emotionalsupportbun-chan

[emotionalsupportbun-chan]

roadtrip  🚗

based on this  

[emotionalsupportbun-chan]

more WIP 

cw: sub daigo, dom ryuji, dirty talk, light bondage 

You Look Pretty With Your Mouth Hanging Open

They used to go to filthy punk shows. Condemned basements, abandoned barns just a little too far out of town. They used to get bass-drunk and liquor silly on too few beers, throwing fists in a charibdissian pit of bodies. 

On the train home, Ryuji would press him into a corner, press his lips to his ear, call him names. Rub his cock through his jeans when he got hard after the third or fourth “cum slut”. 

Once he’d pulled them off four stops too early just to run him out into a field and fuck him with his face pressed into the dirt. 

Do you remember when he first went soft on you? 

He was strung up sloppy with whatever Ryuji’d had laying around. 

Belts. An old feather boa. Yeah, he hurt you. 

It was an accident. 

Doesn’t matter. Still put the fear of god into him. 

He’d never thought Ryuji could be soft for anyone. 

Daigo didn’t hate getting slapped around. It wasn’t his favorite, but it did more for him than the pleading eyes of a Pink Street girl. So in the beginning, when they’d first picked up the habit, they played rough. And that was fine. 

Sometimes he wishes it had stayed that way. Stayed fine. 

Then Ryuji called him pretty for the first time. It haunted him for days. It crawled out of the well, out of the TV - string-haired, dripping, pale. He didn’t want it. 

Then Ryuji called him baby for the first time. Princess. Bunny. 

A slippery slope. 

He should’ve quit while he was ahead. 

No turning back now. 

Daigo wonders, presently, how things will play out now. How the night’s gonna go with him blindfolded, gagged, bound in cheap duct tape by unskilled hands. 

Part of him wishes Ryuji’s forgotten how to be soft. Part of him still wants to be pretty. 

“How’d they do ya, sugar?” The voice comes with some kind of metallic clicking sound and a quiet scratching. 

Daigo makes a noise. He’s been laying here a while, keeping patient. Ryuji liked to make him wait. Make him want it. 

“Right. Ya remember our rules?” 

Daigo snaps once. 

“Good boy.” The voice comes softer and closer. It rakes a hand through Daigo’s hair, over his cheek, over the tape over his lips. Briefly he is unbound and his clothes removed. Gentle, like the caring of a corpse. With grief. 

This is his last chance too. 

How sad. 

How sad. 

On his stomach, Daigo squirms a little. He isn’t sure what to do with his arms. They’re placed above his head, pressed into the mattress by the voices’ hand while the other pets down his back, over the swell of his ass. 

Daigo sighs. The hand rests on a cheek, fingers trailing down the split of it. The fingers are too outside and he wants them in. He wants to thrash and moan like a whore while the press against his sensitivity, like the last time they rolled at ageHa. 

So he obeys the hands on his wrists and on his ass and stills while he’s spread open.

“Relax, buttercup. Lemme take a look. Lemme see yer pretty hole.” Daigo’s balls twitch and the voice laughs to see it. “You want a pillow?” 

He nods and makes room for something soft under his hips. 

Daigo settles in, ass up, propped up on display. His knees apart. He considers snapping them closed when the voice’s hand starts playing with his balls and cock from behind. He knows they’re meant to stay open, but it’d be funny to snap them closed and trap the hand playing with his balls and grind on it squished between his cock and the pillow. 

It would feel good and so would the consequences. 

He’s cum from the crop before. 

You’ve cum on the crop before. 

He was made to suck it off and swallow it up and that almost made him cum again. 

“Stay.” The voice and the warmth of hands leave and are replaced by some long cold steel thing resting on his spine. He can feel a sharp edge on it if he rolls his shoulders. It was a threat and a promise and an excitement. Daigo imagines it’s a cock instead of a knife and it’s in his ass instead of on his back. 

He’ll make you sleep on that pillow if you put stains on it. 

