The Tempting of a Devil (Yuuki Anzai)
Kinktober 2025 Day Twenty-Eight: Masturbation
𝙒𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙚? ⇒ 𝙈𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩
𝙟𝙤𝙞𝙣 𝙢𝙮 𝙙𝙞𝙨𝙘𝙤𝙧𝙙 𝙨𝙚𝙧𝙫𝙚𝙧?
𝙗𝙪𝙮 𝙢𝙚 𝙖 𝙘𝙤𝙛𝙛𝙚𝙚?
You’re asleep in his bed. And your top doesn’t fit the way it's supposed to.
You came over a couple of hours ago, bearing your homework to do in case he got called into work again. And like clockwork- he did. So he found himself leaving you and your sad smile alone at his place to entertain yourself until he got back. And he promised. He promised that he wouldn’t be long. The call didn’t sound that serious. They probably didn’t need him, specifically. Just a couple of extra hands. He’ll be back before you know it. He’ll be back before it matters.
It’s two in the morning by the time he’s making his way through the front door.
He sees your shoes still by the door and your bag left on his couch. He sees your homework is finished, and left in a neat pile on top of your lecture notes and textbooks on his table. He sees your dishes from dinner on the drying rack and his dinner, completely untouched, on the counter right where he can find it as soon as he gets back. And he sees the door to his bedroom open just a crack. Just enough for him to peer through.
Just enough to see you.
He’s standing in the doorframe leading to his bedroom before he knows it. He’s peering down, watching you like some sort of creep, before he knows it. But he can’t help it. He can’t stop. Because in the dark of the night, he sees you, illuminated by the moonlight streaming in through his blinds. You’re tucked underneath his covers. Eyes closed. Breathing softly. Nice and sweet and warm and cozy under his sheets. On his bed. At his apartment. He found you there. You went here on your own. And here you are, waiting for him. To wake you up. To crawl into bed with you. To be here with you.
It makes him smile softly despite knowing that there’s no one around to see it. It fills him with a warmth in his chest. You’re so cute. This is so domestic. It makes him feel so trusted. You could have left at any time. You could have finished your homework and gone home. Hell, you could have gone home the second he got pulled away to work. Or the moment you realized that he wouldn’t be coming home anytime soon. But you didn’t. You simply moved in for the night. You reminded him that you’re his, even when he’s not there to say it.
His heart swells at the thought. You’ve been so accepting of him. You’ve been so understanding. So patient and so caring of him. And to find you here after a hard, long shift of chasing devils and cleaning up society? To find you safe and sound and cuddled up in his bed? Awaiting his return? It makes him want to lean down and kiss you all over. Your forehead. Your cheeks. Your nose. Your lips. Your-
Just then, you move.
It’s a slight shift. One that brings the covers down, just a tiny bit. But in reality, you’re just turning on your side. Just turning towards him, as if you sensed his presence. But your eyes are still closed. And your breathing is still even. You’re still asleep. You’re still peacefully asleep. Blissfully aware of his presence or his thoughts or his feelings, or the world around you.
But your top doesn’t fit the way it’s supposed to.
It’s a tank top. One made of a thin yet soft and breathable material. One that plunges a little low in the chest every time you wear it. One that must have been old or well-loved or both, based on the way the straps are stretched out and the color has faded. But your top doesn’t fit the way it’s supposed to. Maybe it did once. But it doesn’t anymore.
He knows this because, as you turn towards him, the front of your top gets caught around something, causing the fabric to be pulled to the side and dip down low. Lower than before. Lower than it should be. And low enough, one of your perfect, supple breasts slips out without you even noticing.
Before he even blinks, he finds himself locked in his own bathroom with his hands undoing his belt. The effect you have on him is powerful, as it is instantaneous. He can’t get the image out of his mind, and he can’t seem to move his hands fast enough. Because it feels like it takes ages for him to free his erection from his pants and wrap his fist around it, and start pumping as he furiously masturbates to what he just saw. What he just witnessed.
Fuck, you’re gonna be the death of him.
