging out its washing on that same neighbouring balcony; or from when it greeted the trio formed by Denji, Aki and her, on the sparse couple of times all four of them happened to circulate on the passageway at the same moment. Power didn't know its age, weight, or for how long it had been Aki's neighbour— and had never cared to know more up to now.
In short, nothing stood out about the biped— at least to Power's eyes, for whom every human was more or less devoid of interest if not fitting into either of the two following categories: a potential prey, or someone she was bound to be around against her will due to Makima's damned schemes.
This morning, Aki's neighbour fell into the first category.
***
You inhaled an ample gulp of air, feeling your abdomen swell up under your palm. Tokyo's air was by no means clean, but its coolness in your sinuses helped entertain the belief of it being a good alternative to the stuffy air of your apartment. With some concentration, you could almost ignore the afterscents of asphalt and exhaust emissions lingering in your nasal cavity. Almost.
The sea air would have probably done you better; however, you had been forced to cancel at the last minute your plans of going to the beach with your friends, a periodic visitor dropping by a few days earlier than expected.
You sighed, rubbing your lower abdomen like you would have done with an unwell pet. At least your insides were clement with you for now, not (yet) unloading crippling degrees of torments. The calm before the storm? You hoped not, crossing fingers for a mild week.
Some motions in your peripheral vision diverted your thoughts from your anatomical condition, and caused you to turn your head to the next balcony. A girl with long, uncombed hair sticking out of a baseball cap was standing there, looking at you with an indecipherable expression on her face.
A handful of seconds were all you needed to place the individual— mostly aided by her strawberry blond hair.
Recently, two odd characters had joined the household of your discreet neighbour, Mr Hayakawa: A teenage boy with shaggy hair and dark circles reaching his navel, and a young woman with golden eyes and long hair dithering between blond and ginger.
A ray of sunshine shone on said hair — courtesy of a pack of gray clouds finally drifting away from in front of the sun —, making the woman in front of you tilt toward the blonde category.
You smiled and waved at her. She remained still for a few seconds, staring at you with the same indecipherable look which could have hidden vibrant interest as much as utter dispassion; eventually, she raised a hand to shoulder level and waved back in an awkward motion.
A handful of equally mumchance seconds went by, before the girl abruptly said: "Name's Power. You?"
Power... You didn't reply right away, a bit taken aback by the designation. Was it a nickname? A foreign name, maybe?
You nonetheless nodded and, with a smile, replied with your own name.
However, showing no signs of acknowledgement of your admittedly succinct introduction, Power simply tilted her head to the French windows and said: "D'you want to come over to my place? Denji an' Aki are gone."
"Denji and Aki?" You parroted.
Power wiggled her hand above her head, gathering her fingers together and gesturing as if she was pulling on some sort of pointed hat. "Aki's the one with the funny topknot. Denji's the ugly boy."
Aki and Denji. Hayakawa Aki, and… Hayakawa Denji?
You simply nodded, settling for this piece of intel— fearing that verbalising your other interrogation would come across as too intrusive.
From what you knew of their interactions based on the noises coming from the other side of the thin walls, family members was the safest guess. The angry outbursts, that you had never heard until then from your quiet neighbour’s mouth, weren’t exactly something expected between simple flatmates; at least not so soon in the cohabitation, or so long and so frequently without it resulting in a break of the deal.
Perhaps the pair of newcomers came to Tokyo to study? It seemed like the capital still had its appeal after all, despite the Devils concentration and the consequent lowering rent prices. Not low enough for Mr Hayakawa’s relatives to live on their own, apparently.
Truth be told, within the passing years, you had come to grow a bit anxious about your polite but sombre-looking neighbour; the feeling greatly fuelled by his tendency of coming home with dressings or casts, or else on crutches, despite his white-collar attire.
The idea of possibly living in the vicinity of a yakuza wasn’t the most securing thing— as testified by the piece of opaque tape you had stuck on your peephole, in an attempt to jam the hindering reflex of antsily looking through the magnifying opening each time you heard the sound of footsteps passing by your door and to your neighbour’s. Thankfully, during that paranoid period, only the brown uniform of delivery persons had been caught by your eyes through the small, round frame, instead of the dreaded tattooed men from your imagination.
Would visits of the latter cause as much ruckus as the trio, whose nightly concerts of raised voices and stomping were barely muffled by the cheap walls separating your apartments? Since their occurrences, the fictive images of the Yakuzas in your brain, once credible and forbidding, were now fantastical and faraway wanderings of your mind; chased by the manifestations of more commonplace interactions— hence why, perhaps, the evening disturbance didn’t irritate you as much as it logically should.
Some evenings, when the voices had a more cheerful ring to them than usual, the desire to join their pack seeped into your heart, suddenly making you more aware of the solitude you might have grown a bit too accustomed to. You had often fantasised about going to their door and raising a hand to the bell, which high-pitched ring twined your own; the other hand holding some goods bought at a nearby bakery and ready to be shared between four people.
What would Mr Hayakawa– Aki’s place look like? Were the furniture laid out the same way as in yours?
Was there a lot of decorating? Was it deeply personal, reflective of aspects of his personality known only to his closest acquaintances? Maybe had he a fondness for disco music, and vintage 70’s furniture filled the space with their curvy patterns and sprightly colours while the walls were hidden under a tapestry of vinyls?
No; the only sound you had ever heard coming from Mr Hayakawa’s apartment before the coming of the other two was the TV’s muffled monologue, your neighbour apparently favouring the verb over the melody.
Coming back to the yakuza hypothesis: was the other side of the wall hosting a variety of weapons, ranging from old-school katanas, shurikens and nunchakus to Austrian glocks and automatic carbines? Were boxes of white powder and little pills of many colours waiting stacked in one of the bedrooms?
Or else (and more probable), was the apartment disappointingly impersonal, generic items bought at a generic furniture store brand to fill some empty spaces on the shelves?
These frequent wanderings of your mind were what led you to accept Power’s invitation to ‘come over’ at Mr Hayakawa’s apartment, as unexpected as the offer had been. You couldn’t let the opportunity to finally satiate your curiosity and confirm or disconfirm the pictures created by your mind slip through your fingers.
At your positive answer, Power’s lips stretched and parted to reveal an awkward but toothy grin of yellowish teeth. The range of teeth quickly disappeared, however, as the young woman suddenly frowned and brought the collar of her T-shirt to her nose. You watched her nostrils subtly dilate while she was sniffing the fabric, before she released it and looked back at you.
“Jus’ gimme, like, twenty minutes,” she simply said before swiftly crossing the French window and going back inside.
Twenty-one minutes later, you were standing in front of The Hayakawas’ front door, freshened up and a box of dorayakis(*) in hand.
(*)Japanese cake made of two small pancake-like patties and a sweet red bean paste filling:
Your pointer didn’t even press the button of the doorbell that the door suddenly opened in one brisk motion. You barely had time to catch your breath before a beaming Power cheerfully shouted: “come in!”
Having discarded the oversized T-shirt and sleeping shorts she was previously wearing, the young woman was now sporting a more fitted pair of black shorts paired with a green tank top, the thin coral straps of a bra visible next to the thicker straps of the upper garment. The long strands of her hair, adopting a ginger hue in the shadow of the narrow corridor, were now docilely flowing down her back, neatly combed— still slightly wet at the ends. You couldn't determine if the colour was natural or not, her baseball cap still sitting on top of her head — this time turned backward — and still hiding some possibly darker roots.
Barely giving you time to take off your shoes, Power grabbed your hand as soon as the second sole hit the floor and pulled you through the corridor and into the small living space. Disorientation seized your brain for a fraction of seconds when you saw the kitchen alcove on the left, its counter frame partially hiding the left side of the living room: the apartment’s layout was the same as yours, except mirrored.
Still pulled forward by Power’s hand, your body made a non-instinctive turn to the left in order to face the coffee table at the centre of the room.
“Sit down,” she ordered more than she offered while putting her hands on your shoulders and firmly pushing you downward. “I’ll make you somethin’. You, huh, just wait there,” she said before turning around and rushing to the kitchen space.
Now seated on one of the flat cushions of the living room, you put the box of dorayaki on the table and waited as requested by Power by letting your gaze wander around the room; savouring the novelty which was the symmetrical inversion of a familiar setting.
Which side of the mirror was the best? The Hayakawa’s or yours?
In order to come to a fair answer, you would have to imagine your own furniture, trinkets and other decorative elements in place of your neighbour’s not-so-surprisingly generic interior. Right in front of you, in place of a retro ball chair, stood an unassuming tube TV, tallying with the sound ambience pre-cohabitation; at its left, on top of a cabinet, a square tray was tidily holding a kettle, three cups placed upside-down and some packets of tea and ground coffee. Its content, as well as its accessibility and readiness, directly echoed the dark rings under Mr Hayakawa’s eyes.
As it happened, Power skirted around the counter at a rapid pace, just to stop in front of the tray. She busied herself in front of it, her back hiding her actions from your view. You heard a faint ‘click’ and the kettle activated itself while the strawberry blonde girl rushed back to the kitchen space.
On the wall behind you, a paper titled “Cleaning chore charts” which was displaying the names of the three inhabitants dispatched in cells — the days in vertical and the chores in horizontal — replaced the sharp and menacing shurikens from your imagination.
If you happened, lead by the sound of scraping and clinking, to look on your left, you could see Power disturb the neat alignment of jars and bottles of condiments on the counter while busying herself on the motive of your waiting.
Said scraping and clicking came to an end when she exited the kitchen space with a plate sporting two sandwich pieces: one small, triangle-shaped, and a bigger, pentagon-shaped. You inferred that the two ought to be the same size and shape but that unfortunately, a square toast’s diagonal was a bit too difficult of an aim for your hostess.
The kettle whistled, and Power promptly walked to it and poured the hot water into two of the cups before bringing them both to the table. She then heavily dropped on the cushion at your left and looked at you deadpanned for two or three seconds, before she suddenly smiled and loudly exclaimed: “enjoy your meal!”
The next five minutes were a rather peculiar experience, in line with the asymmetrical sandwiches and the blades of tea floating at the surface of your cup (were tea balls strictly prohibited in the Hayakawa household?). After a bite of the small triangular sandwich, you tactfully brought up your dorayakis, not fully convinced by the… original combination of ingredients hitting your taste buds.
Power flashed a large grin at the offer and enthusiastically drew one of the small cakes from the box. She made short work of the transparent wrapping protecting the good with one swift bite-and-pull of her pointy teeth, before closing said teeth on the round snack.
You squinted your eyes despite yourself, perhaps to compensate the fact that they were unable to look away from the ghastly scene taking place before them: in a fascination akin to morbid curiosity, you watched Power ferociously maul the poor dorayaki, the grisly spectacle reminiscent of the most gruesome scenes from Assault on Giant— a series popular among the youth at the moment. This voracious giant with strawberry blond hair, you doubted even the brave Ivel Mannacker would manage to vanquish.
At the end of the strike, all that remained was a pile of soft crumbs on the surface table, which Power gathered and scooped with her hand just to bring to her mouth.
And then there was none.
The young woman licked her lips with satisfaction before she glanced at you and froze, as if suddenly remembering your presence. She straightened her back, took a tissue from the box on the table and proceeded to politely dab the edges of her mouth, which did little to clean up the traces of her carnage.
“Hm. Thanks for the snack,” she said, discarding the crumpled tissue. “It tasted really good. Better than vegetables, that’s for sure…” She scrunched her nose, her face turning into one of disgust. “Aki always forces me to eat some, but I hate it! Tastes like bird shit!” Her face shifted once again, a malignant smile on the lips. She snapped her fingers. “Y’know what? I should put bird shit in his food. Give him a taste of his own… His own food!… Yes, that’s what I should do!”
“Sure, uh… Well! You know, there’s red bean inside dorayakis,” you replied, not wanting to incentivise Power’s vengeful thoughts of coprophagic nature against your neighbour. “I think that counts as vegetable.”
Power’s smile faded away, and her eyes widened. You cringed internally, already bracing yourself for the consequences of your social blunder. Some truths were better left unsaid, especially with unpredictable personalities such as the girl in front of you…
…Unpredictable, or maybe just hard for you to read, as Power burst into laughter: “The face Aki’ll pull when I’ll tell him I ate vegetables today! Of my own will!” She exclaimed. “It’ll knock him for six!”
She then gave you a wide, genuine smile, enhanced by sparkling eyes. Against all odds, you had chosen the right dialogue option, and Power seemed to appreciate your company. You smiled back: although a bit eccentric, the young woman was strangely endearing, and past the initial awkwardness, it would have been be in bad faith than to say the moment was disagreeable on your end.
“Wanna listen to some music?” She asked out of the blue. “I love music!”
You barely nodded in agreement that Power had already jumped on the radio sitting on top of the cabinet to turn it on. But instead of a song, a solemn voice emerged from the speaker: “...—olent attack of another devil, which caused the destruction of three houses in Nth district. Four bodies have been found, among them one child; at present, firefighters are still searching for others among the rubble. While the devil has been taken care of by the Public Safety Commission, the damage–”
The voice was suddenly cut off by a press of Power’s finger, and was instead replaced by the tune of some giddy chart hit.
Despite the bubbly pop fluttering around the room, you felt as if a bucket of cold water had fallen on your shoulders.
Truth being told, being constrained by circumstances into your condo and not having to wander all the way to the beach wasn't so big of a disappointment: with devil attacks intensifying more than ever, ravaging the streets of Tokyo… You had already reduced outings as much as possible, avoiding public transports and populated areas.
With a rampant fear gradually invading your day-to-day life, and an impossibility for you to leave the capital at the present, you had eventually taken the route of burying your head in the sand: avoiding the news and other forms of media, growing afraid to even be afraid at the risk of your fright attracting devils.
These simple words, coming from the stern voice of the newsreader, had violently pulled you back to a reality you were desperately trying to ignore. A feeling of dread fell on your shoulders like a block of concrete: danger was everywhere, ready to maul you at every turn of the city— At your own home, even.
"You okay?"
Power's voice made you snap out of your daze. Realising you had been staring into space this whole time, you looked at her and met her concerned face. "Ya don't like this song? It's okay, there's plenty of other stations—"
"No… No, I like it. It's…" You shook your head negatively and sighed, trying to drive away your dark thoughts— With very little result.
Power's finger pulled away from the button of the radio, and the girl sat down next to you. Her inquisitive face prompted you to offload your anguish.
"The devils…" You began. "The surge in attacks, all over Tokyo… All over the world… It's really been gnawing at me. I mean, like all of us, I guess…" You shrugged, dejected. "Maybe it's the effect of living all by myself for the first time, but… I feel really paranoid by all of this. My world has been getting so small lately, when I'm at that age where it should be getting bigger…"
"I've met devils before, y'know." Your eyes widened just as Power's lips stretched, revealing her pointy teeth. "They're actually not that scary. Some of'em are even real' weak. I was able to crush them with a single punch, like this–"
The kettle tilted dangerously when Power's fist hit its side, her other hand swiftly grabbing the item and stabilising it just in time.
"Ouch! Shit, shit shit!–" She quickly pulled her hand away from the hot glass and blew on her palm.
You chuckled: "so as long as it's not the kettle Devil, you can defeat them just with your fist? That's pretty impressive."
You didn't know whether to trust Power's claim or not; maybe the girl was watching too much cartoons. Regardless, seeing someone tackle the dreaded topic in such a lighthearted tone eased your anguish, if momentarily.
The melody ended, replaced by the next song. Another upbeat hit, this time dating back to a few years ago; a classic of your teen years, bringing you back to simpler times…
Suddenly feeling lighter, you got up and pulled on Power's arm, prompting her to stand up too.
With some hip sways, shoulder rolls and head nods, you got into the tempo, silently inviting your host to do the same. Not to be outdone, she gladly joined the dance, throwing one arm around and holding her cap in place with the other while her hair swayed right to left in strawberry-blond waves, in tune with the song.
You two began dancing in the small living room, the verve in your steps only restrained by a subconscious habit born from condo life— one indispensable to insure good terms with one's downstairs neighbour (although one could doubt, in Aki and his roommate's case, of the salvageable-ness of the relationship).
A spin, however, perhaps a bit too enthusiastic and poorly controlled, made you trip and fall right onto Power. Before the impact made you both hit the ground, two arms wrapped around your body and suddenly stopped its momentum.
At this moment, time froze; you remained a few seconds in Power's arms, not daring to move if even one finger. The strength wrapped around your limbs took you by surprise, especially in contrast with the slenderness of the arms which exerted it: unexpectedly, Power seemed to be stronger than she looked. This discovery, paired with the warmth of her chest flushed against yours, made you a bit dizzy.
Eventually, you regained control of your own body and straightened up, reluctantly quitting the woman's embrace.
In a flustered state, it took a few seconds for your brain to come up with the idea of apologising for the collision; but just as you opened your mouth to apologise, Power forestalled you.
"You smell good."
The mere three words, blurted out in a low, poised voice, unnerved you further. You could only stutter in response:
"R-really?"
A positive hum came from the woman's throat.
"Well… Hah, thank you. You do too," you added, feeling your cheeks heat up.
The answer was genuine: despite having evidently showered a few minutes ago, Power's natural scent was beginning to resurface, reaching your nostrils during the sudden embrace: a delicate aroma— the middle notes of her skin, not yet overpowered by sweat or outdoor emanations, mixed with the tamely sweet smell of the doriyaki crumbs lingering on her cheeks.
"D'you like women?"
This question, simple yet parlously charged, was the fatal blow. Power's eyes were riveted on you, oozing with candour and expectation; with great effort, you mentally recollected yourself and opted to answer as confidently and bluntly as your host— Or at the very least to try.
"Yes," you replied, doing you best to ignore the distressed beat of your heart hammering inside your chest. "Do you?"
With a delicateness which caught you off guards, she took your hands in hers.
"Yeah."
Her eyes had not left yours, and didn't until your lips touched.
You couldn't help but tighten your grip around her hands when her tongue invited itself into your mouth; she squeezed them back in return, and your own tongue naturally found its way between her parted lips.
The inside of Power's mouth tasted like red bean paste, with an aftertaste of minty toothpaste. While exploring further, your tongue brushed against her surprisingly pointy teeth. A shiver ran down your spine at the sharp texture; of alarm or excitement, you couldn't exactly pinpoint which.
When you parted, Power bore a wide smile. “Seriously. You smell so good.” The remark flattered your self-esteem once again: what better praise than to be complimented on your scent, moreover by a natural beauty like Power?