He wants to put stains on it. He wants to ruin it. 

You want him to ruin you. 

The blindfold is removed and the voice is replaced by Ryuji. He’s piled rope by Daigo’s head with a silicon bunny tail plug sat on top of it like an angel on a tree. 

The duct tape stays though. He doesn’t want it. He wants things in his mouth. Like fingers, like tongues, like cock. He wants it sitting on his tongue hot and heavy. And of course Ryuji knows and makes him wait. 

The rigging takes a while, punctuated as it is by moments of play. Kisses here, a pinch there, until finally he’s trussed up pretty - arms still over his head, calves to his thighs. A complicated latticework of black silk robe decorating his torso. The knife is left in the crook of the small of this back. 

He isn’t plugged yet but he can already feel it. An old, familiar quiet settles in. 

Once the rigging is finished, he’s slicked up with something cold. It makes him jump. He knows what’s coming. 

“Oh? Needy boy?” He glides a thumb over his hole. 

Daigo sighs. 

“Ya want me to fuck you?” The tip of it dips in, playing at the edge. 

Daigo sighs. 

“Ya want me to fill ya up? Ya want my cock?” Thumb’s gone, no more playing. No more slightest stretch. 

Daigo sighs.

Ryuji wanders off to a table across the room. Something’s spread out on it like one of those roll-up tool belts. Then he wanders to the radio, then the window. Back to the table. 

Patience. 

He’s waited long enough. 

Wait a little longer. Let him milk you out onto the sheets. 

That might be worth it. 

Daigo sighs, loudly this time. He’s tired of waiting. 

“What’s wrong, baby boy?” It’s said with a smile. Ryuji had been waiting too. “You can tell me.” 

The duct tape is finally removed. “Fuckmefuckmefuckmebabypleaseineedit.” He’s trying so hard not to strain against the rope. He’s trying so hard to be a good boy but he can see the plug right there and he wants it. 

“You want me to fuck you?” He lords over it. He’s gloating over it. He’s back to playing with Daigo’s asshole and at least that’s something. 

“Yes, please. I’ve been good; I’ve been so good.” 

He flips Daigo over to see him red and leaking again. He draws the lightest touch down the underside of his cock. “Not yet, pretty.”

[emotionalsupportbun-chan]

i'm talkin WIP WIP WIP thats a work in progress

cw: sub Daigo, dom Ryuji, praise kink, hand jobs, feelings

You Look Pretty with Your Mouth Hanging Open

He is sitting in the back of some no name cabaret, eyes glazed into the middle distance. A woman, unpretty enough for her name to get lost in the back of his mind, clings to his arm. She’s telling him about an expensive watch at Le Marche - something jewel toned and European. Like what decorates the wrists of half the girls in Kamurocho. Dime-a-dozen.

But he’s not hearing the plain-ish hostess beg for trinkets. Or at least not listening to her. He lets his boys do that, and splash out on expensive affirmations of counterfeit love. He didn’t need that. To be reminded that anything he got here was a pleasant imitation at best.

And you think it was different with him? You think he loved you?

No, but at least there was no pretense otherwise. 

“Hey, Aniki. We have time for another bottle, right?” This one - Hiroki? - is getting an eye full of tit and an expensive earworm.

Daigo looks down at the half empty glass of half-water whisky in his hand. The color is hatefully reminiscent. He knocks it back and leaves the glass coasterless on the cheap table. “Yeah, sure. Why not.”

-

He finds solipsism near the end of the third bottle. He is younger. He is full of piss and vinegar. He wants to take the world and crumble it between his teeth. There are no hostess clubs or expensive European watches.

But there are hands that tame him from time to time. Hands that weave his hair tight between their fingers. Hands the prise open his jaw, relieve the pressure on his world-crumbling teeth, and pull sighs and moans and Yes, sirs from his throat.

And there is a mouth with a scar in the corner that he traces with his tongue. A mouth that cracks open his skull and relieves the pressure on his world-weary mind with cock-throbbing Good boys.

