Fuu's foot bounces nervously as she checks the clock on the wall of the dressing room. She's caught in a cycle between checking that and flipping her phone open. The clock on the wall is 3 ½ minutes fast. Mercifully, work is slow. This also means that she's left with abundant time to think about what is about to happen. Not that she has any real clue. Her stomach is tied with anxious knots. It's a good thing no one has requested her tonight. She couldn't hold a conversation feeling like this. Looking like this.
"I think it'll be good for business!"
What a joke.
A text from Yuuka lights up her screen and she nearly drops her phone trying to get it open.
Good luck tonight! Let me know all the juicy details ლ(́◉◞౪◟◉‵ლ)
She slaps it shut and turns it off for good measure. She doesn't need any more positive encouragement. She needs the sluggish hands on that clock to move quicker so he'll get here already and they can do…whatever it is they're going to do.
How far is that she wonders. I guess I'll leave that up to him. Oh perfect, she's leaving it in the hands of the guy who spontaneously tried to pull down her underwear at work. At least now I'm not wearing any?
She has to quiet the nervous laughter that bubbles up her throat, right as another hostess enters the dressing room. She throws Fuu a look like she's crazy. She definitely is.
She almost considers ordering a shot to give her a little confidence but decides against it. She's clumsy without any alcohol; she imagines trying to saunter in to see him but falling flat on her face. The added bonus being that she'd likely inadvertently flash him at the same time. Nothing sexy or alluring about that image. She's going to march into this little experience stone cold sober .
After another hour of restlessly tapping her foot and checking her reflection in the full length mirror to make sure nothing is exposed, she heads to the front.
She greets him at the entrance, keeping her eyes on the tacky red carpet. It probably looked nice ten years ago but now it's dingy with gross mystery stains. She tried to keep her eyes trained on this because if she looks at him he'll see the nervousness in her eyes and misread it as fear
On legs made of jelly she escorts him back to their private room. Once inside she shuts the door and then stuffs the usual ticking timer inside the couch. No interruptions.
She waits with bated breath for him to bring it up as she sits beside him, keeping her knees together, her spine abnormally straight. She shoots him several sideways glances. Any second he'll get a closer look at what she's wearing. Any second now he'll mention it.
But he doesn't.
He flops back onto the couch like it's any other night, picking up a magazine from the table with a sigh.
She waits, frozen. She can hear the muffled ticking of the timer she stuffed between the cushions. She starts to double back on their conversation the night before.
Was she taking him too literally? Was he just joking around? No, he definitely told her he wanted to see her in this stupid dress. Without anything underneath. That little directive alone has been burned into her brain. She's spent the entire day agonizing over it, making sure she's shaved, soft, smooth, inviting… and he's just sitting there.
"Well?" she says loudly, sick of staring at the back of a dirty magazine.
He doesn't look up.
"Hm?"
She blinks at him, eyes wide as she gestures to herself.
"I wore it."
He flips down the corner of the magazine, tilting his head to give a careless sweep over her body before flipping it back up.
"Oh. Riiight. Cool."
She freezes, anger flaring hot. She slaps the magazine from his hands. His eyes flick down to it back up to her.
"What's got your panties in a knot?"
"I'm not wearing any." she hisses at him through clenched teeth. "Remember? "
The fact that he's so nonchalant is infuriating. She left her apartment like this! She took the train like this, sweating bullets the whole time. What if some old pervert tried feeling her up? It would have been his lucky night.
He cocks an eyebrow at her.
"Sorry, just thought you might need a break, since you know, I'm your last customer of the night." he says coolly. "Thought maybe you were tuckered out from whatever it is you did with the rest of 'em. I don't want their sloppy seconds."
"Oh don't be stupid." she snaps, shocked that he actually believed her little lie from the night before. "I just said that because you're always trying to get to me."
He narrows his eyes.
"You wore it all night though. Probably gave four-eyes a show."
She feels her cheeks redden. She can't be that good of a liar. No one is breaking down the door to get a piece of her. No one looks at her like he does.