She grabbed your hand and gently pulled you to another room. In case you couldn’t have already deduced its function from the fact that three people lived in this two-bedrooms apartment, an unmade (but decidedly comfortable-looking) bed was taking up a good portion of the room. Some magazines were scattered on the floor, with scantily-dressed covers seducing the potential reader with exaggerated poses and cheeky expressions.
Probably following your gaze and noticing the incriminating material, Power rushed to crouch and gather the magazines, probably with the aim of putting them away; but finding nothing more than already full cardboard boxes in close proximity, she opted for throwing over the mags some of the many clothes laying rumpled all over the floor.
Her ‘rearranging’ done, she turned around and sheepishly grinned at you: “…you’re way hotter than them, heh.”
You didn't have the opportunity to revel too much in the compliment, as Power abruptly stood up and pushed you by the shoulders to sit on the bed. A slander hand reached for your bottom garment but stopped midway; after two seconds of immobility, it deviated on the side to finally settle on the sheet, next to your thigh, copying the other hand.
Thus, Power’s stretched arms were framing your thighs, her upper half propped on her hands and her eyes right at level with yours.
Despite the proximity, the posture you were in, and Power’s amber stare riveted into yours, you felt surprisingly at ease.
The softness of the sheets; the quiet rays of sunshine penetrating inside the room into clear square shapes, trimmed by the straight, half-opened curtains; the feminine, yet — and — animalistic aroma coming from the bed sheets, cocoon holding remains of Power’s natural scent before she dimmed it through water and soap… A combination of elements which put you at ease— if perhaps was it not your own mindset the active source of comfort, casting a favourable meaning on whatever your senses caught.
As pleasant as this mere moment was, though, you still wanted more.
You opened your mouth to say something but Power forestalled you once again, shifting and climbing onto the bed. The mattress slightly rose back up on each side of your thighs when she withdrew her hands, just to heavily sag again under the weight of her own legs, and of her backside resting on your lap. You noticed how surprisingly light she was, despite the strength with which she had caught you earlier; she was probably all lean muscles, despite having been blessed by nature with a generous bosom which was accentuating her hourglass figure.
An asset which she was visibly aware of, as she stuck out her chest and seductively fondled it though the green fabric. It was obvious she was groping herself like so for your visual enjoyment, grabbing the roundnesses a little too tight, her fingers a little too claw-like; not taking the time to support the supple weights in a self-pleasurable manner, more so focused on manipulating them into sensual movements than on truly caressing herself. (At this moment, your thoughts redirected to the smutty magazines on the floor; a spike of bitterness piercing through amidst the bubble of intimacy.)
To your relief, however, Power freed her hapless breasts and reached for your wrists, lifting them and effectively placing your hands on her torso. She looked at you with inquisitive eyes, both gauging your incoming reaction and silently demanding one. It didn’t take you long to fulfil her unspoken request: carefully, you activated your hands, sliding your palms under the round shapes and extending your thumbs away from the other fingers and toward Power’s solar plexus to hold the weights more fully. Right above, Power had tucked her chin and was following your ministrations with attentive eyes; pleased by the attention, and confident in your capacities (at least relatively to Power's), you let your fingers slide up and emerge from underneath the curve of her breasts just to teasingly graze her nipples— or at least against where they should have been underneath the two layers of fabric. You decided to give a teasing goodbye squeeze, with the intention of momentarily quitting her breasts just to make them more accessible to you; but just as you did so, you couldn’t help but notice the surprising firmness under your palms, way more important than what two layers of fabric would provide. You frowned, and carefully squeezed again: the sensation against your hands made you think of perhaps breast implants, or…
You heard a laugh, followed by a: “of course, you’re not as dumb as Denji.”
With that, Power gently shooed your hands away and plunged hers under her tank top through the collar just to pull out, one after the other, two beige pads which soon hit the floor with a soft sound. The (now oversized) bra followed them at the foot of the bed, a coral addition to the multiple fabrics already piled up on the hardwood.
You didn’t have time to reflect on her words and on the nature of her relationship with Denji that she hungrily put your hands back on her (smaller) bosom. This time, you finally met her nipples, small bumps nestled into your palms which sent a rush of arousal through your guts.
You reactivated your hands just like before, slowly massaging the soft flesh through the single layer of fabric. Power sighed, closing her eyes. “You’re way better at this than Denji, das’ for sure.”
You smiled to yourself, the praising nature of her words helping you cast aside the thoughts of your possible complicitousness in adultery.
Eventually, Power decided to reciprocate, bringing her hands to your chest. A sharp pain surged through your bosom; the claw-like hands had struck again, this time with your tender breasts as victims instead of the impervious breast pads.
"Ouch!" You scrunched your face in pain, which caused the vice on your chest to loosen. "Too rough!… Be more gentle, please…"
"Sorry," Power said with a contrite pout. Her hands stayed still, simply resting on your breasts, while she tuck her chin back to observe your ministrations.
More than willing to provide some visual (and physical) instructions, you slowed down the pace of your fondles: cupping the delicate breasts and lifting them in slow motion, then letting them come back down while supporting their fall; letting your thumbs wander upward and tease the buds of her nipples through the green fabric.
You felt your own bosom being lifted in the same manner, just to be carefully lowered like one would have done with a precious vase.
Focused, Power began to mirror your motions, replicating each of your caresses on your own body. A delicious exchange began, in which you revelled through each and every of its apsects: the dynamic of being in position of power over Power (hah) herself after she had until then been the one taking the lead in your interactions; the sensation of manipulating her hands like you would have done with a puppet's; the two pleasures succeeding, first the visual one of caressing a body you both desired and empathised with, then following close the sensorial concretisation of some erotic sensations you had planned, implemented, and expected; each fondle of your partner's hand a reward.
You still hadn't forgotten your initial plans of making Power's body more accessible. Within minutes, you both found yourselves bared before the other, your respective upper garments scrunched up and sitting right above your breasts.
From the moment your bosom had come into view, Power had done nothing but stare at them, eyes wide and mouth agape, as if they were the first organic pair she ever had before her eyes— which was probably the case, although the idea did nothing to diminish how flattered you felt from the shameless gawking.
With Power's soft skin and pink nipples now fully accessible, you intensified the fondles, allowing yourself to toy with the two curves with more fervour at the risk of your partner doing the same; however, as you were kneading her flesh while the hardened buds rested at the junction between your middle and index fingers, the woman's hands were still lying still, resting on her sides.
You paused your actions to check up on your partner. "Power? Is everything—"
Your were never able to complete your sentence as suddenly, in a swift motion, you were being pushed backward and against the bed by two hands on your shoulders.
Power accompanied your fall by leaning forward, placing her body parallel to yours; a brief eye contact, and your lips were back on each others. Power’s enthusiasm made up for her sloppiness: you melted into the messy open-mouthed kiss, wrapping your hands around her waist.
When you parted, chins covered in saliva, the woman crawled backward and away from you. You raised your head just to see and feel her fingers searching for the hem of your lower garment. Suddenly, the thought of some quite important matter resurfaced inside your mind like a submarine-launched torpedo. “Wait… Wait, Power…”
The latter looked up at you, her hands stilling. You swallowed your saliva before explaining: “I forgot to tell you… I’m on my period.”
Power paused. And frowned. “Your… Period, uh…”
More so than repulse, it was mostly a feeling of confusion which seemed to have seized Power at the moment. Remembering your first thought upon hearing her uncommon name— about its possibly foreign origin, you tried to explain the situation through more evocative terms: “Yeah… You know, my… My monthlies. I’m bleeding, uh, down there...” You pointed at your crotch, giving an awkward smile.
“Oh!” A light bulb seemed to appear above Power’s head, before she shrugged. “Yeah, I know. I know that you’re bleeding.”
Inside your mind, a preliminary confusion quickly made way for panic. Straightening up, you hastily removed your bottom garment and spread it under your eyes, turning it around and anxiously inspecting it under every angle.
Confusion reared its head back: no blood stain.
“How did you know?” You asked Power, who had meanwhile simply observed your goings-on sat on the side. She shrugged once again; stayed silent for a few seconds, looked to the side; eventually, smiled and winked. “Feminine intuition. Don’t worry ‘bout it”.
This apparently shut the conversation as Power climbed down the bed and knelt before it, right in front of you.
In a swift motion, off went your underwear, while your top was discarded all the same by your own hands.
Framed by your legs, Power’s amber irises shone of a rapacious glare; her eyes riveted on your crotch, bare and at her mercy. Her warm, stuttering breath grazed your sensitive flesh. Your heart hammered inside your chest; not only from the buzzing expectancy, or from the electric arousal, but also from a more obscure sentiment, akin to this of a trapped prey about to be devoured…
Power licked her lips. She stuck her tongue out…
Some hurried, panicked noises made you simultaneously turn your heads toward the door. Mr Hayakawa appeared in the door frame; aghast, pupils as small as pinheads.
♤ DAY 26: BLOOD PLAY (Carmilla Karnstein/Laura [Carmilla]) ♤
✎ 3.2k words
The following account has been recovered after Laura H.'s death, in the form of torn pages stuck between the last page and the back cover of a diary. It is no surprise as to why Laura had opted to elude such events within the recollection of her encounter with the vampire, given their highly wanton nature.
The night following this dreadful morning which had seen my dear friend's brief disappearance, Carmilla presented herself at my door and formulated a request which surprised me greatly, for it was contradicting all of the sleeping habits she had adopted in our house until now.
"Laura!" She exclaimed once I let her in. "Laura... If only you knew the terror which presently claws at my heart..."
"What happened?" I asked, feeling her distress transfer to me. "Did something happen to you? Should we call papa?"
She shook her head, and her heavy, dark strands swung against her shoulders and upper arms. "Nothing... Nothing, but an awful anxiety... After waking up this afternoon, my anguish only grew stronger and stronger as the sun declined and the darkness of the night replaced its light... Just on my way to your room, each shadow of the corridor kindled dread within my soul..."
"My dear Carmilla, I think I can sympathise with your feelings just as much..." I was telling the honest truth: I dreaded going to sleep tonight, more than ever, even with the presence of the servant assigned to stay by my side.
Her dainty hands suddenly grabbed mine, and she squeezed them with a force which took me by surprise: for her grip was remarkably strong, way more than I would have pictured her delicate hands capable of, to the point of hurting mine. I was about to complain, when Carmilla exclaimed in a supplicating voice: "Oh, Laura, dear Laura! Sleep in my room tonight! We will both feel comfort in each other’s presence... And the servant will still be guarding my door from the outside."
I immediately accepted, all too thrilled by the perspective of sharing a night with my secretive friend. After informing Madame Perrodon and my father of where I was going to sleep tonight, I joined Carmilla inside her stately room.
There, I detailed its decor with a fascinated eye. If the room used to intimidate me prior to the young woman's arrival, it was now enmeshed with the dulcet mystery of her incontestable aristocratic origins, and the consequent nobility which was engraved in each of her features.(*)
The latch clicked in a curt, metallic clash of mechanics as she turned the key into the lock, sealing the four walls which would be ours for the night. We both climbed on her large bed and slipped under the heavy covers. Their soothing weight, as well as Carmilla's presence, lulled me into sleep almost immediately after I bid my dear friend good night.
***
I opened my eyes in the middle of the night. I find myself quite unexpectedly in a peaceful state of mind, miles away from the terror which had clinged to my soul the day before.
The curtains were half-opened, allowing some translucent moonbeams to penetrate the room. We had forgotten to draw them completely before going to sleep—or was it intentional on Carmilla's part? Perhaps her sleep was so brittle that it was frequently disturbed in the middle of the night, and so she left her curtains ajar like so for the moon to keep her company?
My hypothesis, however, was impaired by her waking hour: wouldn't she inevitably be disturbed by sunlight with the curtains opened?...
I turned to my friend. She was still sound asleep, in a most guileless position: laying on her back, with her arms out of the blankets and composedly resting on her stomach.
I couldn't resist nestling against Carmilla's sleeping form. The feeling of her warm and delicate body against mine soothed me greatly. I closed my eyes and opened my other senses to fully relish the moment: the tickle of her thick and velvety hair against my cheek; the delicate, feminine scent of her body; the regular, flute sound of her breathing...
I opened my eyes again to look at Carmilla's peaceful features. Her lips were thinly parted, and I could feel her warm breath against my skin as I brought my fingers very close to her mouth.
As if she was too contemplating Carmilla's beauty, the moon had casted her beams on my friend's face, right on her eyes; dressing her in a white ball mask.
Irritated by the celestial body's intrusion, which I feared might awaken Carmilla—and perhaps a bit jealous at the idea of another entity seeking the pure and guileless view of my dear friend—, I raised my hand and placed it in a way as to disturb the passage of the moonbean; trying to overtake as much of the lunar mask as my petite hand could with its dark shadow.
My attempt at protecting Carmilla's slumber failed: her eyelids twitch before opening on languid, eerie eyes.
She straightened up listlessly and sat on the bed. There, she turned her head to look at me. Her expression filled me with anguish more than fear—an arguably more harrowing sentiment when a loved one's ire is the cause—, as it was an expression of callous disdain, far remote from the gentle face of deep complicity she usually displayed in my company. Was she holding me responsible for her waking, and resented me terribly for it? The dreadful idea that Carmilla might detest me, even for a minute, pained my heart immensely, as if a claw-like hand was sinking its sharp nails into the red, elastic muscle.
However, affliction quickly left my soul when I realised that Carmilla wasn't looking at me with contempt like I had thought at first: in fact, she wasn't even looking at me. Her glazed eyes, I came to understand, were those of someone still asleep— but whose body, by some yet unexplained trick of the brain, had escaped from inertness and was now set into motion despite its soul's unconsciousness.
I waited with bated breath, propped on one elbow as I observed my friend attentively. For about a minute she remained still, her lacklustre eyes still turned to me.
But suddenly she shifted and lay back on the bed, this time turned on her side. She drew the heavy quilts back from my body in one swift motion as she would have a single layer of linen sheet, before reaching for my waist. There she laid her hand for some long seconds, before she began some slow strokes along my side.
I didn't dare move if only my little finger, having heard of the measures one shall observe when in presence of a somnambulist: above all, to not awake the individual with a start, for the shock would trigger fatal afflictions such as heart attack or seizure.(**)
Eventually, on a downward stroke, instead of going the other way in the continuous back and forth, her small hand carried on along my side. Through the fabric of my nightgown, it climbed over the bony curve of my hip, then went down the slope of my thigh. It reached my knee and, at the same time, the hem of my night dress.
Before I knew it, the hand had shifted direction and was climbing back up my thigh and hip, this time dragging my nightgown with it.
The cool air of the room against my bared skin made for an offbeat contrast with the warmth of her hand. The latter touch set off some peculiar whirling sensations in my stomach; the same which bloomed sometimes when I was reading some particularly tender-hearted scenes from the few romance novels at the library—except this time said sensations were amplified by ten.
Carmilla's hand stopped at my navel, leaving the lower part of my body exposed.
Past the surprise, I realised that oddly enough, the idea of Carmilla seeing my body disrobed wasn't unsettling to me. Of course, I wasn't unaware of the most rudimentary social norms which teaches us the unbecoming nature of being undressed before a friend—especially for two ladies of our rank. I knew I should have felt embarrassment and discomfort at the prospect of being exposed from the navel down in this room, next to my dear friend. But in reality, none of these emotions traversed me and made the situation dreadful, if only the eventuality of troubling Carmilla's heart had she happened to see me unclad.
A great shame consumes my soul as I remember my disgraceful thought that night; but I would brazenly lie shall I deny that at this very moment, I prayed for Carmilla's sleepwalking to carry on.
Suddenly, her form shifted. The next moment her face was above my hip, her hands on each side of the square of skin she seemed to stare at with her lacklustre eyes.
Her next move was so fast, and so unexpected, that I didn't have time to react and even attempt to dodge the sudden pricks of her teeth sinking into my hip. I let out a half-muted whine, barely contained by the fear of waking my friend up and possibly hurting her much more than she was hurting me presently.
The hunchback's words resurfaced inside my mind, as clear as if I had heard them only minutes ago, with every rough enunciation of his broken German: "The sharpest tooth,—long, thin, pointed, like an awl, like a needle!"
In that he hadn't lied. Carmilla's teeth punctured my skin as easily as she had a block of butter. I felt before I saw the trail of blood trickling down the cleft joining my thigh and lower abdomen—quickly stopped by Carmilla, whose teeth promptly quitted my bruised flesh before she readjusted herself to collect the slim stream of blood with her tongue.
Tremors coursed through the surface of my skin like the flank of a horse shooing some fly on its coat under the tickle of Carmilla's tongue wriggling against me like a wet slug—although the painful pulse at my hip directed me more to a leech. What peculiar dream possessed her mind for her to act in such a way? Was she incarnating one of those blood-drinking bats from South America papa read me about in a book of biological science?
Eventually, she withdrew from my hip and straightened up. The moonbeam cast its full white light on her pale face, displaying a blood curdling—howbeit bewitching—portrait of the sleeping lady: her glazed eyes stared at the distance, as if observing some impalpable elements invisible to the mortal eye; a thin trail of blood poured from the side of her mouth and gathered beneath her chin in a crimson drop, threatening to fall and soil her white nightgown.
I couldn't detach my eyes from this eerie yet ravishing picture.
As I was gazing at my friend, direly enthralled, other words resurfaces into my mind, this time from Mademoiselle De La Fontaine, dating from the night the carriage all but threw my dear Carmilla to our doorstep.
Nights where the moon shone bright and full were related to high spiritual activity, and affected dreams... I remembered the ghastly story of Mademoiselle’s mariner cousin, who a simple dream under the bright moonlight altered the features in an irreversible manner.
I suddenly feared for my Carmilla, and contemplated removing her from the hazardous beam falling on her face at the risk of disturbing her sleep; for in my troubled mind, the bright moon seemed immensely more nefarious than a heart attack or a seizure. (To this day, I deeply blush out of shame when I remember these senseless thoughts, unfit for the progeny of my very reasonable father.)
Only just the thought grazed my mind that suddenly, Carmilla was back on me.
Although I hadn't diverted my eyes from her form, I didn't see her move: one moment she was sitting straight and still, the other she was at my hip again—almost pouncing on me like a big cat. The force of the impact compelled my body to roll sideways and lay on its back.
Likely influenced by my father's propensity to rational thinking (at long last!), I conjectured a connection between Carmilla's daily languor and her nightly verve; but my beginning of a thought was cut short by the familiar sensation of Carmilla's wet tongue back on my skin.
This time, the supple organ didn't stop at the crease joining my abdomen and thigh like before; instead pursuing its path down to my groin.