Of course there have been hands and mouths since. Hands and mouths that repeat the refrain, sing the same chorus and bridge. But out of key. Octaves too high.

You’re just upset he gets your engine going hotter than any hostess could.

And?

But.

But?

The last fill station was a hundred kilometers ago. And you can’t conceive of another showing up any time soon.

He is jostled by an elbow to the side, still preoccupied with hands and mouths and cars and songs. “You good, bro?”

His glass is empty and so is bottle three. His gut is left full of liquor that feels like it’s trying to rot out the bottom. “Yeah, fine.” The response is far away, half way out the door already. Looking back to ask if they’d paid the bill yet.

“You sure?”

“Yeah. No, really. I’m great.”

Can’t even muster up a smile.

For lack of liquor, Daigo chewed ice until the check came.

-

The door is only a few dozen feet away, but he is full of feelings and fire water. Cotton head, cotton mouth, cotton heart. Only a teenage eternity faking sober to see him through. Concentrate.

What, hear that?

What?

That voice.

From a private room nearby. Bass-low, strutting around like it owns the joint. Peacocking. He’d know it anywhere.

There it is. Last stop for who knows how long.

But why is he here?

Does it matter? Think about it.

Don’t think about it. He’d never live down walking out of here with a half-mast cock.

From what? A memory? Of being on your knees while he drips cigarette-flavored spit from his pretty lips into your mouth?

He centers himself with a hard breath through the nose.

Think of it as motivation.

“Hey, you coming or what?” The others are paces ahead. He’s been loitering near the short hall to the private rooms for an embarrassingly long time.

Now or never. What’s it gonna be?

Beat.

Well?

“Yeah, uh. I just gotta, uh, piss first.” He slips into the hall before any response, knowing full well the bathrooms were upstairs.

Attaboy.

His honey voice fades in and out with laughter and exclamation. It makes Daigo’s palms sweat. His pulse quicken.

What if he tells you to go fuck yourself, huh? What then?

Maybe that would be a mercy. Maybe if he couldn’t have him forever, he shouldn’t have him at all.

What if he doesn’t even remember you?

Worse. To become insignificant to the best thing he’d ever had.

What happened to not loving him?

He didn’t. Doesn’t. It wasn’t love, it was peace. Not romance, but oblivion. Emptiness.

Freedom.

Looks like you’ve got it all figured out.

Someone had left the door to their room open. There are fewer people than Daigo expects. Three, four. And him at the center of it all. The sun, cock-sure with an ugly hostess petting his chest.

Now what? You gonna go in there and beg?

No.

He’d like that. You’d like that.

No. Something else.

Please sir, can I have some more?

Something else.

Daigo rubs his hands on his jeans and screws his face into something akin to a scowl. He doesn’t fill the doorway. “Ryuji Goda, what the fuck are you doing in Kamurocho?” His voice doesn’t fill the words either. It’s false confidence.

“Haw?” His mouth - dangerous, exciting, the second best part of him - pulls into a signature sneer. “And who the fuck is asking?”

And so the worst has come to pass.

No, maybe he’s just putting on a show for the boys. Daigo can play along.

“I am.”

“And who are you?” No hesitation. Unflustered.

The same could not be said of Daigo, who searches his face for any spark of recognition. Anything. Anything to alleviate the growing, gnawing pit eroding his chest.

It takes everything he has not to say ‘They guy who’s had your cock in his mouth more times than you can count’ or ‘The guy who used to let you blow his back out daily’.

Instead he says nothing and leaves with a muttered ‘whatever’. There is nothing productive to be had in the exchange. Nothing to gain, but so much to lose.

Poor, poor Daigo. But you were prepared for this, remember?

A likely story. A convenient lie. He isn’t sure that had even been possible.

-

He is puking in the back of some no name alley off east Taihei, drink having finally caught up to him. Red eyed and snotty, he remembers the first time he’d gagged on cock, when Ryuji’d gotten impatient and shoved it half way down his throat. He hadn’t puked then but he’d wanted to, more out of revenge than anything else. And the thought of the words that’d follow the act of returning all the cum he’d swallowed to its rightful owner.