"No way! It's been a slow night and even—" she stops to compose herself, her voice going small because it's embarrassing to admit out loud. "Even if it wasn't a slow night. I-I just did it for you. Okay?"
His narrowed eyes soften and he sits back, seemingly mollified by this. Stubbornly, she can't help but think how cute he looks when he pouts, his bottom lip jutting out in annoyance. Was he really jealous? His face falls into its usual smirk.
"Well, no way in hell am I gonna waste it then."
At his sudden shift in mood she holds up her hands to stop him before he can do anything.
"You're not gonna take this too far, right?"
"How far is too far for you?"
"Um I don't know, maybe just tell me what you want to do and I'll decide."
There's a predatory glint in his eyes as he moves closer beside her. He slides an arm over her shoulder, leaning in to whisper into her ear.
"What I want to do is bend you over this couch and fuck you so hard that the people on the other side of that door start to worry about the furniture holdin' up."
Her mouth opens, wordlessly searching for an appropriate response, but it turns out she's all out of snappy comebacks. He runs a hand over her bare legs, up to her stomach, skimming over her dress.
"But I'm not gonna take it that far. Right? I'm not bad." he murmurs, his voice quietly mocking as he bunches up the fabric of her dress in his fist. "Don't even have to take this off for what I wanna do to you."
He pauses and her face goes bright red when he gives her breast an experimental squeeze.
"You wearin' a bra?"
"O-of course I am!"
He shakes his head in disappointment.
"Told you not to wear anything under it."
"It would have been really obvious if I did that. I had to take the train here, you know."
He reaches behind her, briefly pulling her to his chest and through the stretchy material of her dress, he expertly unhooks it with one hand. She clutches her hands over her chest in shock.
"Hey!"
"Take it off."
She blushes at the command. How angry would he be if she didn't do it? If she disobeyed? Her heart hammers. Deciding she's too nervous to do any sort of flirty back and forth, she awkwardly maneuvers her arms out of the straps, pulling it through the top of her dress and letting it fall to the floor.
His hand immediately resumes its exploratory mission over her stomach up to her chest to carefully knead a soft mound. The friction through the fabric against her over-sensitive skin causes her legs to tremble impatiently.
He watches her, eyes half lidded as she fidgets, trying to get a grip on herself.
"Aah—am-am I supposed to be doing something?" She gasps, her hands balled into fists.
"Whatever you want, girly."
The open-endedness of his reply is really unhelpful. She's the one with zero experience. Is she supposed to be groping him back? Offering to take everything off? Undress him?
She starts with something easy, something she's already touched: she runs her trembling fingers softly along his jaw, across the rough stubble, until she pauses at the corner of his mouth with a frown.
"Oh,"
"Huh?"
"Your mouth. I forgot you had a cut there. Won't it hurt you if we kiss?"
His expression is confused for half a second. The corner of his lip twitches before he dives toward her, mouth crashing against hers. Guess that answers that.
Unlike their first kiss she's eager to keep up with him. She parts her lips for him, tilting her head to explore him right back. He gives a grunt when she threads her fingers in his hair, tugging him closer. He nips at her bottom lip, tongue probing past her lips to tangle with hers. It's a chaotic mess of lips, the slip of teeth and tongues.
Without breaking away he adjusts them so that she's on her back with his knee situated between hers. His hands drift down to grope her chest again, this time rolling the now hardened peaks between his fingers through the dress. The sensation sends a jolt straight between her thighs. She cries out and feels his mouth smile against hers.
"Don't be too loud," he murmurs, pressing a wet kiss to her neck. "don't want that old hag comin' in here."
She's slowly losing her mind, losing sense of time. The air is thick with the sound of their panting breaths, wet kisses, and her own whimpers that become harder and harder to hold back. He switches from kissing her to biting down her neck, nipping the sensitive skin and mindlessly grabbing lush handfuls at her chest. It's probably more practical to leave the dress on in case they're caught but she wishes it weren't in the way. She wants to feel his skin against hers.