I was stunned, unable to move a limb. The foreignness of the situation—its surrealness even, had paralysed my body in such a way that I could only passively witness Carmilla's aberrant activity.
Her face was now between my legs, its lower part half-concealed by the blond curls blooming on my lower regions. Without delay, she began giving ferocious licks at my inguen, her fierce tongue hitting the side of my labia in the midst of its hungry strikes.
Terribly abashed, I diverted my gaze from the outrageous scene before me. This is how I noticed that the drying trail of blood starting from my hip had trickled down to the crease of my thigh and lower abdomen, only to get lost where Carmilla's tongue was currently directing its assault.
Suddenly, the strikes of her tongue shifted to the side; and to my bewilderment, Carmilla began licking directly at the inlet of my most secret place.
Despite myself, shameful spasms of voluptuousness seized my core. In the position she was in, Carmilla's dainty nose was pressing against a delightful spot of my anatomy, each pressing nudge against it sending rushes of pleasure up my spine.
A treble moan escaped my mouth, and I heard it as if coming from another person and not from me. I immediately pressed my hand against my mouth; as if such manifestations on my part would comprise in condoning the egregious situation happening at the present.
As it stretched under the moon's gaze, my body grew more and more sensitive, each lick and nudge of Carmilla more delightsome. At one point, spontaneously I reached a hand to Carmilla's head—only to withdraw my limb before my fingers could graze her dark hair. What was I doing? Not content with approving of the shameful deeds with my voice, I was now about to encourage them with my actions!... I began to think that perhaps the bright, corrupting moon was possessing me instead of Carmilla!
I realised at that instant that I had forgotten to say my prayers before going to bed, too elated at the idea of sleeping alongside my friend, and so did Carmilla—but was it even in her habits, I thought, remembering her sacrilegious words from the day the funeral procession passed by? Had we allowed a nefarious spirit to settle in the room and disturb our rest? To think that my nighttime prayers could have at least partially made for Carmilla’s omissions, and that I had not only missed the opportunity, but also worsened the matter with my own forgetting…
In any ways, something was brewing at my core, fired up by my friend's queer indulgences between my legs; I felt as if the pleasure I felt was about to reach a limit, or more accurately a threshold; and once it would...
Thankfully, I never knew what would have happened then, for Carmilla suddenly withdrew from my groin. The pleasure died down between my legs, instead replaced by a redeeming but no less disagreeable frustration that I endured gladly.
Looking at my friend, I noticed with horror that her lips and the pale skin surrounding them were smeared with blood—way more blood than could have flowed from the wound at my hip.
Carmilla stuck her tongue out once again and proceeded to lick her lips clean in a deft way, not missing one speck. She then shifted back to the side of her bed, much more languidly than she had previously, like a large animal replete from a copious feed.
Reaching her initial place next to me, she slipped under the covers and laid in the same guileless position than before, lids closed on her glazed eyes, her breathing calm and even as though nothing had happened.
As if to bring the stage curtain down on this surreal scene, a cloud passed in front of the moon and darkened the room.
I lay there in the dark for some long minutes, my heart pounding wildly, the phantom sensation of Carmilla's tongue still present between my legs.
My mind was both numb and working posthaste, trying to comprehend what had just happened and at the same time refusing to reconcile with it.
Eventually, I was pulled out of my spiralling thoughts by some shivers running down my legs. I realised that my nightgown was still hitched up past my navel. Shaking myself into action with the hope of distracting my stunned mind, I proceeded to adjust my nightdress—only to meet some dampness at my groin.
I raised my fingers under the dim light of the moon: finding them stained in red shouldn't have been much of a surprise, but I was certain that the fresh blood couldn't have come from my wound...
I ascribe my mental slowness of that night to the distress caused by the last events. The fact remains that I needed some long, dazed seconds to understand that my menses had arrived.
As soon as I realised, however, I got off of the bed and unlocked the door to seek the servant's assistance regarding my present condition—almost finding solace in the happening of a familiar circumstance, as unpretty as its manifestation was.
***
The next morning, Carmilla and I awoke at the same time, stirred up from our sleep by the bright sunshine intruding from the curtains left ajar.
My friend sat in the bed and stretched her limbs, a smile on the lips despite her sleepy eyes.
"I slept remarkably well tonight," she said in a soft, content voice. "I was visited by some very pleasant dreams... But what about you, Laura? Did you sleep well?"
I gave a positive answer, not feeling brave enough to recount what truly happened that night.
***
Laura, come here, dear; now attend to Doctor Spielsberg, and recollect yourself."
I obeyed papa and walked up to the doctor.
"You mentioned a sensation like that of two needles piercing the skin," he said, "somewhere about your neck, on the night when you experienced your first horrible dream. Is there still any soreness?"
"None at all," I answered, trying to ignore the dull, throbbing ache at my hip.
____________________
Notes:
(*) Laura’s opinions, not mine. (Period-typical classism...)
(**) FYI, there is no actual evidence that waking a sleepwalker up is harmful.
➽ Dividers by @/benkeibear and @/firefly-graphics.
♤ DAY 23: MICRO/MACRO (Dani Wytte/Nico [Hooky]) [part 1/3] ♤
✎ 1.7k words
"Bye, Dorian!"
"Goodbye, Monica."
Monica tip-toed and kissed her boyfriend.
Dani sighed internally while looking at the heels of the small ankle boots rising up from the ground. She was standing a few metres away from the couple, waiting for Dorian to leave so that Monica and her could sit at the small garden table on top of which a fuming teapot and two tea cups were already waiting for them.
Finally, Dorian turned around and began walking down the stone stairs; but not without stopping mid-way and turning around again to wave at Monica, pale face tinged with a rosy hue. Despite herself, a feeling of jealousy made its way into Dani's heart; she immediately castigated herself for it. She was happy for the couple, she really was; but sadly, her own issues were meddling in how she saw the world around her, corrupting her sentiments.
Finally, Monica and her sat down at the table. "So... What is it that you wanted to talk about?" The queen asked while taking the teapot and pouring some aromatic water into their cups.
"Thanks." Dani said when Monica had finished filling up her cup. "I needed to talk to a friend... About something that's been on my mind, lately."
"Romantic troubles?"
Dani looked at Monica with wide eyes. The pink-haired woman laughed. "Dani, have you forgotten? You're talking to the romance expert herself. I can detect these like second nature. Besides, Dorian is usually your first confidant... So it meant that you either had a problem with him, or a problem with Nico."
"Okay, Sherlock Holmes..." Dani mumbled, a bit vexed to have been read so easily. Was she such an open book?
Monica smiled. Upon her advice, her friend had gotten into reading, quickly taking a fancy to detective novels. She often brought two or three amongst her luggages, when going on expeditions as the queen's messenger. How she found the time to read them, perched on her broom half of the time and in Nico's company, was still a mystery to the sovereign.
In any cases, it wasn't impeding Dani's effectiveness in the least: her natural extroversion and charisma, paired with an unassumingness which gained regents' trust, worked wonders for Monica's projects— not to mention the newfound confidence the young woman had developed as a result of her new occupation.
The project of a magic schools network had reached even greater success than they had hoped it would: not only had the concept won the heart of many rulers across the countries, as the messenger's radius of action was getting wider and wider, Dani and Nico reached farer and farer provinces; provinces in which, like Amir and Aisha's native lands, magicians already were an established part of the community, as would a baker or a scribe. Dani did not fail to write detailed reports of such cohabiting, that way providing precious resources to her own monarch and country.
Nico, on the other hand, was a bit less jubilant about nations of the later sort: thinking at first that his fortune-telling would generate great interest among the locals, he was disconcerted to bump into a larger and way more situated set of competitors…
Fortunately for his business, the man promptly jumped back and revised his marketing tactics, instead putting the focus on the exotic and foreign nature of his 'traditional Western tarot reading'.
Speaking of Nico...
Dani's internal struggles about her place in this world out of the way, flying all these miles side by side had catalysed the redhead and ravenette's decision of dating officially. At the present moment, after two years of flying left and right across the lands and seas, the couple was taking a well-deserved break for the summer.
"So, inform me more about the matter." Monica inquired. "I may be a romance expert, but I'm not a mind-reader— I specialise in potions, remember?"
"Well–" Dani began, and the same rosy hue that was previously on her brother's cheeks bloomed on hers. "It's– How can I word it... You know, within a romantic relationship, you come to gradually reach certain... Steps... Of intimacy… Notably..." She looked down, pinching her lips together in embarrassment. "...A less platonic type..." The young woman was staring at the rust-coloured tea in her cup, avoiding any form of eye contact with Monica. Anxiety made its way into the latter's heart: Dani's fluster was caused by more than mere modesty— discomfiture and shame clearly mingling in.
"Dani..." The queen said, looking at her friend with compassion. "You know you don't have to share that kind of intimacy if you don't want to..."
She brought her pointer to the bridge of her nose— and poked herself between the eyebrows, her finger encountering nothing but air where she had pictured her reading glasses to be. Dani chuckled, brief sunny spell in the midst of her gloom.
Not the least discountenanced, the sovereign straightened up and resumed her explanations. "Some people aren't interested in sexual intimacy, and it's perfectly okay. It doesn't make Nico and you less of a couple. In fact–"
"But I want it!" Dani exclaimed, before she quickly looked away once again; abashed to have expressed her desire so plainly.
"Fine, fine!" Said Monica, an amused smile on the face. "So... Where's the jam? You don't know how to express your desires to Nico? Too shy?"
Dani bit her lips, uneasy. "Not... Exactly... I guess," she said hesitantly; the words struggling to come out of her throat. "It's... My body’s the problem’s."
She let out a deep exhale, as if both freed of a great weight, and to gather some courage for the rest of the discussion now that she had a foot in the opening.
Monica adopted a more serious face and simply nodded, eyebrows slightly furrowed in concentration.
Dani went on: "You see, when you rescued me from my mother... From all of this... When I snapped out of it, I... suddenly hit by the fact that I had gone through puberty. I wasn't really mentally there when it happened, you know? And it's not only my height..." Dani tellingly looked down at her chest, clad in a green overall dress. "It's like... It’s like I fell asleep at 13, and when I finally woke up, I... I had the body of a 16 years old teenager."
Monica nodded once again. She was starting to have a better grasp on Dani's problem. Not that it made it any less tricky to navigate…
"And you have been feeling this way about your body ever since we freed you?" The woman enquired.
"Well– Not exactly... At first, yes; but it's been years, and after all... I eventually managed to get used to it on a day-to-day basis. But..." Dani shrugged, and hunched her shoulders once more. "As I said, it gets complicated in bed..."
"I see." Monica nodded in umpteenth measured oscillation of the head, before she stared at the teapot without seeing it and stayed silent— pondering.
In order to distract herself from her friend’s muteness, Dani turned her focus to the cooling tea in front of her and brought the cup to her lips.
Eventually, Monica spoke again: "Tell me, Dani… You don't have to answer if you don't want to, but…" She leaned a bit forward, forearms on the table, readjusting her posture like so to match the more confidential place she was taking their conversation to. "What about intimacy with yourself? How is it going?"
"With myself?" Dani blinked a few times, and casually shrugged. "Well, since it's summer, I have a lot of time for myself… And the whole house as well, since Dorian spends his time at the castle for the most part of the summer, so…"
Monica tried to hold back the look of bafflement which threatened to spill out of her mind and into her face. She didn't expect Dani to be so unphased by the subject, especially with her former attitude at the start of the discussion.
"...So, I have some time to read, bake," (Monica held back a wince at the mention of Dani putting her hands on any type of kitchen utensil), "...craft... Spend all the time I want in the bathtub… So yeah, I have all the intimacy I could desire, I think. Feels good, after months of sleeping in a tent or in impersonal guest rooms."
The queen finally caught on her friend’s uninhibitedness.
"Dani…" She said, an amused smile at the corner of the lips. "You have no idea what I'm talking about, don't you?"
The confused face at the other end of the table answered her question. She decided to not beat around the bush and go straight to the point. "By ‘intimacy with yourself’… I mean masturbation."
The floaty seconds of silence needed for Dani to process the words concluded with the young woman’s face turning as red as a beet. She nervously fiddled with the small handle of her tea cup and looked on the side, unable to look at Monica in the eyes.
“W-well, ahem, I never…” She shook her head. “...Never done it.”
“Is that so…” the queen answered in a soft voice. She took a few seconds to formulate her next sentence, not wanting to make the younger woman more uncomfortable than she already was. “You know… It’s just a suggestion, but… I think taking the time to discover your body and how to pleasure yourself alone first may help you in regards to taking things further with your partner.”
Dani pinched her lips and found the courage to meet Monica’s gaze, sending her a distressed look. “But… I don’t think about… I mean… I don’t have lewd thoughts! I simply want to share an intimate moment with Nico… Make– make love…” She mumbled these last two words, breaking eye contact to look at the decidedly compelling cup in front of her. “Nothing inherently libidinous, or perverted, so… I don’t know if I have anything to… Work with…”
“Dani…” The queen shook her head, now too chagrined about her friend’s ignorance and distorted view of the subject to be amused by the young woman’s innocence. “Your fantasies don’t have to be perverted or raunchy per se for you to exploit them in this way. You are free to imagine whatever you want, as long as it’s appealing to you.”
Dani sent her an incredulous look. Monica’s petite hand reached out and settled on top of the longer and paler fingers at the other side of the table.
“Maybe it won’t be your thing. But you won’t know unless you give it a try.”
’Give it a try’… Dani mused. Maybe she could, after all…
➽ Dividers by @/benkeibear and @/firefly-graphics.
Perhaps a habit taken from frequenting Aikawa, Risu usually offers his partner a drink or something to eat after sex (for instance paying his partner a cup of orange juice to his partner of the night after a fun moment in the restroom of a bar).
B = Body part (their favourite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)
On him? Risu likes his size. He has yet to hook up with (or even meet) someone of his size or taller, and he loves the way he has to lean down as the other person tip-toes to share a kiss.
On you? Risu has a thing for chests. He loves breasts, as well as men with prominent chests, whether it's fat or muscles (or a mix of both).
C = Cum
Giving: Risu is a visual guy: he loves the idea of coming on his partner’s body, especially their chest or their face. The mental image of someone’s body painted in his essence brings him to completion in no time, and the sight of it happening before his eyes only heightens the orgasmic sensations.
Receiving: Risu likes when his partner comes in his mouth. The eroticism of the act is enough to make him overlook the potentially unpleasant taste. One thing he likes more than swallowing, however, is snowballing— preferably with your fluids rather than his, that is.
D = Dirty secret
Risu likes to finger himself while he masturbates, carefully teasing his prostate with the tip of his middle finger. (It's a shameful secret from his point of view; he finds it embarrassing and certainly wouldn't admit it to the first comer.)
E = Experience (how experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)
Risu didn't have any experience prior to going to the South Zagan school. His teenage years have been paced by the need to find a way to survive, his traumatic childhood as only luggage.* His entry into adulthood, although under more favourable auspices than his former years, didn't leave much room for sexual discovery between his zealous studies, his macabre activities as a Cross-Eye, his indigence and most of all his innate distrust of other human beings.
Frequenting Aikawa and opening himself up more to the world led him to experience his first sexual encounters, with promiscuous strangers in the bathroom stalls of the bars where Aikawa and him hanged out on days where money was a little less scarce.
Being an attractive guy, at 24 years old, Risu managed to elevate his body count to a number situated around ten or so.
*(Which doesn’t include sexual abuse because I have decided that sexual violence does not exist in the Dorohedoro universe. And Q Hayashida confirmed it to me in my dream btw. Just so you know.)
F = Favourite position
Giving: cowgirl/boy position if he wants to subdue the more than likely size difference; standing sex against a wall if he wants to emphasise it.
In the latter case, he loves being able to tower over his partner and have them sandwiched between a wall and his body, as well as the way they have to wrap their arms against his neck to support themselves. (It's also one of the only available positions if bed is out of the setting).
But in the case where a bed is at his disposal, seeing his partner’s body (and especially their chest) bounce while they ride him is something he certainly won't say ‘no’ to.
Receiving: if possible, Risu likes to lay down entirely when receiving oral, letting his body relax and closing his eyes in favour of focusing fully on that wet mouth around his length…
He's not exactly fond of being on the receiving end of penetration, but he will not turn down a prostate massage paired with a fellatio if the offer comes from his partner… In that case, he will choose to lay on his back all the same; supporting himself on his elbows at first to have his partner in his field of vision and keep a semblance of control, then relaxing and lying completely flat once the pleasure takes over.
G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? Are they humorous? etc.)
More likely to be serious. Truth being told, goofiness reminds him of Aikawa…
H = Hair (how well groomed are they? Does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)
Assuming that Risu is naturally blond and dyes the spiky parts in black, his pubes are a clear hue matching the undyed part of his hair. Unfortunately, you won’t have the occasion to certify such a thing: our Cross-Eye keeps his lower regions clean-shaven, being quite meticulous on hygiene**— an aftermath of living his former years of existence in miserable sanitary conditions.
**(In truth, removing body hair is absolutely not a prerequisite for good hygiene. That’s just Risu’s belief.)
I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? The romantic aspect)
Intimacy? Romance? Risu barely knows her… While he does treat his partners with basic respect and expects the same in return, at the end, his sexual interactions are nothing more than one-night stands. While the tall man is fond of copiously kissing and groping during the act, the interactions remain purely sexual. No feelings involved.
J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)
Risu jacks off very regularly, at least twice a day. He usually does it in the shower since it is easier to clean up the mess. After all, it's a good stress relief, and it's free. A dab of post-orgasmic shame often makes its way into his mind as he sees the translucents remnants of his release spiralling down the drain… But the feeling quickly goes away: he has too many things to attend to dwell on it.
K = Kink
Fetishwear. Customised, experimental outfits are rather commonplace in the Magic User world (perhaps people feel less self-conscious with masks on?), although said outfits rarely step out of the grunge/punk/techwear style category.
Some people nonetheless dabble in more BDSM-adjacent styles, which definitely has some effect on Risu. While the general concept of someone purposefully dressing in a sexually connoted way is alluring in itself, close-fitted or revealing attires especially kindle the Cross-Eye’s desire, as well as materials such as leather or latex.
A couple of Risu's one-time partners have requested to be blindfolded. The man indulged in and didn't hate the experience, although with hindsight the draw was more so the reassurance of being in control at a stranger's place than the sexual appeal of it all.