But he hadn’t. He’d let Ryuji fuck his mouth, whispering soft affirmations.

‘Good boy, take it.’

‘You can do it.’

‘That’s it.’

Later he’d said how he’d liked the way it made Daigo’s eyeliner run. How he’d liked seeing the strings of spit and cum the stretched between Daigo’s mouth and the head of his cock after he’d finished and pulled out of his throat.

You’ll never find another one like him.

Yeah.

Take a minute, mourn the loss.

Yeah.

Unless…

Unless?

Stiff-soled shoes power down the alley behind him. They pause - there was the hesitation - before a large hand sweeps up into the hair on the back of his head to grip it just tight enough. He pulls Daigo’s head back, leaving his throat open and bare.

Just like old times.

Daigo is still in puking position - half-bent, hands braced against the grimy wall - so Ryuji towers over him. By the hair, he pulls Daigo up, other arm wrapping around his chest. Keeping him close. Holding him tight enough for Daigo to know he hadn’t really forgotten.

Exactly like old times.

“Ya always did like to play hard-to-get, Daigo-chan.” Ryuji all but whispers the words into his skin, letting the bass of his voice rumble through his chest and into Daigo’s. “I’m real sorry I had to scare ya off earlier, but ya didn’t have to wander so far.” He sets his teeth against the skin of Daigo’s neck. Just a little pressure. Just enough to thrill.

So how are we feeling about this?

“Please -” is all Daigo can manage, and just barely.

Guess you’ll have to unpack this later.

“Damn. Missed me that much, huh? Sweet boy, ya missed my cock?” A hand travels up his chest to rest encircling his throat. No squeeze yet, but the promise is there. He places a little kiss behind Daigo’s ear.

Daigo cannot respond. He is all nerve endings.

“Answer me, pretty boy. I need to know yer in there.”

“Yes.” He chokes it out.

“Good boy. Ya wanna play a game with me?”

“Yes!” Daigo’s cock jumps at the memory of their games.

Ryuji laughs low and it’s like something soft weaving between Daigo’s knees. The hand in his hair and the other hand at his throat are all that’s holding him up. “Can’t say I haven’t missed yer pretty mouth too.” He plants another kiss. Then a few more.

This man is gonna leave you comatose, sending all the blood from your dome down below.

And it’ll have been worth it.

“Ya wanna hear how our game’s gonna go?

Answer him.

The best Daigo can do is nod.

“Thought so. Ya’ve always been such a good little slut for me.”

And you always will be.

More little kisses evolve into something harder. Ryuji works gently at his neck with teeth and lips and tongue before continuing. “For now, I’m gonna make ya cum. Just to hold ya over for a little while.” The hand leaves his neck to pull his shirt up and drag fingertips up and down his belly.

It won’t take much

“Then tomorrow, somebody’s gonna come pick ya up. Not sure when, not sure where. They’re gonna be a little rough about it, but don’t worry.” Ryuji moves on to his belt and button. “I’m not gonna let anyone hurt my little cocksleeve.” The belt is gone quickly but he takes his time with the rest, hand playing over the bulge of Daigo’s cock as he spins his story.

“They’re gonna tie ya up, just how we like it. And bring ya out to see me. We’re gonna have a great time together.” Finally, Daigo is free. Once Ryuji was done teasing him, the button and zipper came in quick succession.

And now Daigo’s breath is coming in pants, making cloud-bursts of heat in the night. Ryuji grips the base of his cock with the smallest amount of pressure. “Sound good, darlin’?”

If Daigo could produce a single coherent thought, he’d have wondered what all the theatrics were for. But he’s past that. Way past that. Half way to bliss. “Yes, sir.”

Old habits die hard.

He strokes up once, just to send a thrill down Daigo’s spine. Just to make his knees quake. “Good boy.” He keeps Daigo’s head pulled to the side to continue working at the deepening bruise at the crook of his neck. Keeps his hips pressed firmly into Daigo’s ass. Keeps a steady pace on his cock and a steady stream of sweet words in his ear.