He pulls back to look her in the eyes at the same time she feels the languid brush of his finger dipping into the slick seam between her legs. She lets out a startled moan.
"What did I just say?" His voice is low and teasing as he eases her legs open open wider, sliding a finger deeper into her throbbing flesh, parting her with deep strokes. "what if someone hears you hmm?"
She bites her lip, trying to suppress the whine clawing its way up her throat.
He begins a tortuously cruel pattern of rubbing her in tight little circles, driving her higher and higher, keeping a careful eye on her face— and then slowing down until her hips begin to cant against his palm, chasing the feeling in needy frustration.
"Mugen—" she gasps, irritated and pained when he pulls back again.
"You're a good girl: say please."
His words strike her hot and dumb. There's no way she has the brain power to form the word he's asking her for. Every spare bit of reasoning she possesses is gone, in its place is hunger and need so strong that all she can do is writhe against him insistently, silently begging him to get to the point already. She feels his hand retract again and she finally snaps.
"Please!"
In spite of his earlier warning it escapes her lips as a loud, keening cry.
He clamps his other hand over her mouth. She closes her eyes until he hisses:
"Look at me. You want me to stop?"
She shakes her head vigorously, eyes wide. She tastes the salty skin of his hand when she tries to lick her lips.
Anything but that.
His hand returns, and she nearly cries in relief at the contact. He must know it's not enough because he slides in another finger making her feel so wet and full and stretched and God she's so glad her mouth is covered because if not she might shamelessly beg for another. She arches against him, panting as her hips buck into his hand in an instinctive rhythm.
"That's right." He encourages, sounding breathless, nearly reverent, his eyes half-wild and black as he watches her, working in tandem with the movement of her hips. "You're so fuckin' wet for me."
The slow burning build up from before has dissolved into a white-hot frantic, all consuming need. The need to keep moving. The need to hear him tell her she's a good girl again. He can't possibly stop now– he said he wouldn't. She'll die if he does. She'll beg if he does. She closes her eyes, concentrating on the sensation of her body being strung tightly, so close to snapping, to falling apart, she's just so close .
"Look at me when you come."
Her eyes fly open. His words course straight down her spine and she's spiraling . She can't hear him anymore, just the accelerated pounding of her heart in her ears followed by the broken moan torn from her throat, and muffled by his hand as she shudders, crashing into wave after wave of release.
He removes his hand from her mouth, kissing her hungrily through the ripples of aftershocks still rolling through her twitching body. She feels both of his hands roughly clutching her hips, the hardness of him pressing briefly into the sensitive softness between her legs, grinding against her.
She goes limp, ears filled with a faint buzzing noise as she comes back down from the high, blinking away the stars flickering in her eyes.
"…wanna fuck you so bad." she hears him groan, only catching the tail end of the surprisingly pained sentence. He doesn't sound at all like his usual cocky self, but desperate . He presses a sloppy kiss to her slack mouth, his shoulders slumping with heavy breathing mirroring her own, "I'm so sick of havin' to jerk off after every time I see you."
Through the haze of her afterglow, those words ring in her ears. He hasn't gone to see anyone else? Yuuka assured her no customer is ever loyal, no reason to be, so why hasn't he gone to satisfy himself with someone else? She feels him pull himself away reluctantly, as if it's almost impossible for him to do so.
Eventually she sits up too, feeling somewhere between pleasantly tipsy and exhausted. She reaches a hand to the back of her head where a rats nest has accumulated from being pressed into the cushions.
"That was- that was um…"
She stutters, trying to come up with something clever. Are you supposed to thank someone when they give you an orgasm? She imagines a woman more experienced than her, a woman he's used to, making some sexy remark and then leaving immediately afterwards. Mysterious. Alluring. Keep him wanting more.
But that's not her and she doesn't want to just leave. She wants to let him know what he's done for her, that he's probably ruined her forever because there's no way she can recreate a feeling like that by herself. She lowers her head, face stained a permanent pink.