Unbeknownst to him, edging could take him out of his comfort zone and expand his horizons…
L = Location (favourite places to do the do)
Risu's first sexual encounters were in bar restrooms— not the most hygienic place in the world, but at least safer than a dark alley.
Later on, Aikawa and him considered saving up some money with the intent of buying more stylish clothes in hope of being admitted in ritzier bars, hoping to extended their pool to a swankier population (and hopefully slightly cleaner restrooms). Unfortunately, despite their initial enthusiasm regarding the idea, Aikawa was proven decidedly incapable of cutting off on food.
Eventually, unsanitary toilet stalls got the best out of Risu, who decided to step up his game. After careful consideration, he decided that going to another person's place would be less risky than to let someone know where he lived. Always having each other's back in any situation, Aikawa and him came to an agreement to ensure each other's safety: the one with no bite for the night would discreetly follow the other to his one-night stand's apartment and wait a good fifteen minutes near the building before going home.
Past his initial defiance for going to someone else's place, Risu discovers that the risk is worth the reward, as having sex in a bed is way more convenient than in a cramped, dirty bathroom stall. (Although he can't deny his appetency for shower sex. Perhaps his first experiences instilled in him an erotic association to tiles, constricting spaces and mandatory standing sex.)
M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)
As said in K = Kink, Risu is a visual person: scantily clad bodies stir his imagination.
N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)
Being tied up, blindfolded, or otherwise restrained in any type of way. Risu wouldn't have survived up to his twenties if he hadn't been donned with a high guard— Not to mention the traumas resulting from his merciless childhood.
Lack of basic hygiene is also a huge turn off. There is only so much you can do to keep a semblance of cleanness in slummy apartments and with limited budget, but Risu has his own clear limits regarding the matter.
O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)
While Risu has a preference for receiving, he won't shy away from returning the favour.
Being the zealous student that he is, our sorcerer learns quickly and soon becomes pretty skilled at fellatio... Or so would he be, if it wasn't for his awfully sharp teeth forcing Risu to resort to the well-known but not-so-pleasurable technique, both for the giver and the receiver, of sucking one's lips over the teeth. Thankfully, the tall man benefits from some large hands and a firm grip as a compensation.
Risu's heavy balls tighten inside your palm. You take it as a sign to bob your head faster, doing your best to keep your gag reflex at bay in spite of the length you're working with. Its modest width, at least proportionally to its length, doesn't exactly contribute in helping you anticipate when the tip is going to reach the back of your throat— In that it doesn't signal its progression by filling your mouth and rubbing against your cheeks like Aikawa's. You had your way with Risu's Tweedle Dee last week, and hadn't been able to stop yourself from mentally comparing the two since the beginning of your night with the taller one.
Eventually, a moan precedes the bitter taste hitting the inside of your mouth, and Risu sags against the wall.
When he comes back to his senses, he redirects his gaze at you, sporting the frankly endearing expression of a perplexed cat. "I didn't know you could do that."
"Hm?"
"What you did with my balls. Can you, uh... Can you teach me?" He asks, looking at you with these same feline eyes— this time more curious than perplexed, no discernable bashfulness in them despite the slight hesitation in his words.
You smile as you get up and palm the bulge at the front of your pants. "No problem. You're lucky, we'll begin with some practical work right away."
When it comes to the art of cunnilingus, Risu is not the most experimented; sorceresses being overall less likely to indulge in casual sex than their males counterparts. In fact, the first person with a pussy he had ever hooked up with was a male sorcerer, client of the same spellcaster as Turkey. True to his studious nature, Risu had been a very attentive learner this night, and does his best to extend his knowledge in the matter at every rare occasion he gets.
"Good?" Risu asks from between your legs, looking at you with wide, dilated eyes while his long fingers brush against your clitoris.
"Hah, yes," you answer. Then a gasp escapes your mouth, taking you as much by surprise as what triggered it: a glob of spit falling on your exposed clit, followed by Risu's tongue diligently spreading his drool on the small bundle of nerves.
You were elated to finally have your way with the Risu, the guy who has caught your eye since the beginning of the year— and the only one who seems to have a parcel of brain in the entire South Zagan Magical Training School (even if his spiky head is hiding the board each time you have the misfortune of sitting behind him; issue easily solved by sitting at the first row, ideally next to your assiduous classmate).
About ten minutes in since you crossed the threshold of your bedroom together, and the boy is already kneeling between your legs, your underwear pooling around your ankles.
His actions are careful, hesitant even, yet hit the mark each time they land. You would lie if you said the contrast isn't demonically winsome.
Ironically, the first faux pas of the night comes toward the end— more precisely your end.
Just as your pleasure hurries to the summit thanks to Risu's tongue swiftly skimming across your clit, delightful electric shocks concentrating at the tip of the iceberg, your rapture is cruelly torn away from you when your partner's mouth suddenly shifts downwards. Your inside clenches a couple of aimless times as if in protestation, while in the midst of your loss you feel Risu's tongue diligently tracing the ABC on your vulva.
"Wait... Stop." With the palm of your hand, you push his forehead away.
Risu withdraws and straightens up before sending you a sheepish look. "Did I do somethin’ wrong?"
You shrug, a smile on your lips. "Not the gravest thing. You just kinda ruined my orgasm..."
"Oh." He redirects his gaze to your pussy with furrowed eyebrows, as if considering a puzzle he just failed to solve.
Straightening up from the mattress, you extend an arm to Risu's face. He takes the hint when your fingers brush against his lips and promptly opens his mouth to suck on them, his eyes liveling up again at the prospect of redeeming himself. Once you judge your fingers wet enough, you withdraw them and bring them between your legs, at the top of your vulva— right against your abandoned clitoris that you tease in slow circles, aided by Risu's saliva. The latter does not miss a crumb of your actions, gaping as he stares intensely at where you are caressing yourself.
"Keep your tongue here just like you did before, okay? It's plenty effective." You wink. "If you make me come like this first, then maybe afterwards I will teach you what to do with your tongue right below..."
Without saying anything, Risu gently pushes your fingers to the side before quickly diving back, tongue stuck out and a dark hunger in his eyes.
P = Pace (are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual? etc.)
Risu is more likely to be fast and rough rather than slow and sensual. The latter requires a certain vulnerability he doesn't feel ready for, especially with one-night stands. If he happened to be in a bad mood, he’s likely to be rougher than usual as outlet for his anger.
Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)
At the beginning of his sex life, quickies were Risu's only options. As a consequence, they didn't carry any particularly exciting quality such as unusual urgency or spontaneity. All in all, while a quick fuck is always appreciated, Risu's heart leans toward longer-lasting interactions in a more comfortable settings due to their scarcity.
R = Risk (are they game to experiment? Do they take risks? etc.)
I fear 'Risu' and 'risk' only rhyme in the proper sense. As said before, he wouldn't try anything that could put him in a compromising situation (being tied up, blindfolded…). On the other hand, (consensually) restricting his partner for the night gives him a sensation of security.
S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? How long do they last?)
Unfortunately for him, a lack of experience paired with a high libido (cf. Y = Yearning) results in Risu reaching his release pretty fast. While not exactly a problem for quickies with strangers, he comes to be self-conscious about it during more prolonged interactions at someone's place... Fortunately, his 'rapidity' is offset by a short refractory period. He can usually go for two to three rounds, four on his best days. Give him about ten minutes between each; just enough time for him to give you oral, or for some short pillow talk if you need to recharge your batteries too.
T = Toys (do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?)
Risu doesn't own any toys but he has glanced more than once at the butt plugs exposed in the store front of the seedy sex shop a few blocks away from his apartment. He will show himself very interested if there are some at his partner's place…
U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)
Unlikely. Risu is more the type of man to get straight to the main course in order to give you and him what you both want. Life hasn't taught him to loiter, but rather to grab opportunities with both hands and consume them before they are stolen from him.
V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)
In the world of magic users, one does not last long as an individual unable to produce smoke if they don't learn to keep quiet and make themselves as discreet as possible. A precept engraved into Risu's psyche, who doesn't tend to make a lot of noise during sex save for some eventual (and quite sexy) grunts.
W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)
Risukawa people, it's our time to shine: yes, in the diegesis of this humble NSFW alphabet, they have done the deed!
Imagine your favourite Risukawa fic. Done? Perfect. Share it in the comments.
X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)
Risu's 7 inches confirm the sayings about tall, slim dudes… ;^)
Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)
Because of his traumatic childhood and teenagehood, Risu missed the periods of sexual awakening an individual usually goes through. During his teenage years, any erotic urges or interests he could have had remained dormant in favour of survival... Just for it to awaken in full force when his life became more stable in his early twenties. As a result, despite his great maturity, Risu has the sexual drive of a teenager— A fact which embarrasses him greatly.
As a result, his libido often clash with a deep-rooted caution and distrust of people— Hence a tendency of only pursuing people sexually when he knows Aikawa will have his back in case of a snag.
Z = Zzz… (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)
True to his natural defiance, Risu will wait for his partner to fall asleep first before he allows himself to fall asleep too. Truth be told, orgasms don't really exhaust the athletic and nervous man that is Risu, and he has no problem leaving his one-night stand's place to return to his apartment if he judges it's a preferable choice to falling asleep in a stranger’s bed.
➼ Dividers by @/firefly-graphics and @/cafekitsune.
The Movie (What Kind of Love Are You On?) [part 2/2]
🍊️ A Narancia x Mista fanfiction (+18) 🔫️
✎ 5.4k words
On a Saturday night, two friends take over the couch and take their relationship to the next level.
🔗 Read it on AO3
⏪️ Read part 1
♥ Content: first time blowjob, anal fingering, prostate milking, rimming, facials, come eating.
Aged-up characters: Narancia is 20 and Mista is 21.
"I'm hitting on you, dumbass."
Through the long strand of hair falling on his face and despite his red hot cheeks, Narancia was looking at Mista straight in the eyes, eyebrows frowned with determination. Mista gulped, feeling a fire burning at the pit of his stomach: as much as it would have vexed the younger man had the gunslinger dared say it out loud, ire looked good on him...
Eventually, the mafioso managed to regain enough self-control to act, used to situations much more straining on his sympathetic nervous system.
With one hand he cupped Narancia's warm face, the other settling on his narrow hip. Mista began leaning in, slowly, giving Narancia the opportunity to back away—which didn't happen, the younger man on the contrary extending his neck to meet Mista's lips. Still a novice in the art of kissing (at least compared to his philanderer of a friend), Narancia let the more experienced of the two take the lead, simply trying to mirror the motions of his mouth.
The kiss only lasted a handful of seconds, the wet touch of their lips and the faint pounding of their hearts the only sounds in the room aside from the TV noises. When they parted, Narancia firmly whispered: "So don't call me bro."
"Understood." Mista leaned in once again and resumed the kiss.
It lasted longer this time, with the older of the two still nimbly guiding the motions of his companion's tongue with his own. Narancia's hand left his friend's collar in favour of a sturdy shoulder; his other hand settled on Mista's exposed waist, probably in an attempt to balance what he perceived to be a more feminine gesture— that is to say, his frustratingly small hand on his friend's broad shoulder.
The taller man slightly jumped at the contact against his bare skin but almost immediately relaxed under the warmth of the small palm. His own hand slid off of the equally warm cheek to get lost in the long black strands at the back of Narancia's head, further intensifying the kiss.
Said kiss quickly turned into a full make-out session without the two friends needing to confer about it, their common pent-up desire expressing itself through feverish hands and feverish lips fuelled by the desire to apprehend their counterpart's body under a new light.
While Mista was operating in slow, subtle touches in key parts of his friend's body, Narancia was opting for more shallow and febrile motions, inexperienced in his gestures and eager to explore all of Mista's favourable upper half.
The younger man was also trying to anchor his own body in what he saw as more dominant stances, insecure about being appointed by default to a more submissive role because of his inexperience as well as his smaller stature. He ended up propped up on his knees, standing higher than Mista by a good head. Once again mimicking his elder, he had sneaked a hand under Mista's funky hat. The item was now laying on the floor in a shapeless little pile of fabric while Narancia's fingers fervidly played with his friend's tight brown curls. His other hand was busy caressing Mista's well-sculpted chest with the same fervour as its twin, hastily alternating between the two pectorals as if he couldn't settle on one.
Both friends progressively became more vocal, moaning into the kiss with less and less restraint as their inhibition wore down, their desire for each other requiring more room to express itself.
But when Mista's hand, initially on his friend's narrow hip, slipped downward to cop a feel of Narancia's rear, the latter suddenly found himself destabilised by the gesture and fell forward.
In one motion, his lithe body smoothly dropped on Mista's broader one, causing the gunslinger to fall backward against the couch. He was now laying on his back, his head against the couch's armrest, with his friend's hips straddling his.
For a handful of seconds they stayed still, their warm breaths reverberating on each other's face.
The next moment, their mouths were back on each other with the renewed passion their horizontal position encouraged.
Narancia was more than pleased to be on top. Overmuch excited by what constituted the hottest situation he had ever found himself in (and with none other than his Adonis of a friend), the young man's libido got the best of him and he began unconsciously rocking his hips back and forth, grinding his crotch against Mista's stomach.
If his ecstatic mind didn't fully register his physical seeking of some sexual stimulation, Mista did—and responded positively to it, placing his hand on the back of a slim thigh covered in black fabric and rubbing the area appreciatively.
Encouraged by the luscious little moans and groans escaping from the plump lips, his other hand soon joined its twin on Narancia's thighs, groping in more carnal motions the supple flesh covered by fabric.
Unfortunately for him, the enticing sensation of Narancia's muscles contracting under his palms in the rhythm of the young man's frottage stopped almost immediately, after he was only able to taste a few seconds of it. Feeling the way his thigh moved under Mista's hand had caused the younger of the two to suddenly become very aware of his instinctive seek of relief, and consequently to bring his shameless humping to an end.
Detaching his lips from Mista's, he straightened up and looked away, biting his lips, clearly embarrassed by the manifestation of his youthful yearning. He was 20 years old, dammit! And yet he had let his greenness take the lead in the sensual, adult moment he was (God knows how) presently sharing with the sexiest man he had ever laid eyes on...
Some motions under his pelvis pulled him out of his ruminations. Underneath Narancia's backside, Mista was slowly raising his pelvis upward and rolling them against his counterpart's more narrow hips, creating some sensual friction between their crotches.
Narancia redirected his gaze to Mista's face, who smiled and gave him an inviting wink. A huge wave of relief washed over the younger man who resumed the swinging of his hips, shamelessly and enthusiastically rubbing his arousal into his companion's.
Meanwhile, Mista's hands settled on Narancia's firm glutes, accompanying the rocking of his hips. Here and there one of his hands was wandering a bit upward or downward, stroking his companion's spine or thigh to his whims and fancies; always settling back on the inviting backside, which he didn't deprive of fondles and gentle squeezes.
For his part, Narancia had settled on keeping one hand glued to where Mista's shoulder joined his neck, using it as an anchor to let the other hand explore his friend's virile body to its content.
Panting and grunting, both men had their gaze directed downward, eyes glued on the delicious point of friction.
But once again a sudden halt on Narancia's end disrupted their indulgences. The younger man detached himself from Mista's lips and straightened up, moving his hips a few inches backward. His gaze was directed downward, preventing his friend from making eye contact. A puzzled expression had replaced his concupiscent one, which sparked some anxiety within the gunslinger.
He chewed on his lip, a wave of guilt washing over him. Had he pushed things too far for his inexperienced friend?
"Something's wrong?" Mista asked in a worried tone.
Narancia shook his head negatively. "No, it's just... Dude... Do you still have your gun in your pants?"
A flash of understanding struck Mista. Narancia wasn't avoiding eye contact: he simply couldn't look elsewhere than at the tent deforming the tiger-print pants.
Immensely relieved (and greatly flattered), the gunslinger grinned: "so 'dude' is okay, but 'bro' is off limits?"
Narancia finally detached his eyes from Mista's clothed erection with the intention of throwing him an umpteenth murderous glance, but the boy quickly lost his composure when the gunslinger took his hand and placed it against the subject of his fascination. "Nah, I left my pistol upstairs. Presently, s' all me. All hard thanks to you," he straightened up so that his mouth was right next to Narancia's ear, "and all for you."
Narancia's eyes became as wide as teacups; his black pupils dilated by lust while he began palming and squeezing the bulge in Mista's pants. Mista exhaled sharply and threw his head backward, his grip tightening against Narancia's rear. His friend's glaring yearning regarding his manly attribute only enhanced the sensations, Mista bathing in the exhilarating feeling of being desired so openly.
But all of the sudden, the pleasant ministrations stopped and his hips were freed from the human weight settled on top of them. Mista lifted his head back and saw his best friend kneeling on the floor.
Two seconds were enough for Mista's brain, hazy from—and powered by—lust, to catch on the brunet's plan. He sat up and made a 90 degrees turn to face Narancia—or more accurately, for Narancia to face his crotch, which the younger man seemed more than pleased about judging by the way he immediately groped the two muscular thighs caging his frame.
He nonetheless didn't linger too much on them. Eager to discover what was hiding below the tantalising line of hair sticking out of Mista's pants, Narancia's hands swiftly climbed up to the vivid blue fly standing out on the otherwise red-orange tiger pants.
The four (!!!) buttons popped open one by one until the frankly hideous leopard pattern of Mista's boxers came into view.
Resisting with all his mental strength the primal urge to rib his best friend about his choice of underwear, Narancia instead opted to make the offensive sight disappear from his view by lowering in one go the pants and underwear down Mista's ankles.
The gunslinger's erection sprang out of his boxers like a jack-in-the-box. As soon as it came into view, Narancia found himself unable to detach his eyes from it—not that he had any intent of doing so anyway.
Mista almost puffed with pride upon seeing the way his friend was ogling at his cock: mouth agape and pupils blown wide, detailing the large member as if he would be asked to draw it from memory. (Mista's length throbbed at the thought; Narancia was a bit of an artist in his free time, and the gunslinger had more than once assumed the role of model for his friend's pencil strokes. Maybe next time, if a 'next time' there would be...)
Mista was brought back to Earth by the sensation of Narancia's small hand carefully wrapping around the base of his erection. The younger man looked up at his friend and, in the straightforward fashion characteristic of his person, said four words which the gunslinger wasn't half-displeased to hear.
"Can I suck it?"
"Help yourself." Mista spread his thighs wider and leaned back into the couch, elated at the prospect of one of his many fantasies becoming reality.
"Okay," Narancia let out in a breath. "It's my first time doing it, but I'll try to do my best." He flashed Mista a toothy smile, clearly trying to conceal his nervousness as best as he could.