Daigo is unravelling. At some point, the hand in his hair leaves to slip two fingers into his gasp-open mouth for him to suck on. His favorite gag.

Happy now?

Euphoric.

He makes small noises as the fingers push back into his throat - less sensitive now that it had once been - as Ryuji growls into his ear. “Ready to cum for me, sweet boy?”

No. Yes. Both. He wants it more than he’s wanted anything in a long time. Or does he want to ride this for as long as he can?

He decides to let Ryuji make the choice for him, answering only in doe eyes and a pleading look.

His pace slows. “Pretty boy can’t make up his mind?”

Daigo gives him a muffled moan.

He has stopped altogether. The hand in his mouth returns to his hair to tilt his head downward. The hand on his cock returns to neutral, resting with a firmer grip around the base. “What does my lover boy think? Does this cock look like it’s ready to cum?”

Daigo is swollen red and leaking onto the trash bags below his spread-eagle legs.

“D -”

“Yes, baby?” He gives Daigo’s cock a short squeeze. “Spit it out.”

“Daddy, please.”

He laughs. “Well, since ya asked so nicely.”

It doesn’t take much more than that.

From somewhere in his coat, Ryuji produces a few pocket tissues and cleans his hands, all while keeping Daigo propped against his chest. He returns to trailing kisses up and down Daigo’s neck. “Look at ya, bein’ so good for me.” He tosses the tissue over his shoulder. “But ya’ve made such a mess. I’d make ya lick it up if I weren’t worried about the germs.”

You would too, if he demanded it.

He knows.

Haven’t you ever heard of a refractory period?

But it feels good to want again. To ache for it.

Ryuji turns Daigo around once he’s tucked him away, put his clothes back in place. He keeps his arms slung around Daigo’s hips, hands on his ass. Daigo knows there is want for tenderness in him. Typically, it went unexpressed.

Tonight, though, Ryuji presses his forehead against Daigo’s. Kisses first the tip of his nose, then one corner of his mouth, then the other.

Then back to the nose, then each eyelid, until they were laughing again like the young idiots they once were. Like they used to.

He ends things with a kiss full on the mouth, more romantic than Daigo expected. He says his goodbyes and pulls away. “I’ll see ya tomorrow, hot stuff.”

He is at the end of the alley when he stops. Almost out of ear shot. “I’m sorry, by the way. For what happened. For all that.”

It knocks the air out of Daigo’s chest.

Right.

That.

Did you think you could just go back to the way things were?

[emotionalsupportbun-chan]

They have been on my mind a lot 

[emotionalsupportbun-chan]

This city’s a prison…

[emotionalsupportbun-chan]

they are male best friends

[emotionalsupportbun-chan]

Goromi my beloved

[emotionalsupportbun-chan]

Oho Kiryu-chan~

[emotionalsupportbun-chan]

Majima: Don’t worry, I’ve got a few knives up my sleeve.

Daigo: I think you mean tricks, right?

Kiryu: He did not.

Majima, pulling knives out of his sleeves: I did not.

[emotionalsupportbun-chan]

ough mister zhao yakuza…..

[emotionalsupportbun-chan]

Oh hello there, fic idea that I'm gonna fantasize about for days/weeks on end but not write. Nice of you to drop by

[emotionalsupportbun-chan]

No blinking now, boy. Keep those eyes on Miss Tatsu. Aaand… showtime!

[emotionalsupportbun-chan]

umm i think he's cool

[emotionalsupportbun-chan]

yikes here it is ah 

slightly nsfw i guess 

part 2

part 1

It hit like a truck in the night. The walls of the concrete hall beyond the elevator were painted with an impressive number of Sapphic murals, each different in style, but touching on a theme that resonated something like homesickness within Zhao’s chest. Like being a tourist in your own home town. They studied the paintings, trailing behind this strange woman, left almost incognizant by their awe to the bone-deep bass of dance music straining past the steel doors at the end of the corridor. 