Maybe it makes her look really immature, but she has to say it anyway.
"Well, th-thank you."
She peeks up to see him looking more like himself, if not still a little pained. The corner of his mouth lifts in a smile that isn't as sarcastic for once.
"Don't mention it." he says dryly, adding, "maybe next time I'll let you play with my dick."
"C-can you not call it that?" She asks weakly. "It's so crude."
He grins at her discomfort.
"Cock any better?"
"Not really! "
He lists off a string of ridiculous sounding names including several that crown his prized appendage as king and conqueror, comparing it to monsters, snakes, fruit…
"Ah! Don't call it anything! " She says, covering her face out of embarrassment, giggling despite herself. "I can't believe we're having this conversation right now!"
"What, you really that much of a prude? I was just knuckle deep in your-"
"Okay!" She says shrilly and he throws his head back with laughter, falling back on the couch. She eyes him with playful distaste. "Excuse me for not being comfortable with the terms . You know you're my first—"
"First customer? First guy to make you come?"
"Y-yeah."
She smiles, feeling an unexpected lightness settle over her. She didn't expect this. She thought messing around with him would feel…wrong? It doesn't. Not at all. There's something comforting about being with him, something right, clicking into place. She didn't expect him to be so fun, so easy to be around after. At the same time this scares her; getting too close to him is only going to leave her hurt or disappointed eventually. She draws her knees together.
"I feel kind of exposed."
His eyes drift between her legs, a wicked smile lighting up his face.
"You are."
She goes red, clamping them shut tighter.
"I guess I should have brought a jacket or something." or underwear she thinks wryly.
He stares at her for a few seconds before pulling off his jacket, leaving him in a plain black cotton t-shirt. She realizes that up until now she's never seen him without it on, because she sits straight up.
"Whoa! You have so many tattoos!"
Without thinking she leans over to look at them, but stops.
"Can I?" she asks.
He shrugs. "Go for it."
She traces koi fish with tiny, intricate scales that swim up his arm over a cascade of rushing water eventually turning into a dragon with red eyes and claws that dig into his shoulder as if perched there. There's another of an oni mask with a twisting, crimson snake ensnared in its yellowed teeth. Another of a crow with red eyes and black wings stretching behind his shoulders. The strangest of all are the simplest: the barely-there, faded rings of blue encircling his wrists. He lets her examine them all, even patiently turning when she lifts the edge of his sleeves to see the end of another snake coiling itself around him.
"They're so beautiful." she says in a hushed voice. "I bet it hurt to get all of these."
"Nah. Worst part is them keepin' me out of those fancy onsens." he says and hands over his jacket to her. "Here."
"You can still go to the private ones." she reasons, shyly accepting it and pulling it over her head. It smells like him and there's a slight remnant of warmth in it so comforting, that she has to resist the urge to hug it to her. She pulls the sleeves back over her wrists.
"Who gave that to you?"
"Huh?"
He flicks the pendant dangling at her throat. Her hand goes to it instinctively.
"Oh. My dad."
He grunts in response.
"When I was little, he told me he'd take me to this festival in Hokuto City. They grow these huge fields of sunflowers every summer. They go on for miles. They have a maze and you can even go at night because it's all lit up. I've always wanted to go. This was his way of making a promise to take me, but he never did."
She suddenly feels embarrassed by her unprompted speech. He didn't ask, he doesn't care! They just fooled around: why is she even talking about this right now?
She adds quickly, "...but he's long gone now so it doesn't matter anyway. Um, thank you for your jacket!"
He mumbles something in response and she leans forward to hear him better.
"What?"
"Said' you look stupid the hoods' all messed up." he says gruffly, reaching to adjust it for her and gently untucks her hair from the collar. "There."
There's something so endearing about his grumpy expression that she leans forward on impulse and presses her lips to his scruffy cheek. They lock eyes as she pulls back.
"You got any more customers tonight?" he asks suddenly.