The gunslinger didn't doubt one second that the short man would give nothing but his very best: he knew what his friend was capable of achieving when he put his mind into it (as long as 'it' wasn't maths-related, to Fugo's great chagrin).
Permission now granted, Narancia went to work. He tilted his head to the side and rested it on one of the muscular thighs, feeling Mista's coarse hairs tickle his cheek. He stuck his tongue out and made a first wet contact with the cock: his wet muscle slowly glided from bottom to top, sensually. He took his time to tease Mista, doing his best to give an impression of maturity remote from his own virgin buzz.
Pride swelled in his chest when he heard Mista draw a long breath out, paired with the scratching of nails against the couch. When he reached the top, he let his tongue linger over the red tip while giving Mista's shaft some slow, shallow pumps; thereby lowering his foreskin and revealing more of the glans. Soon, the salty taste of pre-seminal fluid titillated his taste buds. He took it as a hint to get down to the main act: the occasion to finally give in to his virgin eagerness that he was trying so hard to contain, finally presenting itself.
Giving one stroke all the way to the base, fully baring Mista's tip, he took a deep breath in, opened his mouth wide, and lowered his head.
Taking Mista's length in his mouth revealed itself to be more difficult than anticipated. The first centimetres (1 cm ≈ 0.4 inch) already filled up almost all the space in his mouth, causing Narancia to seriously wonder how the hell was he supposed to take more in, moreover while trying to prevent teeth interference.
A generous number of seconds flowed by, during which he was racking his brains to find a solution all the while trying not to panic. Unfortunately, the more he was urging himself to think, the more painfully aware of the situation he became, and of the time leaking tirelessly—and the more his jaw hurt, Mista's organ seeming resolutely impossible to fit into his small mouth.
Embarrassment grew inside of him at an alarming rate. His cheeks were burning, the concern of what Mista might be currently thinking about him and his inertia spiralling inside his brain.
Eventually, Narancia forced himself to snap out of inaction. Eyes resolutely fixed on the bush of coarse hairs in front of him, the young man took leverage on a hairy thigh and tried to lower his head further, doing his best to relax his jaw and throat. He managed to fit a few more centimetres in; but so few that they could be counted on the fingers of one hand, Narancia realised with despair. He tried to push further, but his gag reflex suddenly manifested itself and hindered his sexual ambitions.
Panicking, Narancia got off of Mista's erection to breathe and swallow a few times, trying to appease the bodily reaction which was working in his disfavour.
He risked making eye contact; his friend sent him an encouraging smile, which lowered Narancia's nervousness a few notches down. While the two young adults relentlessly teased each other, at the end of the day they had each other's best interest at heart, and knew where to draw the limit between harmless ribbing and plain malice.
Still, Narancia hadn't abandoned the project of offering his partner a decent blow job. He reciprocated the smile, took a deep breath in and went back to work.
This time, he decided to bunny hop into the act: closing his eyes and quickly lowering his head in one go. The attempt was partially successful, as he was able to take more of Mista's member; but unfortunately for him, the counterblow also proved to be stronger. He violently choked and gagged at the brutal intrusion, and was left with no choice but to abruptly get off of Mista's cock.
He immediately got into a coughing fit, one hand covering his mouth to sheathe his surroundings from his gobs of spit. Worried, Mista leaned forward to rub his back. "Dude, you okay?"
"Y–" Another bout of coughing cut the boy. "Yeah–"
Great, he thought, bitter. He had just made a fool of himself in front of his best-friend-crush. For an instant, tears of humiliation threatened to fall from his eyes; but he swallowed them back, deciding that he couldn't give up so easily.
He took Mista's hand and placed it at the back of his head, flat against his black hair. "Push me down."
Mista blinked, perplexed. "What?"
From the floor, Narancia looked sideways, avoiding eye contact. "Push me down your dick. I can't do it myself." The last sentence almost came out as a whisper, painful confession of Narancia's inability. The young man opened his mouth wide for the third time and started to lower his head, but was suddenly stopped by Mista's voice.
"Dude, no!"
The large hand quitted the back of Narancia's head to settle instead on his forehead and push his head backward. Narancia sent him a confused look.
"I'm not gonna do that! That's a pro move. Can't do it on a rookie," his elder said, a smile at the corner of his mouth. Narancia pouted, glaring at him, causing Mista to quickly readopt a more serious face. "Seriously, you'd get hurt... Trust me, it'll not be a fun time for you."
"But it's my problem if I get hurt! I want it! I gave you my consent!" Desperation and frustration had replaced anger on Narancia's face.
"And I do not give you mine in return." The words caused Narancia's frustrated face to wear out, instead replaced by a mix of disconcertion and musing. "I'd be a real jerk for accepting that," Mista went on. "If you can't take it..." He weighed his words, trying to choose ones that wouldn't hurt Narancia's pride. "…by now, you shouldn't force it. It's your first blow job, right?"
Between his legs, a sullen Narancia was frowning, clearly fighting up tears. Mista's hand was back in his hair, this time to gently rub his scalp. "I know I'm a lot to take..." Despite himself, Narancia let out a snort. His friend smiled. "It's only normal that you can't take it on the first try. We're not in a porn." (who's gonna tell them–)
Narancia seemed to calm down under Mista's caring touch. Soon, his natural propensity of bouncing back after falling on his rear replaced the sulk. Fine; maybe deepthroating wasn't his forte. But he had more than one trick up his sleeve...
He gently pushed Mista's arm away. Making eye contact and sending his partner the most concupiscent gaze he was capable of, he brought his pointer and middle fingers to his mouth and sucked on them, slowly gliding his tongue across his skin. Above him, Mista seemed greatly receptive to his performance: his gaze riveted on Narancia and the sensual motions of his tongue.
Eventually, the latter took his fingers out of his mouth, shiny with saliva, and lowered them at the level of Mista's taint—not quite touching it. He smirked and raised an eyebrow, eyes still locked with Mista's. "Do I have your consent for that?"
Without a second thought Mista slumped back into the couch, further exposing his backside. "Fuck yeah."
The gunslinger's hole smoothly accepted the first finger. Narancia made a few back and forth for form, before not wasting any more time and curling his finger in search of Mista's sweet spot.
Mista gasped when the digit reached and pressed at a certain location of his anatomy, not expecting his friend to find his prostate so quickly. Narancia had at the very least some experience in the matter...
Mista's abandoned sex throbbed at the mental vision of the young man laying on his bed, clear of his pants, a hand between his legs in search of that sweet spot on his own body...
A second finger joined the first, and Mista's eyes closed on their own when the pressure on his prostate consequently intensified. However, they opened again when some wet caresses on his cock joined the party, allowing him to witness a truly delectable scene: holding his organ steady with a tight grasp around the base, Narancia was back on gliding the flat of his tongue across his length.
Mista's heart almost stopped when the boy made eye contact with him through dark eyelashes and gently sucked on his tip while giving his shaft long, firm strokes, his deft fingers still milking the gunslinger's prostate at a moderate pace.
The visual stimulation brought the tan man closer to his release. His breathing quickened and he began rocking his hips forward to meet Narancia's fingers, silently prompting him to speed up the pace.
Catching on to the non-verbal cues, the younger man accelerated both of his wrists: quickly pumping his friend with one hand and relentlessly hitting his sweet spot with the other. He had withdrawn his mouth from Mista's cock and was now panting in rhythm with his efforts, lips and chin still shiny from saliva; dilated pupils still fixed into Mista's brown half-closed eyes.
Through his swiftly-ascending bliss, rising closer and closer to the summit at each second, the gunslinger blurted out: "Watch out... I'm about to..."
Narancia feverishly nodded. He released Mista's shaft a few seconds to tuck the long bangs of hair falling on his face behind his ears, before placing his hand back to its initial position and resuming his energetic motions. Finally, he stuck his face right in front of Mista's cock and closed his eyes.
Realising what his attractive partner was waiting for, eyes closed and brows knitted in the effort, was what ultimately pushed Mista over the edge. White, sticky ropes soon hit Narancia's delicate face; the younger man slightly flinched from surprise, but accepted the present no less enthusiastically—dutifully pumping his friend's sex and milking his prostate, until said friend was hissing from overstimulation.
Narancia opened his eyes and withdrew both of his hands from Mista's body. Under the latter's weary eyes, the man on the floor trailed an inquisitive finger on his stained cheek to gather some of the viscous substance and brought it to his mouth. Disgust immediately twisted his features. "Mista, what the fuck have you eaten?!"
Not having missed a crumb of the scene, Mista snorted and shrugged. "What exactly did you expect? That shit's not supposed to taste good..."
"Well sure, not good, but not that fucking nasty!" Narancia was turning his head to the sides while talking, looking for a can of juice to chase the offensive taste off his palate.
He stared at the one laying next to Mista's left foot—the dark opening of its already opened pull-tab akin to a mocking toothless mouth; the metal ring of the vertical lever a unique eye staring back at him and taunting him. He sighed. "I've already told you, you should eat more vegetables. Mine's not–"
The young man instantly shut his mouth mid-sentence, realising what he was about to confess.
Unfortunately, he had already said enough for Mista to catch on. The taller man burst into laughter while his friend's face turned crimson.
"I'm going to the bathroom," Narancia mumbled while getting up, eager to brood his embarrassment alone and get rid of the biohazardous substance on his face.
"Come back quick," Mista replied. "We're not done yet..." He slid a hand up the curve of his friend's backside while pointedly staring at the tent deforming the tight black pants. "I'll have to check if one's diet really makes a change..."
Needless to say, Narancia spent significantly less time brooding in the bathroom than originally planned. Barely two minutes later he was back in the living room, face dripping with water and eyes shining with anticipation.
Mista had made use of the two minutes to put his pants back on and clear the couch from the bags of chips and the salty crumbs— at least as much as the short time frame allowed him to. (Inevitably, Buccellati was going to make them vacuum the couch the next day. The chore had almost become a habit of their Sunday afternoons, just as much as Saturday nights were dedicated to their weekly movie session.)
The tall man patted the couch: "Lay there. I'm gonna take care of you."
Without needing to be told twice, Narancia jumped on the couch and wriggled out of his bottom garments under Mista's amused eye.
The gunslinger kneeled down between his friend's thin legs, mirroring the pair's prior placement. He looked up: his partner was staring right at him with impossibly dilated pupils; almost vibrating from anticipation. The young man became even more flustered when Mista sent him a seductive wink before redirecting his gaze downward.
While Narancia might have been less hairy than his companion in terms of hair per inch of skin, it was clear that trimming his lower regions wasn't the man's number one priority. The wild, straight-ish black blades were spreading untamed around his proud erection, which was currently twitching from arousal— almost calling Mista.
The latter began by sliding his palm against Narancia's thigh, squeezing it softly and appreciatively on his way to the younger man's groin. Eventually, the hand reached the junction between the inner thigh and pelvis. It commenced a motion as if about to grab the full hard-on arising from between the slim legs, twitchy and needy, yearning for some stimulation; but at the last moment, the hand suddenly diverted its trajectory and instead dove down to smoothly cup Narancia's balls.
The unexpected touch pulled out a gasp from the young man.
Mista began tenderly massaging his friend's balls, eyeing Narancia's reactions with satisfaction: the younger man was contracting his thighs and letting out pleasured exhales through his parted lips, clearly enjoying the caresses.
Without interrupting the fondles, Mista brought his free hand in front of his mouth and bluntly spit in it before finally bringing it to the abandoned erection. A powerful throb ran through the length, the pulse reverberating against Mista's palm. He smiled. "You like it?"
To no surprise, Narancia vehemently nodded, eyebrows knit close together. "Your hand's bigger than mine... Feels nice."
The corners of Mista's lips curved further up on their own. He started slowly moving his hand, sliding his palm down to the base. There, he squeezed the organ more firmly; earning yet another high-pitched, pleasured gasp from his partner.
The hand situated below unfolded its middle finger and pressed it past Narancia's testes, right against his perineum. A full moan escaped from the young man's throat; he immediately slapped a hand over his mouth, not wanting to disturb the sleep of the other occupants of the house— more so for his and Mista's sake than out of concern for their precious rest, it should be said.
Indeed, who would ever want to be caught sitting on the couch of a shared living room naked from the bottom, their best friend's hands around their genitals? (Narancia's dick twitched at the thought. Fortunately, the boy was too deep into the state of arousal to feel any serious sense of shame about his exhibitionism fantasies.)
Another firm press against his prostate made Narancia's head fall backward— or at least press further against the backrest of the couch, his slumping position preventing his neck from straightening past an obtuse angle from his torso. As if to compensate for the hand against his mouth which was considerably toning down the phonic expression of his pleasure, Narancia's dick was expelling a generous flow of precome, the clear drops graciously dripping down its length and gathering on the side of Mista's tan hand.
The latter was having his utmost pleasure toying with Narancia's body, putting his experience to good use in showing his best friend a good time.
Or was he really his best friend at this point? How would this night affect the nature of their relationship?
Would everything be back to normal come tomorrow morning? Mista wasn't sure if he was ready for that; if he would be able to act as if nothing took place between the two of them.
Either way, this was Narancia's first sexual experience with someone; and one-time-thing or not, Mista was determined to make it a memorable event for his companion. Especially if this was going to be their only night as more than friends.
"Ever wondered what it would feel to have your ass eaten?" Mista asked out of the blue.
Another strong throb against Mista's palm told him all that he needed to know before Narancia even replied. When he did, his answer once again echoed their interaction from a few minutes ago, when the roles were reversed.
"Fuck yeah."
Mista released his partner's genitals — consequently earning an uncomfortable squirm from the sudden loss —, seized him by the hips and turned his lithe body 90 degrees to the side. Narancia was now laying along the couch's length, his rear elevated on the armrest. Mista then let go of the narrow hips to instead grab both of the slim thighs; lifting them up, he pushed them against Narancia's torso, exposing his backside under a more intimate light.
Mista raised his gaze to his friend's for approbation.
The younger man took a few seconds to react, a bit stunned by Mista's quick manipulation of his light figure. Once he snapped out of it, though, he immediately gave a fervent nod.
It was all Mista needed to resume his actions. Letting go of the thighs, he grabbed Narancia's cheeks and parted them, exposing his partner's hole. The gunslinger didn't waste time and dove in head first— or rather tongue first, his wet muscle starting with teasing circles around the puckered skin. The ring of muscle twitched under the licks, unused to the foreign sensation; above, still raised in the air, Narancia's toes curled under the light mauve fabric of his sock.
Mista made a few more circles, before licking more directly at his partner's anus.
The younger man loudly gasped. As if in an urging attempt to hang on to the first object within his reach which would anchor him down to Earth, his hand swiftly dove between his legs and closed around the throbbing spear of his own sex. Holding it tightly, he started moving his hand up and down, slowly stroking it; the sluggish pace contrasting with Mista's luscious licks and sucks a few centimetres below.
The two men were deaf to whatever noise the TV speakers were emitting, their ears wholly focused on the combination of wet and fleshy sounds coming from Mista's slick tongue dancing a lecherous jive, and from Narancia's hand executing a very familiar motion.
In his intent in pleasuring Narancia to the best of his abilities, the gunslinger buried his head further between his friend's glutes, causing his nose to press right against Narancia's perineum. The latter groaned at the added sensation and sped up the pace of his hand.
In the midst of his bliss, he tuck his chin and lifted his head further up, trying to have a better view of Mista's curls peeking from between his own spread thighs— almost exclusively getting off to the fact it was his best friend who was currently rimming him so skilfully, spreading drool on his sensitive hole with dexterous licks.
Unsurprisingly, the inexperienced man quickly reached his peak; panting, moaning and pumping his dick faster and faster while Mista was tonguing his intimacy, until his small hand was painted in a translucent white.
Mista gave his friend's ass one long, last suck before he got up from the floor. He came to Narancia's level and couldn't help but pause a few seconds to admire his partner: full lips slightly parted, toned chest heaving in time with his panting; long, black strands sticking to his sweaty forehead; brows furrowed and lids screwed shut.
Narancia lazily opened his eyes when the gunslinger gently grabbed the wrist clad in orange fabric and brought the stained hand to his mouth; there, he stuck out his oh-so-deft tongue and scooped up the cooling semen. Feeling the slick organ back against his skin threatened to bring Narancia's spent dick back to life.
Mista retreated his tongue back into his mouth. After a few seconds where he let the taste linger on his taste buds, his eyes widened. "Holy shit, dude. You were right."
In the midst of his post-orgasmic haze, Narancia raised a weary but nonetheless victorious fist in the air. " 'Told ya."
Mista let out a small laugh, admitting his defeat. He got rid of his sweater and pants until he was dressed all in all in the eyesore which were his boxers. He then fetched the blanket bundled up at the other end of the couch and laid down on top of Narancia, spreading the cover over their forms.
Narancia instantly wrapped his arms around his friend's waist and snuggled against him, inhaling his strong musk. Feeling the other man's lean muscles around his meatier body sparked a delectable sensation inside Mista's stomach, a warm and bubbly lump tickling his insides in a soft yet ecstatic way.
Both men turned their heads to the screen, lazily following the last segment of the movie Mista hardly registered the context of— Narancia even less so.
The Movie (What Kind of Love Are You On?) [part 1/2]
🍊️ A Narancia x Mista fanfiction (suggestive) 🔫️
✎ 3k words
On a Saturday night, two friends take over the couch and take their relationship to the next level.
🔗 Read it on AO3
Read part 2 ⏩️
♥ Content: movie night, friends to...?, confession.
Aged-up characters: Narancia is 20 and Mista is 21.
The carriage drove away, leaving Jonathan Harker behind in the middle of the woods with sole company a couple of luggages, some sort of sinister totem of a crucified lupine creature towering over his form, and the thick darkness of the night. A few feet away from the forsaken man, a wolf growled, immediately answered by the more or less distant howls of the hounds.
Narancia slightly leaned towards Mista and whispered: "What's happening? Why's the carriage dumping him in the middle of nowhere?"
The two friends were sitting on the comfortable couch of the gang's current base, legs covered by a blanket sprinkled with greasy crumbs coming from a half-empty family bag of cheese-flavoured chips. Its empty barbecue'd predecessor was laying on the ground with two equally empty cans of orange juice.
"Basically, he's coming to Dracula's castle to replace a dude named Renfield as the count's solicitor," the elder replied. "You would know it if you paid more attention…"
Narancia sighed, pouted, and sank back into the couch, trying to follow Mista's advice and focus on the course of actions taking place on screen. It's not fair, he thought: Mista had already read the damn book… Of course he knew what was happening, and could afford the luxury of just laying back and letting the movie put visuals on a storyline he was already familiar with. Narancia suddenly regretted his choice of movie. If it was only resulting in making him feel dense... Two years of Fugo's teaching had already given him his fair share, thanks a lot.