A butch with their bubblegum princess and a parfait shared between them; satin-gowned hostesses with popped champagne bottles draped over a couch and one another; two women on a park bench snuggled in the snowfall. 

Maybe it was the lingering effects of too much to drink and too much to fight, but an unexpected amount of emotion welled at the sight of the painted cinder block - a subterranean ocean set churning by a sudden tectonic shift. 

It was so jarring that Zhao stopped dead, the woman’s hand slipping out of theirs with the abrupt lack of motion. “Uh, where are we going, exactly?” The undecided emotion made its choice and settled on anxiety. 

“Huh?” She back-tracked, sliding an arm through the crook of their elbow. “It’s just some place my friend runs.” The woman swung them around to look them in the eye. Zhao glanced down. She was smiling and still drunk, but there was something else swimming behind her gaze. Concern? Uncertainty? A hand came up to rest on their cheek and she came up for the lightest peck. So quick you’d blink and miss it. They almost did. 

Almost. Those near-quiet steel butterflies sprang back into action, competing with the weird anxiety and the quickly fading whiskey buzz. For a brief moment, they wondered if their soul might leave their body behind. Or if their very atoms would disseminate into the aether. When neither of those things happened, they let the woman lead them the rest of the way down the hall. 

The key to the elevator that she had picked up behind the trash bags also fit neatly into the lock on the steel doors. Out of their reverie, Zhao finally felt the music. It came in pulsating waves, rattling the knob, the doors themselves, the screws in Zhao’s glasses out of the frames. It almost reignited the ache in their bruises. The anxiety settled a bit. There would be no talking here - no thinking, no questions, no trying to decode whatever that was - just booze, and bass, and maybe a handful of titty.   

The doors pushed open heavy. You’d think they’d creak, if you could hear anything over the candy-coated, pixelated mess of EDM playing over a set of standing speakers hooked up to someone’s phone. 

There were more people here than Zhao had expected. Dozens of bodies crushed into the room, barely enough space for a breeze to slip between them. The person tending bar raised a hand when they entered, waving frantically. They shouted a name only for it to be swallowed by sound. Zhao wasn’t great at reading lips, but “Hikari”, maybe? 

Hand still in theirs, the woman waved back with a smile. It was immediately contagious. Any apprehension or weird too-complicated feelings Zhao’d had were chased to the corners of their mind. She turned back to them and leaned in, yelling over the music. “Go find a table; I’ll get drinks.” 

They nodded and set off to wander the perimeter of the room, where short tables seating two or three were shoved up against the walls. Three rotations later and they managed to swoop down onto a two-seater after another couple - two people that wouldn’t look out of place auditioning for a sci-fi movie - left. The top of the table was sticky with spilled liquor and something too small to see in the dark crunched underfoot, but they imagined that the woman had little intention of staying seated for very long. 

They scanned the crowd while they waited. For the first time in maybe their entire lives, they were in a space completely devoid of the traditional, hypermasculine energy they were used to. No shouted insults, no aggressive posturing. There was a lightness to the atmosphere that brought back that oddly homesick feeling. It reminded them of the one and only time they’d taken a family trip back to the mainland when they were a child. This place, unmistakably theirs and undeniably for them, a part of them, but still foreign. They were missing something they never knew they’d lost. Adrift once again in unwelcome introspection, Zhao was tempted to sink into a familiar melancholy, despite the synth drum beating against their body. But, like the sun breaking through the clouds, they were saved when a familiar face, still smiling, emerged from the crowd. 

She approached with two small trays that looked like they’d once been intended to hold those little candles. Though instead of candles, each recess was filled with a shot of different colored liquor in a classic rainbow pattern. She deposited one in front of them and sat in the seat opposite. “House special,” she yelled, knocking back the red, orange, and yellow shot in succession. The third one seemed to hit a little harder. The yellow liquid left her shuddering and shaking her head. “They get stronger as you go.” She winked. 