"Nope!" she responds at once, hoping he'll ask her to stay. Or ask her to go out or anything. She doesn't want the night to end yet. She knows it's stupid to want that. This is just casual. Just a learning opportunity for her and a night of fun for him. He's probably not even that interested in her. Which is just fine. There's absolutely nothing else deeper to what they have going on.
But if he asks, she'll say yes.
If she didn't think her mother was already looking down on her with shame she imagines the horror if she invites him back to her apartment. Better to put the ball in his court rather than cross over some invisible line between them.
"Oh. Okay."
His reply is anticlimactic and she tries not to look disappointed. It's for the best anyway. She stands and he does the same, jumping to his feet with her.
"I guess I better go." She says, lingering. "Before Mama-san checks on me."
"Right. Yeah. Be careful walkin' home and stuff."
"Yeah, I will. You too. Don't get into any more fights."
"No promises."
She surreptitiously bends to grab her bra from the floor, taking a few steps backwards. She takes a small chance, pausing at the door.
"Um, hey Mugen? About next time."
He looks up at her.
"I think I do…want to touch you too."
Next time.
Next time.
There's going to be a next time.
Mugen feels an unrecognizably giddy surge of energy, endless and exciting, like he's just won an award. He's not won a damn thing in his life but he thinks this is what it would feel like. Like he's hit the jackpot. A constant smile tugs at the corner of his lips that he fights to keep down as he walks home, hands behind his head. He's grateful for the empty streets, no one giving him looks, no one judging him for walking around grinning like an idiot.
He's slept maybe five hours over the last 48 but somehow he feels like he can do anything right now.
All these good feelings and he didn't even get laid. He didn't get to get off at all but watching her do it was incredible. The last look at her is burned into his brain: smiling up at him with those big brown doe-eyes, his jacket covering her tiny frame, her messy, lopsided ponytail.
His jacket. He imagines her in it tonight, maybe unrealistically using it to sleep in. Nude of course. It'll smell like her when he gets it back. Floral and mouth wateringly sweet. He thinks about the way her fingers traced across him, following the lines of ink embedded in his skin, the quick kiss to his cheek that sent a foreign stabbing ache straight into his hollow chest.
His steps slow. Maybe he should have walked her home. He's never wanted to before. In fact, he's breaking every unspoken rule by even thinking about her like this. He's more of a hump and dump sort of guy. He's very good at it, but no one cares when he leaves either. Fuu is different. And for once he's scared of fucking it up.
Are you supposed to walk girls home after you make them come?
Yeah, especially if you want the chance to do it again, idiot.
He wonders if it's too late now. If he turns back, he could wait for her in the back alley of the club and maybe when they make it to her place, she would invite him in? Would she? She might assume he's only there to continue where they left off, that he's just a dumb horny dog, eager to see if he can cash in early on that little promise of touching him.
Though, now that he thinks about it, getting within ten feet of her right now just might drive him insane. He is a dumb horny dog. He's always leaving their little nightly meetings with a constant, all-consuming ache that demands to be taken care of the second he's alone and can get his pants down.
And now he has fresh, very realistic new material to think about while he does it.
The look of her glassy eyed, cheeks pink and mouth parted with just the slightest peek of her tongue while she panted. The tight sheath of slick heat between her legs. Her little shudder when she—
Fuck.
Yeah, on second thought, maybe he should go take care of that first. Any more prolonged contact with her would be just past the line of torture for him. Cruel, even.
The masochistic part of him still thinks that even if she didn't want to fool around more, he'd be okay with that too. Maybe some torture is worth it. He can handle anything.
His phone buzzes from his pocket and he looks down at it with fiery hatred. He just wants to get back to his bed where he can take care of all the pent up frustration this little evening of romance has given him.
Romance? He snorts to himself before flicking it open irritably.
"Yeah?"
Denkibou's creaky voice hits his ear.
"Need you to come back down doggy, got a new assignment for you."
Mugen cringes at this particularly stupid nickname.
"Can't it wait? I haven't slept in two damn days."