“I wanna…” Words tumble out of his mouth softly. They’re not planned. And they flow out in careless whispers for him and only him to hear. But at the moment, he can’t focus on completing that thought. His mind is too preoccupied with that split-second memory of the unbearable beauty in your helplessness. So instead of trying to control himself. Instead of trying to contain the excitement, the arousal he feels at some little glimpse of a part of you he hasn’t seen yet, he lets himself go. Just a little bit. He feeds the devil in him. He feeds the man in him. But he starves it too. “I need to…I need…need…”
He starves it by simply spitting into his hands and wrapping it even tighter around his dick instead of going back out there and pulling back to the covers to wake you up to someone you might never forget.
With a curse, he leans his back against the door of the bathroom and lets out a harsh breath as his eyes flutter closed. Like a ghost, it haunts him. You haunt him. You curled up on his bed, exposing your body so carelessly like that? It nearly destroys him. But so do the little details he seems to suddenly recall now that his eyes are closed and all he can hear is the sound of his hand stroking his cock like a lifeline.
Like your scent. It was all over his place. But his room was doused in it. He wonders if his bed is the same way now. He wonders if he smells like him or if you smell like his bed. He doesn’t know. He can’t decide. Does he want you to smell like him? Or does he want his world to smell like you? It’s a hard, hard decision. He wants both. Realistically, he wants both. But he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to handle either. So he tries to think of something else to calm himself down. Something to keep him death gripping his cock so hard that he’ll draw blood. Something to keep him from going back to his room and finding out what he prefers for himself.
But it’s impossible. As he tries to think of the case he just worked tonight, he thinks of clothes. He thinks about all that he saw in the surroundings, and the clothes the bystanders were wearing. He thinks of the girl wearing a shirt he thought you would have loved and briefly considered buying for you. But that leads him to thinking about how he saw the clothes you were wearing earlier today, folded up in a neat pile on the desk in his room. You’re not wearing them. He knows you’re not wearing them because he’s seen you wear the top that you’re currently in, late at night when he’s at your place. You always cover it with a soft little cardigan. One that drowns you in fabric and reminds him that you’re so, so, so different from the dark world he lives in. But he knows he’s seen you in that piece before. And he knows it’s never been that big of a problem before. At least, not in the way that it is right now.
But he’s also seen you wear those shorts before, too. Those loose-fitting, cotton shorts. The ones he always found to be adorable and flattering on your figure. The same shorts he just saw in a crumpled pile on the floor right near his bed. The bed you’re currently sleeping in…
He pictures you in nothing but that top that doesn’t fit right and a pair of panties hidden under his sheets. He pictures you in the epitome of the crossroads between sex and comfort, and it nearly destroys him.
He opens his eyes and peers downward, looking at his debauchery for himself- looking for a way to ground himself now that he’s recognized just how thin his failing resolve is. The tip of his cock is flushed an angry red color as it stands erect between his legs and within his hand. There’s already a trail of precum leaking from the head at a steady rate, making a physical mess of an already messy situation. It’s smeared all over the tops of his fingers and the back of his hand. It mixes easily with his spit. But it’s not what he wants. It's not what he needs. He needs you. He needs the nectar you produce from the space between your thighs. He needs to pretty the sounds that only your voice can make. He needs your body. He needs you. Fuck, he needs you.
But one look at the long claws he has protruding from his fingers, and he’s back to closing his eyes and gritting his teeth, and leaning his body back against his bathroom door once more.
He fights the urge to back into his room. It’s hard. It’s impossible, even. But he keeps fighting. He keeps jerking himself off alone with a grip that’s too tight and a pace that’s too fast.
And he does it in the dark. He does it in secret. He does it alone. He does it in his bathroom, where you’re just on the other side of the wall, sleeping peacefully like the little angel you are. But he does it. He keeps biting back his groans of desire. He keeps himself in check. He keeps the monster- the devil inside of him contained. As much as he can. As much as he possibly can. Because he has to. He needs to.
Because if he sees you? If he gets to you? If he touches you? If he gets to have you?
“A-anzai…? Is that you in there? Are you back from work now…?”
He might not ever let you go.