Surprisingly, it wasn't in the duo's habits to watch a horror movie together. They usually alternated between a romantic comedy and a Japanese animated series, based on who chose the last time or who owed the other a favour; or else, which suggested a decent movie first.
This night fell on the latter scenario. Narancia and Mista were rummaging through the racks of DVDs at the renting store, in search of a media deemed worthy enough to be their main Saturday night entertainment. While the youngest of the two wandered by chance in the horror section, one cover suddenly caught his eyes: the flat, plasticized surface was displaying a man's face deformed in a hideous grimace, baring four unnaturally long canines. By each of his sides, a growling wolf was mirroring his animosity. Narancia read the stylized title coloured in a vivid red: Dracula.
He grabbed the DVD and reached Mista in the rom-com section, waving the case under his nose. "What about this one?"
The oldest of the two took the case in his hand and examined it more in detail. Upon reading the title, he lifted an eyebrow in interest. "Bram Stoker's Dracula? Yeah, that could be interesting... I've read the book, and it was pretty good. You should give it a try." Narancia frowned in disapproval. Unlike his friend, he wasn't the reader type.
Mista turned the case over to read the back. His eyes immediately caught on a familiar name in the cast list. "Wait, Monica Bellucci plays in this?" Even though it was a minor role, her name figuring low in the list as one of Dracula's brides, it was enough to make his heart settle on the movie.
Once home, they set the DVD in the player, all lights turned off and snacks within reach; the two friends ready for their movie night.
***
Narancia started and almost spilled the bag of chips when some forms emerged from the transparent bedsheets on top of which Jonathan was seated.
Mista laughed and prepared a snarky comment, which died in his throat when a woman dressed all in all in an elaborate headdress appeared between Jonathan's thighs; the woman in question being none other than the splendid sex-symbol Monica Bellucci.
As the gunslinger was gawking at the screen (and mostly at Monica's bare breasts), eyes wide and mouth agape, Narancia laughed and elbowed him—momentarily waking him up from his trance. "You'd like to be in his place, don't ya?" He asked with a grin, while the man on screen was throwing his head backward and groaning in pleasure as a result of what Mista's beloved actress was doing off screen. Mista gulped and slowly nodded, barely registering the snarkiness in his friend's tone.
Narancia pouted from his failed attempt at teasing his friend, and decided to refocus his attention to the screen. The male actor was now busy with three half-naked women dispensing kisses and caresses; but the scene quickly took a horrific turn when one of the ravishing creatures bit their prey's arm hard enough to draw blood. The three monstresses began feeding on the poor Jonathan, sucking his blood without for all divesting him from their sensual touches.
Narancia turned once again to Mista. His best friend was gnawing on his fist, eyes riveted on the scene. "Still want to be in his place?" The smaller man asked with a mocking smile on his face.
Mista's mouth drew away from his knuckle by a few centimeters as he pondered on the question, eyes still on the screen. Eventually, he shrugged: "yeah."
"You freak." Narancia rolled his eyes, still smiling. "Monster fucker."
"I mean, if we're talking about this type of monster…"
Having heard enough, Narancia playfully punched him on the arm, which caused Mista to dodge on the side while laughing. "Kidding!" he repositioned himself on his seat. "I mean, don't tell me you wouldn't want to be in his place! At least a bit!…"
Narancia scratched the back of his head, still dubious. "Uh... Maybe…"
"Or perhaps would you like to share his bed?" Mista said mischievously, pointing at the TV screen which was currently displaying a close-up shot of Dracula's wrinkled figure.
"NO! You idiot!!!" Narancia yelled-laughed, grabbing a cushion and hitting Mista with it.
Mista snickered, one arm raised above his head in an attempt to sheathe it from the soft weapon. "Hey... Hear me out..." He tried to speak, fighting both his laughter and Narancia's assault. "His hair... It's a mix between Fugo and Giorno's…"
Narancia momentarily interrupted his attack to put his friend's sayings under examination. He bursted into laughter: "you're right!"
There was, in fact, a form of resemblance to Giorno's elaborate hairstyle in the long braid running down Dracula's back, paired with two round excrescences on each side of his scalp; the vampire's hair overall as white as Fugo's.
The pair roared with laughter for a good minute before they were able to focus their attention back on the movie. When they did, the scenery had taken a drastic turn: On the screen, two young women—one redhead and one brunette—were sitting on a stone bench. The latter was Nina, Jonathan's fiancée; she was conversing with her best friend, the promiscuous Lucy.
Mista paid little attention to their discussion, his gaze alternating between the two women. Their hair was the same length, both tied into a charming half bun clearing their pretty faces. While Mina was wearing a light green dress concealing her entire body save for her hands and head, Lucy was wearing a more revealing one, baring her pale shoulders. The difference in attires reflected the two young women's respective temperaments: on one hand the studious and reserved Mina, diligently corresponding with her fiancé gone out of the country; on the other the cheeky and outgoing Lucy, collecting suitors and recounting her erotic dreams to her best friend without an ounce of shame.
According to Mista, the latter dame looked way more fun to be around than her well-behaved friend.
He glanced at Narancia. Having clearly lost his focus once again, his friend was playing with his wristbands, not paying the slightest attention to what was happening on screen. Who would he choose? Mina or Lucy? Mista was curious.
Come to think of it, he had never really heard Narancia talk about his preferences in women; while Mista, for his part, wasn't private at all about his appreciation for womankind. Since Narancia was obviously out of whatever was happening on the TV, Mista initiated the conversation: "Narancia?"
"Hm?" The boy in question raised his head and looked at his friend.
"What's your type? Dating, I mean."
Missing the way Mista tilted his head toward the screen, Narancia took a few seconds to process the sudden question. "Uh... Dudes or chicks?"
Caught unawares by Narancia's reply, Mista shrugged in a way he hoped to be casual. He hadn't really questioned his best friend's sexual orientation until now— Or rather, was trying not to.
Much to his chagrin, the prospect of Narancia being attracted to men roused conflicting feelings within the gunslinger. Not for bigoted reasons— this would have been rich, coming from Mr. Guido 'Middle-of-the-Kinsey-scale' Mista.
No: what the Neapolitan feared was the new perspectives such knowledge would uncover... Until then, the self-conviction that Narancia was straight—and therefore couldn't possibly be attracted to Mista—was what made the gunslinger cope with his growing crush on the younger man. And who could blame him! Narancia's magnetic personality was paired with a physique way above average, as well as a face which, came puberty, hadn't lost its delicate features when came the addition of more masculine traits—managing to beautifully accommodate the two for a truly charming result.
There was something weirdly frightening, weirdly tangible about the idea of Narancia being attracted to men. Perhaps an eventual 'I don't like you because of the very person you are' was a bitter pill to swallow than an 'I don't like men in general'... Not that Mista had any concrete plan of confessing to begin with.
Come that barrier of assumed straightness blown away by reality... Mista would be confronted with his own cowardice of not making a move, in fear of ruining the most precious friendship he ever had in his twenty-one years of existence. What if Narancia rejected him? What if he felt disgust upon learning that Mista saw him under that light? Too many dreadful issues for the hopeless romantic in Mista…
"Mista?"
Oh. Right. Lost in thoughts, he had left Narancia's question unanswered. His question about who Mista would like him to elaborate on. Dudes or chicks.
Christ.
"...Whatever?" He eventually replied in a voice he hoped disinterested—hoping that Narancia couldn't hear the deafening beat of his heart knocking inside his chest.
"Well..." Narancia shrugged. "For the women... Maybe one on the smaller side, so that she won't be taller than me... Girls don't really like when the guy is smaller than them, don't they?"
Narancia stuck his shoulders in, visibly insecure. He was still self-conscious about his size, Buccellati and Fugo's cares not enough to counter the effects of malnutrition: the teenager hadn't been able to grow taller than his actual 164 centimeters (~ 5 '4 feet).
"I see." Mista shifted in his seat and turned toward Narancia. "It's not always true, you know... I have been with girls taller than me before. They didn't make a big deal out of it."
Narancia's head perked up from between his shoulders. "Really? But you're pretty tall yourself! They must have been giantesses!"
"Maybe not giantesses, but they were pretty tall, yeah." Mista casually slumped back into the couch, hands supporting the back of his head. "After all, that's a prerequisite for models."
After having processed Mista’s words (and mostly the meaning of 'prerequisite'), Narancia elbowed him. "You? With models? As if!"
Truth being told, the younger man did not doubt one second that Mista could pull out models. According to Narancia, his best friend could easily be one himself if he wanted to. (He had thought of suggesting such a career path to the gunslinger in the past, but had somehow failed to broach the topic each time he had planned to; probably for the idea of voicing up to Mista that he was (scandalously) handsome made the black-haired boy strangely bashful.)
Grinning, Mista elbowed him back: "I swear on my life. And so could you, dude. You're attractive."
The words had escaped his mouth before he could truly process them. He immediately looked at Narancia, anxiously observing his reaction.
Thankfully, Narancia didn't seem to detect any implication in his friend's words. Instead, he turned his head to Mista, meeting his gaze. "Really? You think so? You're not saying that just to be nice?"
Mista chuckled— and internally let out a sigh of relief. "Yeah, I really think so. You're a funny guy... Energetic, enthusiastic, daring... In touch with your feelings... Good-looking, on top of that. Face and body alike. Really, who cares about your size? You have everything a girl could dream for. Or a guy."
His words were met with silence, and Mista realized that his friend was looking at him with an expression he had trouble deciphering. He cleared his throat and tried to cloud the awkward silence with a joke: "...Though, maybe stooping a bit, at least by one or two centimeters, could help you get some chicks…"
Narancia's expression sagged a bit as he raised an eyebrow in confusion. "What...?"
"Y'know, since you're 164 centimeters tall..." He shook his head. "Not a good unit to fall on... 163 or 162 would be more auspicious."
Finally understanding, Narancia punched him in the arm. "Jerk!"
"Or 165! I don't know, just tip-toe!"
Narancia continued boxing his friend's biceps, throwing insults he had most likely learned first hand from Fugo: "Cretin! Ape!"
"H-hey!" Mista tried to defend himself by grabbing Narancia's wrists, but the lithe boy was too fast. He tried to go for a more psychological strategy, diverting his friend's attention by changing the topic: "What about guys? You haven't told me!"
Taken by surprise, Narancia stopped his assault. "Oh... Well..." He rubbed the back of his tousled hair. "...I wouldn't mind a guy taller than me. That would be hot, to be honest." He shifted on his seat. "And... Hmm... Fit... Like, with broad muscles."
Mista felt himself blushing, the description coinciding with his physique; but he quickly chased the looming conclusion off of his mind, figuring out that said description really wasn't out of the ordinary.
"Personality?"
Narancia rubbed his hair again. "...Hm. Never really thought about it."
"Dude, way to be shallow!"
"Hey! It's because I haven't been with anyone yet, that's it! 'Don't know which personality would match mine." He fiddled with his bandana. "Although... Well... Maybe I would like someone I could fully be myself with. Who wouldn't think of me as childish." His face brightened, an imaginary light bulb popping on top of his head. "Someone who would always be ready to follow me in my plans, no matter how dumb they sound. And who could come up with cool plans too."
"Sounds more like a friend than a lover..." What prompted Mista to add such a comment, the man himself didn't know— But the machine was already fired up.
"Yeah, but you don't want to fuck your friends!"
"What about friends with benefits then?"
"Ah... Yeah, but they're still friends who fuck. Not lovers."
"It doesn't change the fact that your ideal date's personality still sounds like what you would expect for a friend…"
Narancia opened his mouth, and frowned. "It's because I have no experience in dating, okay? I don't know enough to come up with something smart!" He pointed a finger to Mista's chest. "But enough about me! Since you're so knowledgeable in dating, then tell us about your type, Guido Mista. So we could have a good laugh."
"Women? Easy: tall models." He flashed a grin to Narancia, who rolled his eyes to the ceiling. "Men? Well..." To his dismay, images of the man sitting next to him immediately came to his mind. He scratched his chin to put up a front while trying to come up with something that wouldn't betray his true feelings. A guy smaller than me. A cute boy, with the face of an angel but the temperament of a devil on springs, who doesn't let anyone step on his feet; funny, energetic, always ready for some mischief; giving his unconditional loyalty and affection to the people he loves... It was no mean feat. "...A hot guy."
Narancia looked at him expectantly, probably waiting for him to develop his thoughts further. Mista remembered his own previous words about being shallow, and went on. "...and a great personality. A funny guy. I think humor matters a lot." Spot on. Mista mentally patted himself on the back. Not an uncommon characteristic, but one which definitely fitted Narancia, who was hands down the funniest guy among the people close to him (which wasn't a difficult thing to achieve, considering the awful uptightness which characterized the other members of his gang). Seeing Narancia pensive and nodding out of the corner of his eye, Mista allowed himself to slump back into the couch.
"Do you think I'm hot?"
Taken aback by the question, Mista felt his entire body tense up again in an instant.
After too many seconds to not generate awkwardness, he eventually answered: "Yeah. For sure." The words came out slightly trembling. Why was he embarrassed answering? Narancia was probably asking for a confirmation of his own attractiveness, not for Mista's personal feelings.
"Cool. 'Cause I think you're hot too."
Mista risked a glance to the side, wondering if he had heard right: Narancia's face had suddenly darkened by two shades of red. The younger man was looking at his hands, not daring to meet Mista's gaze.
"...Thanks, bro." The gunslinger simply replied.
A hand grabbed his collar and roughly pulled him to the side. He suddenly found himself dangerously close to Narancia's face, which was still as red as a tomato. "I'm hitting on you, dumbass."
Drops of sweat ran down in thin rivulets between her small breasts, the two spheres hoisted up and outlined by the movement of her arms rising above her head. She finished getting her head past the tight fabric of her sports bra and slid the garment down her arms, curving her spine a bit while doing so.
Without thinking, I placed my palm on her bare back, appreciating the warmth of her skin covered by a thin layer of sweat. However, this small contact didn't last long, as I soon retreated my hand in order to swiftly go around my girlfriend and wrap my arms around her waist, pressing my chest against her back and burying my face in the crook of her neck. "You smell good," I whispered, inhaling the musky tang emanating from her post-workout body.
She scoffed. "Really?"
I buried my face further into her neck. "Mhm."
The locker room was empty save from us two— perks of going to the gym so early. Or so late, depending on the perspective.
I got off of her to let out a big yawn. "I don't know how you're able to wake up at this hour."
"And I don't know how you're able to stay up so late..."
"Yeah? Well, I'm going straight to bed after that, I'm telling you."
She chuckled in response before taking off her panties and heading to the showers, washing items in hand. I promptly followed her. "Hey! So soon?"
" 'So soon'?" Do you want to linger in this locker room all day long?"
"No, it's just..." I took my remaining clothes off too, discarding them on the tiled floor before joining her in the shower cabin. "...We have the locker room all to ourselves..."
She raised her arm to the metallic shower caddy where she had placed the products and wrapped her fingers around the green bottle of body wash— pomelo scented. I scrunched my nose.
Citrus perfumes usually didn't displease me; but in this present setting, the very thought of fresh and soapy body wash on my partner's skin felt as appalling and heterodox as wrapping your hands around a greasy and gooey cheeseburger while settled in freshly changed sheets, wearing clean and pretty pajamas, stomach already full and teeth already brushed; fluorinated breathe blowing past some lips slathered in sticky and pricey lip balm. Too drastically different pleasures— and a time for each.
I gently grabbed her wrists, preventing her from taking the bottle out of the caddy. "Wait..." I blurted out. "Don't... Please, let me..." Without thinking, I dove nose first into her exposed armpit.
The damp, coarse hairs immediately tickled the sensitive skin of my face; a strong scent, piquant and savoury, invaded my nostrils. Her scent, her very own essence, raw and authentic. A rush of heat grew at the pit of my stomach and spread to the rest of my body. Pleasant tingles bloomed between my legs as a Pavlovian reflex, my other half's current body odour reminiscent of her post-coïtal one except ten times stronger.
Cardio days be blessed.
To my great chagrin, I eventually had to retreat from this divine oasis of scents, lest I would suffocate from the lack of air (a sweet way to leave this earth, if any).
I pressed my mouth against the armpit in a salty goodbye kiss and looked at my partner. She looked back at me with a half-surprised, half-amused expression on the face. I puckered my lips and tip-toed; but instead of meeting my lover's lips, my face encountered the gentle but firm presence of her palm obstructing my progression. "I'm not going to kiss you after you had your face in my armpit."
I let out a dejected whine in response, pouting two seconds for form before I gave her a cunning look while lowering on my knees.
But I was faced with a second rejection. "Hell no." She grabbed my shoulders and pressed me to stand back up. "Don't even think of putting your mouth here. This is even worse than on the mouth."
My whine was more genuine this time. However, my mood lightened up again when she knelt before me. "You better come fast..." She warned. "I really want to get cleaned up."
"It's up to you," I replied, grinning.
The dark look she threw me from below made butterflies appear in my stomach. Its meaning was crystal clear: challenge accepted.
➽ Dividers by @/benkeibear and @/firefly-graphics.
The strawberry blonde girl screamed in protestation, contorting her body in an effort to free herself from the rope tying her to the chair. Its wooden feet scraped and struck the floor under her violent jerks. "<i>I'm</i> the one who found them! Who seduced them!! Who brought them here!!!" Her voice was strident like this of a harpy, and bellicose all the same. Browning traces of blood were still staining the contour of her mouth. "You have NO right to take them away from me!! You bastard!!!"
"Watch your mouth, fiend." The pale man standing in the room—Aki, as it seemed—replied in a barely irate tone, visibly more annoyed than anything. And weary. He moved his head to face you before immediately turning it away, as if he had just suddenly become aware of your current state.
You were sitting on the futon, legs folded against your chest— entirely naked. Still trying to process what was happening. <i>'Fiend'?</i> You looked at the girl tied to the chair. Her baseball cap had fallen from her head and was lying on the floor a couple of feet away; baring two red horns sprouting at the top of her head, sticking out of her pinkish strands... Your blood ran cold as a flash of understanding finally hit you. "You... You are... You have lied to me..." You stuttered to the Devil, not daring to fully make eye contact with her— it?
Aki scoffed. "So you were telling the truth, eh? I'm impressed you managed to seduce such a good-looking person." You felt the blood rush to your cheeks. <i>'Good-looking'...</i> You looked at the man who just talked.