Zhao’d expected something along the lines of watered down vodka, with this many served at once, but was quickly proven wrong. Like her, the third shot sent a shiver down their spine and a line of fire into their gut. But it was sweet, lemon flavored and just slightly tangy. The previously waning intoxication came roaring back, painting their cheeks red and leaving them numb. They looked up after setting the shot glass back into its recess. The woman had already cleared her flight and sat staring at them with a heat in her eyes. They were thankful for the existing alcohol-induced blush. Once satisfied she had their attention, she reached across the table and grabbed a shot glass from their tray, skipping straight to the neon purple one at the end. The strongest one, pungently grape-scented. She raised it to their lips, eyes fixed on theirs, a slight smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Bottoms up, cutie.” 

-

Three songs later and they were back at the table - sweaty, out of breath, aching once again but for a much better reason. The weight of the alcohol had come down in full force half way through the first song, so they’d spent the last few minutes with very little awareness of their surroundings. The world had narrowed to the small bubble of her in front of them - full body pressed against theirs, hips fit perfectly against theirs, cheek pressed against theirs and arms draped around their neck. She’d whispered to them the whole time. Little things about her day, at first, but as the effects of the liquor swelled, little things became heated things. The Sexy Soapland Girl voice made its return as she purred sweet nothings in their ear - how strong they were, how hot they were, how pretty their mouth was…

You’re so sexy, Zhao-chan 

Touch me, Zhao-chan 

I’m wet, baby 

Hit it from the back 

By the time they stumbled off the dance floor, still plastered to one another, Zhao was so wound up they couldn’t think straight. She was so close and the rest of the universe had dimmed and quieted to a background hum. Surely no one would notice if - 

She pushed them down into their seat and followed, collapsing into their lap. Hands travelled up their arms to their neck, to their face, cupping their cheeks and wiping away stray particles of glitter. Eyes half-lidded, swaying slightly, she leaned in with little hesitation, capturing their mouth in a deeper kiss than had been expected. She was soft and warm and Zhao felt themselves melting under the pressure of her. They were momentarily content to let her control the situation, leaning back as she drove the kiss further, grazing teeth against mint-flavored lips. Until she shifted to swing her legs to either side of theirs, straddling them, skirt having slid almost too far up the thigh. A flush coursed from head to gut as she ground her hips against theirs with a quiet moan. If they didn’t stop now, Zhao wouldn’t be held responsible for their actions. 

They pulled back. “Hikari -” The name, hoarsely spoken, was a gamble. 

She moved farther down, trailing kisses down their neck with a layover to nibble along their jaw line. 

“Please -” 

She stopped at the crook to lap at the sensitive skin there. 

“We can’t, not here,” they choked out - breathy, light-headed. 

“Fine,” she said, face still pressed against their shoulder. A pause, then she peeled herself off of them. Her bright red lipstick was smeared half way down her chin. Her clothes had pulled in odd directions; her hair disheveled from Zhao’s wandering hands. She looked feral, with an intensity of desire in her expression that they’d never seen on a woman. Not one that was looking at them, at least. 

They started to stand but she grabbed them by the collar and dragged them not just to their feet, but out the main doors and into the long hall beyond. Zhao wasn’t sure where they’d go - a hotel, her place? 

Ultimately, it didn’t matter. They made it halfway down the hall before she lit upon them again, hands making quick work of shirt buttons and elastic bands as they braced their back against the wall. 

From a different angle, it was the perfect shot. A woman knelt before her lover, mouth descending upon delicate folds. A variation on a theme. A continuation of a purpose. A reflection of the scattered scenes of love and lust decorating this hidden place.

[emotionalsupportbun-chan]

a story of love across lifetimes… || MDXS x Studio Ghibli

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[emotionalsupportbun-chan]

💴 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐊𝐀𝐌𝐔𝐑𝐎𝐂𝐇𝐎💴

[emotionalsupportbun-chan]

He better leave my head or start paying rent🤡