Dark blue irises behind a jaded gaze, an unusual eye colour when paired with jet black hair; the raven strands which were too short to be tied up in the straight ponytail were falling on his forehead, partially hiding the man's delicate features. Even the dark circles under his eyes gave him an undeniable charm. Despite the present situation you were in, you felt flattered being seen that way by such an attractive man as the one standing before you.
"They smelled good," Power muttered. "And tasted good. So fucking good..." She risked a hungry glance in your direction; the same look that you had previously mistaken for simple lust, when the girl had lowered herself in front of your bare sex a few minutes ago. Shivers ran up and down your spine as you realized what terrible death you had narrowly avoided. Or rather, had been narrowly saved from, thanks to Aki's intervention.
A plaid fell on your shoulders. "Are you okay?" Your saviour asked.
You unfolded your limbs and adjusted the plaid on your body, your bare legs sticking out. "Thank you... Yes, I... I think so. She's a Devil, right?" You tilted your chin toward the horned woman.
Aki nodded. "Blood Devil."
"Oh." You instinctively looked down to your thighs before swiftly redirecting your gaze to your surroundings, carefully scanning the floor for your discarded underwear. You cringed internally upon feeling the sticky substance gathering between your legs and very likely staining the sheets under you.
You had always wondered how people concerned by the matter proceeded when menstruating in critical circumstances... For instance, when attacked by a Devil. Granted, in your present situation, the threat was apparently under control; your bodily condition more of an embarrassing but minor bother to take care of than a real hindrance to your survival.
Not that it suddenly made the subject all the less awkward to bring up to a stranger. You knew you shouldn't hold shame for a natural occurrence you couldn't control, but still: What were you supposed to say? <i>'Excuse me, Mister Aki, my body's currently leaking blood and I can't do anything about it. Need hygienic protection ASAP in order to stop repainting the bedding in red. By the way, have you seen my used one? It must still be next to my panties.'</i> The made-up monologue made you smile internally, if of sour comedy.
Menstruating or not, you needed to get dressed up anyway. Finally localizing your panties, you stood up from the futon with the intention of picking them up and quickly retreating to the small appartement's toilet.
Unfortunately, your body was not able to hold a vertical position very long: your legs almost instantly gave up under your weight.
While your conscious brain was still a bit numb and currently focused on the specific matter of your period, it seemed that your body, on the other hand, had processed the stakes of the recent events and the ghastly death you nearly avoided way quicker; therefore entering a state of shock without you having much control over it.
Aki's reflexes came into action before you were able to crash on the floor, his arms wrapping around your form and supporting your body in time to cushion your fall back on the futon.
***
A wave of panic hit Aki as he guided the person's trembling form back on the sheets. He usually didn't have to take care of Devil victims: it wasn't in his field of competences, as the Public Safety Commission had a structure dedicated to assist civilians harmed by Devils; be it physically or psychologically.
At least the individual fell into the latter category, he told himself.
The thought of redirecting them to the Commission briefly crossed his mind before he quickly discarded it: he would have to explain what had happened— inevitably putting Power, him, and consequently Denji (as the poor boy had nowhere else to call a home) in trouble. No, he had to take care of things by himself this time.
'Things' being the half-naked individual who was currently trembling like a leaf on his bed.
Aki's training resurfaced into his mind, in the form of snippets of Himeno's voice: <i>"You really need to learn to regulate your breathing. Can't let them feed on your fear. It's a life-or-death matter." (A sigh.) "Don't pull that shit ever again."</i> The tone was more one of concern than of true reprimand.
The memory was situated right after Aki's first mission: an encounter with a minor Devil, which had nearly turned into a disaster because of Aki's fall into panic. He remembered feeling his entire body freeze in place and shake like a leaf; his mind perfectly aware of his surroundings, but incapable of sending the mere command of action to his physical sheath—face likely displaying the same dazed expression as the person sitting before him.
A bittersweet feeling of nostalgia made its way in the Devil hunter's heart at the memory of the authoritative, raspy, yet strangely mothering voice of his mentor. <i>"Let's try again. After me: Inhale..."</i>
"...Exhale," he gently ordered, standing in a squatting position next to the trembling person. A stuttered breath escaped from their lips.
As Aki kept on guiding their breathing into a calm pattern, he noticed that a part of the plaid had slid from their shuddering form, revealing a bare shoulder and breast. Without thinking, he reached for the edge of the plaid with the intention of readjusting it over the naked body; but the hurried move caused his hand to brush against the exposed breast.
As soon as he felt and saw his hand brush against the nipple, his heart missed a beat and a feeling of mortification seized him. He didn't want the individual to think that he was taking advantage of the situation—for their sake primarily, as the orphan he had become at an early age knew all too well the sickening feeling of distress from being taken advantage of while in a vulnerable state, and the adult he was didn't wish to inflict these dreadful sentiments on anyone; but also a bit egotistically for his own sake, as he didn't want to be mistakenly accused of outrageous intentions.
"Sorry," he blurted out while immediately retreating his hand.
Thankfully, it seemed that the blunder had brought the person out of their panicked state and back to reality. "It's okay," they replied, and even sent Aki a soft smile before they readjusted the plaid themselves.
Seeing that the individual took no offense from his involuntary contact, the Devil hunter allowed himself to relax. He placed a hand on the person's back—a ‘safe’ area, covered by the thick plaid—and began rubbing it up and down.
***
All caught up in trying to redirect your attention back to your breathing after it was diverted by Aki's accidental contact with your chest, you almost started upon feeling the weight of his hand against your back. You castigated yourself when the chaste, consoling gesture of his palm slowly rubbing up and down your spine elicited not-so-platonic feelings in your mind and body.
Indeed, the mere grazing of your nipple by his hand had been enough to ignite back the cinders of your previous passions shared with Power; cinders maintained warm by the agitation and surge of adrenaline caused by seeing the man with jet-black hair not only barge in the room where the woman was eating you out, but also tackle your sexual partner down on the floor and swiftly tie her up to a chair.
It certainly didn't help that Aki was an unequivocally handsome man; his weary expression only heightening the sympathy one may feel towards him in a phenomenon of condolence. Without fully realizing it, you gaped at your saviour, your desire for him seemingly growing with each stroke of his hand against your back. Your nipple tingled with the phantom memory of its contact with this very hand, and your aroused mind crafted scenarii of his skin meeting your bare one once again—this time with more intention, more fully, and for a longer moment.
Suddenly, Aki's gaze shifted, meeting yours. You quickly averted your gaze, feeling your cheeks heat up terribly; as if Aki had been able to read your mind, and consequently your erotic fantasies in detail, with this short eye contact.
***
The person quickly looked away, fleeing his gaze. As a reflex, the Devil hunter did the same, redirecting his eyes to Power—realizing that she had been unusually silent in the last minutes.
She was looking at her victim with an indecipherable expression on the face, not quite predatory: or at the very least not in a brute, uncalculated form of it.
Something else was at play under her half-closed eyelids, something Aki wasn't used to seeing in the blood fiend who usually displayed simple, straightforward facial expressions. As he studied Power's features, working his brain in an attempt to ravel what was hidden being them, the answer suddenly appeared into his mind, crystal clear: lust. Power was looking at the person next to Aki with lust, an appetite of sexual nature brewing behind her focused gaze.
This took Aki aback, as he had never seen Power show and act on other desires than those of eating, sleeping, disobeying, and drinking human blood. But what surprised him even more was the emotion striking his own mind upon the realization: jealousy.
He tried to rationalize the feeling into a sense of duty, a drive to protect the person sitting next to him from the fiend; but he quickly had to face the facts that, to his great shame, a more primal part of him saw Power as a potential sexual rival rather than as a life-threatening menace.
He adjusted his position in an attempt to regain some composure, but the shift only resulted in making him become aware of the tightness of his pants. A quick glance downward confirmed his fear: the black suit pants were evocatively stretched at the crotch. <i>Great,</i> he thought, bitter. His libido, almost non-existent these last few years, had to choose this critical moment to manifest itself.
It had been a while since the Devil hunter shared a sexual act with someone, or even with himself: too busy, too tired. Especially lastly, with one Devil and one teenager at home— the latter barely less badly-behaved than the first.
He stared again at Power, racking his brain on how to maneuver the situation.
The girl-Devil suddenly noticed that she was being watched. She turned her head to look at Aki; her grave, lustful expression shifting into a falsely afflicted one that the man knew all too well.
"C'mon, Topknot..." She whined from her chair. "Can I just... Have one more lick between their legs? I won't bite, promise! Nothing more than licking..." She punctuated her plea by trailing her long, hungry tongue on her lips, likely tasting the dregs of dry blood lingering on it.
***
The Devil's words were enough to throw you back into a state of alert. Yet somehow, a small part of your brain still kept enough awareness for your alarm to be tinged with a deep feeling of embarrassment from hearing your former sexual partner literally beg the man next to you for access to your private parts.
Speaking of whom, Aki was no less unaffected by the raunchy request, judging by the pink hue coloring his cheeks. He had interrupted his strokes on your spine when the Devil started speaking, and you could feel the way his hand tensed and involuntarily pressed itself against your back through the plaid.
"Quiet, Po– Blood fiend!" He exclaimed, voice reaching the high notes as an effect of his distress and haste to silence the Devil.
It failed miserably as she went on, by no means intimidated. "Actin' like you don't know me? Ya can't even call me by my name? How rude of you, Akiii!" She stretched his name in an unpleasant screech. "You're not going to steal them from me, don't you?" She said while cocking her head to the side. "After all, guys like to lick there too... Even when there's no blood! Do <i>you</i> want to lick here too, Aki?"
Aki's cheeks turned a full crimson—not only from anger. "Where have you learn—"
"Denji's mags," the Devil said, a cocky expression on the face. "So? You're not going to eat them at my place, right? Take my prey away from me when I did all the work? Is that why you saved them?" Her gilded eyes quickly shifted between your form and Aki's: now at him with a beseeching gleam, now at you with a sheen of crave.
If before the absurd idea that Aki could have read your erotic thoughts had faintly crossed your mind before it was brushed off as quickly as it came, this time you truly contemplated the possibility that the fiend could read your shameful fantasies like in an open book, with how intensely she was staring at you on the moments the quick metronome of her eye motions fell back on your form.
Not able to support such dreadful stare any longer, you turned your head to the side; causing Aki and you to lock eyes once again.
At this instant—as if by some mysterious sorcery—a silent, mutual agreement sprouted between Aki and you.
Perhaps your mutual sexual energies matched frequency by some yet unknown physical phenomenon; perhaps you both could read the other's lascivious thoughts after all, or at least subconsciously grasp some fragments of it thanks to some kind of feeble telepathic powers... In any ways, the subject of the nonverbal agreement was crystal clear for the both of you.
Aki's hand shifted from its initial position on your back in favour of landing on your bare thigh. The coldness of his hand was not unpleasant against your heated skin. More secretive regions of your body heated up when he began some slow strokes along your limb—this time of an unequivocally less platonic nature.
"Pardon this fiend's behaviour..." He began, remnants of his previous agitation still lingering in the tone of his voice he tried to maintain calm and poised. "She can be a <i>handful</i>..." He emphasized the last word by gently but firmly squeezing the meat of your thigh. You could feel a slight tremor going through his hand, likely because of his nervousness. "That's why I think... She should..." His Adam apple bobbed along his throat. "...Be taught a lesson... A psychological one... She..." His breathing was stuttered, hitting your face in a warm sensation. "Doesn't really understand with corporal punishment... Will you help me?"
"Yes..." You replied in a breath, giving a short nod while looking into Aki's dilated pupils. Yours probably looked the same. "Gladly... If... If it needs to be done..."
Aki flashed you a little smile of relief— a delightfully awkward one, and delicately brushed his slightly trembling fingers against your cheek.
He then got on his knees in staccato motions, glancing at you before shyly looking away. He instead turned his head to the fiend tied to the chair. "I want you to watch very carefully, Power." He said in an authoritative tone, and gently pushed your legs open with one hand on each knee. "Look and witness what you're missing by behaving so badly..." He turned his head back to you— to your bloodied sex now into view, and placed a tender kiss on it.
"NO!" Screamed a panicked Power. "No, no Aki, stop! You fucking stop! YOU FUCKING STOP DRINKING MY MEAL!" Her anger was turning into despair, her screams merging into sobs as Aki was low lapping in earnest at your cunt, blotches of red soon staining his lower face. "YOU FUCKING SCUM! NO!!! NOOO!!!"
➽ Dividers by @/benkeibear and @/firefly-graphics.
"You are too. I really want to…" No words come out of her mouth. Instead, a long hum reaches her ears. It's definitely her voice, and it resounds in her head all the same as every sound her vocal cords ever made; but she had no intention of producing that sound, and it doesn't match the motions of her lips which tried to articulate actual words.
Fortunately, it doesn't matter: the man before her – her high school crush – seems to have understood what she wanted to express. He smiles and cups her breasts. Suddenly, they're both naked in an empty bathtub. The landscape shifts at high speed: the bathtub is moving by itself, activating its four chicken feet (she can't see them from where she's seated, but she somehow knows they're here).
Her crush places his hands on each side of her waist and starts some pelvic thrusts; except he does so in the air, his erection only bumping into the soft skin of her stomach. "It's not the good way…" She says, voice strangely padded.
He points down at her navel: "It is: here's the hole." She tries to shake her head, but instead falls into the bathtub drain.
She opens her eyes and stares at the ceiling– or rather at where the ceiling is supposed to be, her eyes not yet accustomed to the darkness of the room. Her brain rewinds images of the dream. Verdict: bizarre, a bit frustrating, but not downright unpleasant. Maybe she will even still remember some snippets of it in the next few years.
It's not the first time she oneirically cheats on her partner. And certainly not the first time she will recount it to him as she plans to, and alike not the first time he will laugh and ask in a cheeky tone if she wants to recreate it with him– well, maybe not this time though, considering the dream's event. Although it's been a while since they did it in the bathtub.
She looks to the side and sees his form next to her in the bed, lying on his back. She straightens up a bit and looks downward. She sees what she hoped she would: the cover is stretched in a small hill, which sight goes straight to her sex– still dewy from the dream.
Desire proves itself stronger than the call to fall back asleep. She gets out from under the cover and crosses the short distance separating her from the hill. There, she straddles her partner's body, her bare sex towering over his concealed one. When she lowers herself and her crotch finally makes contact with the fabric, the sensation is even more divine than how she expected it to be. The familiar shape of her partner's hard-on is barely blurred by the cover, its length and girth still recognizable if a bit enlarged by the layer of fabric.
Her weight pushes the column forward against his lower abdomen; her lips part around it, and her bared clitoris rubs against the soft fabric which will soon become just the right type of coarse when dampened from her arousal.
She rubs herself back and forth in slow drags of her hips, each drag more delicious than the first. She doesn't have to wait long before some hands lazily stick out of the cover and settle on her hips, guiding the slow humping. "You are really pretty," their owner mumbles, still half-asleep.
She can't help but laugh in reaction to the déjà vu. "You're not gonna believe me, but someone told me the same thing tonight. In my dream."
"Really?"
"Mhm. Gotta say, it's better hearing it from you."
It's his turn to let out a soft laughter before he starts humping back at a lazy pace.
➽ Dividers by @/benkeibear and @/firefly-graphics.
I climbed the stairs faster and faster, my strides swallowing the steps one by one as I dashed to the top.
I could almost see the light at the summit: this white, shiny aura, injecting pure bliss into your veins once you reached its embrace; making your body pulsate in the most delightful way.
My body was growing warmer and warmer as I climbed, the voluptuous fumes becoming stronger and denser with the altitude. My mind was already wiped from any thought save from this urge to reach the top of the stairs, to submit my body to the aura of bliss awaiting me.
Came a point where my path faced no bend for a while. I closed my eyes and kept on running: I had done the way enough times to recognize that final straight line leading to my goal. I almost flew to the summit, already seeing the blinding white light through my closed lids; I could almost touch it, if I extended my arm...
But suddenly, the stairs shirked under my feet. Before I could realize it, I was falling into the cold, dark void, my body deprived of the blissful warmth which was ready to welcome me with open arms barely two seconds ago. I opened my eyes wide and an exclamation of protest came out of my mouth, more whiny than I intended it to be. "Hey!!!"
"Tss, tss, tss." The culprit of my robbed orgasm clicked their tongue disapprovingly. "What did I say before we started?"
"No protest," I recited in a dour voice.
"Exactly. You know better than to complain." They said as they reached for an object nearby. A click of their thumb, and the device came to life in a strangely threatening buzz. My lower body throbbed, apparently feeling differently than my brain about the sound. "Now behave a bit better, and I might let you come tonight."
➽ Dividers by @/benkeibear and @/firefly-graphics.
JUpon their wedding, the prince and the farmer's daughter turned princess took the habit of using any special date on the calendar as an occasion to organize balls and other social events, as they were both quite gregarious individuals. The more the merrier was their watchword: the palace was spacious and had a regiment of servants working within its walls, and so they would send oodles of invites without much sorting. That's how the evil sorcerer who had formerly cursed the princess was invited at the palace on October 1st to the Feast of the Intercession. It was no wonder the man was on the list, as he had connections among the aristocrats due to attending numerous events held by nobles in his sought of rich and swanky company.
At the feast, the sorcerer immediately recognized the farmers' daughter he had cursed barely three moons ago, and was aghast upon discovering that not only had her teeth (and thus what was below the belt as well) returned to normal, she was also the prince's new spouse!
Upon seeing the royal couple thriving and exchanging the unmistakable amorous looks of good harmony in the sheets, the magician's evil nature immediately came up with a plan to disturb their well-being. Later in the evening, as the princess had left the table to dance with a flock of tipsy guests, he approached the prince. The young man, who had already ingested his fair share of alcohol, greeted the sorcerer with red cheekbones and a blissful smile on his face. Seizing the opportunity, the wicked man began cooing flirtatious words to the prince's ear, and eventually offered him a little treat under the table. The inebriated man gladly accepted the offer and began unbuckling his pants, barely caring about adding some discretion to the act.
The sorcerer almost sneered as he left his seat and crawled under the tablecloth: it was all too easy. Spreading his legs and leaning back into his chair, the prince got ready for the 'treat'. Except instead of feeling the soft warmth and wetness of a mouth around his cock, his genitals met the hard and cold contact of metal. Snapping out of his inebriation, he hastily lifted the hem of the tablecloth and let out a shocked yelp: his shaft and testicles had been caged into a strange apparatus made of steel rods, which had been aligned and crossed into a grid structure bent into the shape of a limp penis. The prince's flaccid appendice currently laid trapped into the small cage; a ring behind his scrotum was connected to the cage, keeping it sealed in place.
The sorcerer arose from under the tablecloth and pointed a bony finger still adorned with his obnoxious skull-shaped ring (the servants, the guests and the prince suddenly felt very foolish for not having witnessed such detail sooner). He let out an evil snicker before jeering: "young prince, you shall pay for the offenses of your new wife towards my person! Your miserable cock is now locked behind this cage, and thus utterly unusable! But know that I'm not a monster," he cooed in an exaggeratedly mellow tone, "for there is still a light of hope for you to be delivered from this affliction: where the cage connects with the ring is a minuscule lock, keeping the two pieces joined together. Come you find a locksmith skilled enough to craft the key to the lock, you will be set free; but that is almost – if not entirely – impossible, I'm afraid so... Until then, enjoy your pitiful era of abstinence!" And with that, he disappeared into a thick cloud of purple smoke which threw the nearby guests and servants into a coughing fit.
Since this baneful 1st of October, the prince endured great suffering from his forced abstinence. He had thought that privation from the sexual delights (of which his wife had graciously made him discover a vast variety during these three months) would have been the most difficult part of his torture; he was sorely mistaken. After only a few days of captivity, his penis began to swell in an abnormal way, all constricted as it was in the small cage; it even took a worrying purple hue, and soon emitted a strong fishy odor which was perceptible even feet away from the prince, no matter the amount of fragrance the poor man was applying on his groin.
But the most excruciating part of his torture took place after nightfall. Every night, the prince was awakened by a terrible pain in his lower regions: his shaft, used to stretch and harden into proud erections in the tranquility of the dark hours, was now fighting against the cage a battle it couldn't win. Its strain would nonetheless pull the device forward, dragging with it the ring placed behind the scrotum and thus mistreating his testicles in an agonizing way!
Locksmiths from all over the country came to the palace and kneeled in turn before the prince's crotch (rapidly taking the habit of covering their nose with a piece of cloth while doing so). Throughout all October they tried to craft a key able to fit into the barely visible nook of the lock, without success– Until the last day of the month, when a short old man presented himself before the prince while all the other locksmiths had thrown in the towel (after getting far enough from the prince and his nefarious body odor, that is).
The old man was the least renowned and the most mocked locksmith of the region, for his short and thin fingers only allowed him to craft tiny keys, only fitted for small children toys or dainty music boxes. He plunged his hand in his pocket and took out a tiny ball of wax, which he carefully applied on the tiny lock before collecting the resulting mold. After a few hours, as the sun was just about to set, he came back to the palace with a golden key so small that only his nimble fingers were able to operate it into the lock– which, to everybody's marveling, yielded, letting the cage slide off of the prince's genitals.
The prince, elated, shed tears of joy and jumped off of his throne, opening his arms to anyone who would want to share such glee with him. Everyone in his surroundings scrunch their nose and declined his embrace, politely pointing to the nearest bathroom.
After an intense cleaning session which required multiple replacements of the bath water, the prince organized a giant orgy in the castle to celebrate the end of his torments. Since this peculiar event, it became a tradition in the country to put on chastity cages or belts the 1st of October and to try to last as long as possible until the very end of the month– which always ended up in a big orgy at the castle for as long as the prince and the princess of this tale lived to organize it.
➽ Dividers by @/benkeibear and @/firefly-graphics.
◇ DAY 16: MONSTERFUCKER [2] (M/M/F/M; all centaurs) ◇
✎ 1.4k words
Travel diary
Day 16 of the month of the Whale, year 1577
The sweet perfume of the forest invades my nostrils as I write these lines, still lingering in the air as the dusk falls on Elondolt Forest. In this month of the Whale, when the temperatures rise up and nature awakens again, greens and pinks and yellows tint the woods, proclaiming love season.
This morning, I was awakened by two butterflies who brushed against my nose, twirling around each other in the swift dance characteristic of their courtship ritual.
The scientific community isn't short of knowledge around butterfly matings. We know few, however, about the mating habits of our distantly related: namely, the species of the noble centaurs, who notably populates the Elondolt Forest, and for whom I traveled lands and seas for a chance of learning more about their ways of living.
Back to the subject of mating– one interrogation, especially, causes much debate and speculations among experts. The point of interest touches upon the reproductive anatomy of the centaurs; which, indeed, of the equestrian or human part, sports the genitals? Are they situated between the back legs of the animal? Or rather at the front, in the pubic area, just before the smooth skin puts on horsehair?
Up to this day, this conundrum divides naturalists: some claim that a horse anatomy makes more sense regarding the centaurs' locomotion, and would match their spirited and athletic nature; some others suggest that a human anatomy would imply face-to-face intercourse, and thus more intimacy and intentional gestures of passion between partners– matching the centaurs' well-known intelligence and heightened sense of dignity.
Today, at least, I'm able to provide some answers regarding this long-debated mystery– that is, if I ever make it out alive out of this forest… But for now, allow me to recount in this diary the extraordinary scene I was lucky enough to witness this afternoon.
As I was hiding in some bushes with all the care and stealth that my capacities allowed to – a necessity when faced with such skilful hunters as centaurs –, three of the noble hybrids entered the glade before my eyes: two males and one female, exchanging some keen looks of unequivocally flirtatious nature. All suspicions were confirmed when the female one shared a languorous kiss with one of the males, who was sporting a black bay coat as dark as charcoal. The third centaur, who was wearing a chestnut coat, began amorously caressing the croup of his male counterpart.
But this amorous introduction didn't last long, as they rapidly interrupted it to peel off their clothes: traditional tunics falling at the front into a long piece of fabric reminiscent of a loincloth, paired with short caparisons draping only their croupes in the mild weather of spring. The garments were hung on low branches, as the species of hybrids usually avoid putting its possessions at ground level; reaching for the floor a tedious process for the tall half-equestrian bodies.
The three centaurs now naked as on the day of their birth, I was able to notice the presence of phalluses of human dimensions on the two males' front, already half-erected. While the distance didn't allow me to draw clear observations concerning the female, the black bay's actions confirmed the more than probable presence of a vulva when he lowered a hand to her pubis and petted her in the region, causing her head to fall on his shoulder– clearly feeling languorous from his fondles. She lowered a hand too and returned the favour, grabbing his member and immediately settling a regular pace.
The pair kissed again. For his part, the chestnut one slid a hand just below the base of his male companion's tail. The black bay stamped the grass with his hooves on site and moaned; eloquent about the nature of his male counterpart's ministrations. Shivers visibly crossed his equestrian body; his coat undulating in short, quick trembles from the front to the back, to his tail which lightly whipped the chestnut centaur.
I had conjectured that the latter was going to penetrate his male partner with his four hooves still on the ground, given that his genitals were at the front. You can imagine my surprise when he lifted his breast in one movement just to heavily settle it on his mate's back! Tilting his human upper body forward, he took a hold of the black bay's shoulders and adjusted his croupe until the other male let out a loud, husky groan. The centaur at the top stayed still for a minute or two, stroking his partner's shoulders while the female rubbed a soothing hand on his waist; then, prompted by a nod of the black bay, the chestnut centaur began some slow but vigorous hip thrusts. He let go of a shoulder and lowered his free hand to his front, his arm settling into an explicit motion: the centaur now pleasuring both of his phalluses.
I redirected my gaze to the other pair, just in time to see the dark male hold his completely erect length and guide it to his female partner's sex. They eventually found themselves joined at the groin, their fronts flushed with each other. They then began making out, barely jostled by the chestnut's thrusts which were gaining in intensity.
Numerous thoughts were spinning inside my mind as I kept my gaze fixed on the trio. And so, it seemed that male centaurs had two penises– one at the front, one at the back… Was group intercourse a common occurrence? It could have explained the presence of the two organs, from a perspective of social evolution…
My pondering was interrupted when a fourth centaur – another male, sporting a red roan coat – walked to the triad, entirely undressed as well. The others seemed barely disrupted by his presence, and even welcomed it positively from what I could observe. They exchanged a few words in their language before the newcomer placed himself behind the female, stroking her croupe in the same way the chestnut centaur had done with the black bay; and just like him, he eventually lifted the heavy front half of his body and mounted her in the same fashion.
This act added a layer of wondering to my thoughts. Was sodomy such a common practice among centaurs, even for females? Or was it that…
I kept on observing this strange copulation, waiting for some answers. The pair at the center was connected in an almost uninterrupted kiss, if it weren't for the moans of pleasure – high-pitched for the female, huskier for the male – slipping from their lips. They were clasping to each other as if they feared being separated, when the active males' repeated thrusts were only pushing their fronts closer. Her arms were wrapped around his sturdy waist, his trapping her biceps into a tight embrace. I saw one of his hands blindly grope around, until it found the third male's erect shaft which he promptly grabbed and began pleasuring.
Unsurprisingly, the chestnut male was the first to reach climax: his hand and hips suddenly paced up, until his body stuttered and crashed flush against the dark croupe while he was painting his mate's back in white threads of semen. The third male followed soon, staining the black bay's hand in the same fashion.
The two spent males dismounted, their four combined hooves hitting the ground in close-spaced thuds. The chestnut one trotted to the clothes hung to the branches and rummaged through them. He eventually fetched out two brushes that I suspected were made out of boar hair, the hog species abounding in the forest and their hair making for great grooming tools. He handed one to the red roan centaur, who had joined him a few feet away from the other pair. They began brushing each other's sweaty coats with great application. Such aftercare didn't surprise me: grooming played a very important part within the centaurs' social habits.
Back to the remaining couple, the black bay male and the female both proceeded to bend their four legs in jerky motions, sitting together on the green grass without breaking apart. As they had pivoted a bit in the process, the female's backside was now facing my hideout; her tail distractedly whipping the air and displaying to my gaze the dark, puffy lips of a vulva dripping with semen and natural lubrication…
No idea how all of this would wrap up concerning pregnancy… Maybe the front female parts are purely for the sake of sexual pleasure, and the internal reproductive organs are connected to the back?
Man I had such a blast writing this prompt! Might be my favourite up to now. Although I think I kind of deviated from the "monsterfucker" prompt since there is no human involved… Except if we imagine that the researcher is secretly getting off on the scene? (Maybe not everything is recounted in the diary 👀)
➽ Dividers by @/benkeibear and @/firefly-graphics.
The video started with a recreation of L'Origine du monde, except the clump of hair sitting at the center of the frame was a flaming orange instead of dark hue like in the famous painting. A backside dressed in a pair of blue panties appeared in the frame, momentarily hiding the first sight until the person it belonged to came closer to the lying body and kneeled before it. Their head dove between the spread legs and placed an invisible yet easily surmised kiss at the center, before they backed up and shifted a bit to the side– The critical part of the picture visible again. Turning her head and sending a playful look to the camera, the owner of the blue panties reached for the petals presented before her and slowly caressed them with a simple motion of her thumb. The spread thighs contracted under the fondles.
"You really have the prettiest pussy," cooed Blue Panties.
Flaming Clump abruptly lifted her head, an embarrassed expression on the face. "Agnès!..."
"What? It's the truth." Agnès' thumb left the rosy petals in favour of moving a bit higher and pressing its pad against the little pearl sitting there. Her other fingers buried themselves in the buoyant bush offered to them. Charlotte, who was the receiver of these sweet ministrations, gasped and slightly bucked her hips against the unmoving thumb settled on her clitoris.
Agnès flashed a smirk to the camera. "Eager," she chuckled. "Let's give you what you want, hm?" She withdrew her hand and moved her head back between her partner's legs, supporting herself on the spread thighs. Some discreet wet sounds arose, eloquent about the woman's activity. Soon, Charlotte's hands appeared at the back of her head, pushing her further between the thighs; Agnès hummed and redoubled her efforts, the squelches becoming louder. She was rewarded with some pleased moans and gasps which harmonized beautifully with the sounds of her hungry tongue and lips.
But suddenly, Agnès withdrew her head, a preoccupied expression on the face. "Wait... I just realized my head is hiding everything..."
She got up, her upper body momentarily going out of frame. Her blue panties came closer to the lens as she walked up to the camera, until the image shook and got a brief flash of Agnès' bare stomach and chest before her smiling face replaced them on the screen. "Let's get a better angle," she said before the image became shaky and blurry once again. Glimpses of the room from different angles furtively appeared in the frame before the image recovered a semblance of stability: this time displaying the bush of ginger hair from the opposite perspective of the initial framing.
Agnès kneeled down once again, the lower part of her face disappearing behind her partner's mons. Her two thumbs came at the top of Charlotte's vulva – one on each side – and parted it. Charlotte's pretty clit fully came into sight; Agnès licked her lips and wrapped them around the flushed nub, giving it a firm suck. The image shook along with Charlotte's high-pitched whine.
"Keep the camera steady, love..." Agnès said in a smooth yet playful tone, before diving back between her partner's legs.
➽ Dividers by @/benkeibear and @/firefly-graphics.
'Darling' flashed a proud grin and stuck out his chest, accelerating the pace and impaling himself deeper on the silicone. One of my hands was resting on his thigh, the other at the small of his back to help him maintain some balance. And so far, he was doing remarkably well in that area, for someone with his arms tied behind his back.
So well that I allowed my hand to leave his back and slide to the front, tracing the interlacing of the rope which was currently dividing his torso into regular rhombuses. His skin was glowing; some sweat had gathered on the woven material, which wasn't surprising with how much he was putting his heart and soul into riding my blue shaft.
I trailed my hand lower, following the rope segments, until I finally reached my partner's (pain)fully erected shaft. A clear liquid was oozing from the tip, the organ shedding tears from the repeated strikes its owner was inflicting to his prostate.
I took pity on his dick and proceeded to give it a few strokes. The man on top of me gasped and bucked his hips into my hand, tilting the silicone dick into a new angle. "Are you close?" I asked, stopping the motions of my wrists in favour of letting him fuck my fist by himself.
A feverish nod was the answer. I smiled and resumed my strokes, allowing my partner to focus fully on sliding the dildo in and out of his rear.
But suddenly, against all logic, his thrusts decelerated; progressively becoming more shallow until they fully stopped. "Wait!– wait..." He said, panting. "Yellow, I–"
I immediately got into action, straightening up and carefully pulling him off of the silicone shaft. "Too much? Are you hurt?" I asked. My eyes scanned his face and body, already in search of physical cues.
His smile eased my worry a bit. "I'm good! It's just..." He wiggled and turned around, laying on his stomach and presenting his tied wrists. "Untie my hands, please..."
I did so without a question. Once it was done, he massaged his wrists and stretched his arms while I was discarding the rope at the foot of the bed. The second rope was still dressing up his bare trunk.
"Only the wrists?" I asked.
"Yes."
He turned around and, with one hand, he gently pushed me back into the sheets. Once my back hit the mattress, he straddled my body and sat back on his designated seat for the night. He closed his eyes and deeply exhaled once his glutes hit the strap, the silicone dick fully sheathed in his tight ass.
He opened his eyes and took my hand to place it back on his hard sex. Then, he leaned forward and wrapped his arms around me, pulling me into an embrace– or more accurately pressing himself down against my body, fully covering my upper half with his. "Just wanted to take you in my arms..." He murmured while tenderly looking into my eyes, before resuming his hip movements.
➽ Dividers by @/benkeibear and @/firefly-graphics.
My fingers carved furrows into Magdalene's wet hair, carefully spreading the conditioner on her dark, curly mane. The strands, saturated with the product, were glistening under the bright bathroom lights, capturing the white rays in a truly exquisite fashion.
She let her head fall backward and hummed, eyes closed. "I really like it when you're taking care of my hair like that. It can be a tedious task..."
I moved some strands out of the way and kissed her shoulder. "The pleasure's all mine."
I wasn't lying. The sight, the texture, the weight, even the natural scent of her scalp just before her hair wash day... Everything about Magdalene's long hair exerted an indomitable fascination in me. A fascination which, to my great abashment, was exceeding the chaste appreciation one might have had while looking at a skilfully painted landscape; or else, the innocent enjoyment of petting the long, soft fur of a placid cat.
Spontaneous erections were a normal, healthy occurrence, not necessarily linked to any kind of mental arousal. I could always shield myself behind that fact had Magdalene questioned me about the full wood between my legs, that I carefully kept away from touching her back while rinsing her long hair from the product.
Alone in the shower, I gritted my teeth and silently endured the icy needles of cold water on my body while the Hispanic woman was carefully drying her dark and heavy curls in front of the bathroom mirror. I succeeded in making my arousal go down– at least for a couple of hours, until we found ourselves in bed, which thankfully was a more appropriate setting to have a hard-on. And for your partner to graciously offer some help.
***
"No, wait. Don't tie your hair up..."
Magdalene stopped in her tracks, having just begun gathering her hair at the back of her head. She was kneeling between my legs, my trunks already pulled down to my ankles. A throb, both delicious and painful, coursed through my erection when she released her brune mane, some strands falling on my thighs.
Her hand felt delightful around my shaft, squeezing just the right amount and pumping at just the right speed. Shortly after came the softness of her lips, the jagged texture of her palate, the suppleness of her tongue... Harrassed by pleasure, I brought my hands to her scalp and slipped my fingers under her dark hair; shamelessly moaning from how soft and silky of her curls felt, smoothly brushing against the back of my hand, as I knew my vocal appreciation could be put on the caresses of her skilful mouth.
As she momentarily exposed my bare and wet member to the cool air in order to catch her breath, one of her thick strands swung and teasingly brushed against my vulnerable length. The insolent curl pulled a gasp out of me, causing Magdalene to slightly move her head to look at my sex– and incidentally slide the strand of hair further against my poor erection.
Things immediately clicked in her mind, as indicated by the flash in her intelligent eyes. "Does my hair excite you?" She asked in a soft voice, her piercing gaze locked into mine.
I swallowed and slowly nodded, feeling my heartbeat knocking loudly at the walls of my chest.
She trapped the strand between two fingers – the pointer and middle –, letting a curving inch stick out from their clasp like a question mark. Then, she slowly grazed the tip of my cock with it, just as she would have done with a paintbrush.
That small action was enough to make me lose all control over myself. I came in a pathetic and apologetic whine, painting the hanging strand in front me with white, messy strokes.
Magdalene glared at her soiled hair, then back at me. I felt my entire body shrink under her gaze. "I– I'm sorry," I stuttered. "I'll wash it again."
"You better."
➽ Dividers by @/benkeibear and @/firefly-graphics.