He hears the muffled sound of a conversation followed by an annoying singsong:
"Sorry! "
He curses, flipping it shut, and briefly muses over how he has the patience of a goddamn saint to be marching his ass over there right now. He better be getting a good bonus from all the extra work he's been doing. He wheels himself around and heads in the opposite direction.
Umanosuke's headquarters are strange; a plain nondescript building that was first an apartment, then a retirement home and then, ironically, a funeral home. He secured the premises not long after the place shut down. He claims he won it in a bet, but Mugen suspects it's more likely he cheated the previous owner out of it. The place is run down and has a permanently medicinal smell to it.
He isn't really superstitious, but the place creeps him out. Sometimes he'll crash in one of the empty apartments that was never converted when he doesn't feel like hauling himself over to his place. Which is frequent.
When he arrives, Umanosuke sits behind a secondhand desk, looking every bit like the greasy scammer he is. He's got an old gray laptop in front of him and a calculator beside it, squinting at the screen while his left hand types out a few numbers. There's an electric buzzing noise as the tiny printer spits out numbers on paper. When he looks up to see Mugen he smiles.
"Well well. Late night again?"
"...Yeah."
He throws himself down in one of the uncomfortable chairs situated in front of the desk. The leather is peeling and he feels a spring in one of them stabbing his leg. Cheap bastard could invest in better seats.
He eyes Mugen up and down with something like delight.
"A chilly night for summer isn't it? I wonder if your jacket ended up with a certain hostess?" A knowing glint sparkles in his dull eye. He's always been inconveniently observant. "Very chivalrous of you Mugen, I didn't know you had it in you."
Mugen feels a knot tighten in his stomach. From the room over he hears some variety show blaring followed by a creepy bout of Denkibou's raucous laughter. Somewhere in there too is the other brother, Toube. Probably parked in front of the crappy old television. If he had to choose which of the three he tolerates best it's him; he at least keeps his mouth shut.
"You've been spending a lot of time at the club." He observes, obviously trying to fish for more information.
"Yeah. Just enjoying the gift and all that." he says with a yawn.
Umanosuke inclines his head.
"An interesting choice of girl too. She's new. Fuu, was it?"
He feels another tense ripple of unease. His relationship with his boss has always been tenuous. It only works because he's on his own for the most part. He's given a name, a location, and an amount owed. Come back with it. Done. Don't come back with it, don't get paid. Sometimes he'll need to accompany Umanosuke to some seedy underground meeting to make sure no one starts shit, but for the most part he's left to his own devices. That's how he likes it. The most unpleasant part is having to deal with him and his freakshow brothers.
The fact that he's so interested in Mugen's interest in her puts him on edge.
"Yeah. She's ok I guess." he yawns again, the euphoria from before now beginning to wear off. Suddenly those five hours of sleep begin to feel like five minutes. He swears it's the decrepit old building. The constant smell of lidocaine and dusty tea leaves takes it out of him.
Umanosuke frowns, typing something into his computer. The greenish glow reflecting back on his sallow skin gives Mugen the impression of a zombie.
"Kasumi Fuu…it rings a bell. Kasumi… Kasumi …Where have I heard that? A brother? Father maybe?"
"Doubt it. Guess her dad's an asshole deadbeat. Supposed to take her to some sunflower thing."
He tilts his head in question.
"Sunflower?"
"Yeah, some festival thing. I don't know." his stomach lurches guiltily, a very faint voice telling him that maybe that wasn't his story to tell, but he tries to play it off. "Doesn't matter anyway, who gives a shit. Listen, I'm tired. Can you just give me the name of the next asshole who needs his door busted down, I'm tired."
Umanosuke digs from beneath a stack of papers, and scrawls a name and address.
"He leaves for work early in the morning. You know." he says with an excited gleam, "he's got two daughters. Maybe you can use that in one of your little threats. I even have the location of their pre-school. He owes me big."
"Let me worry about how I handle it." he grumbles, snatching the scrap from him. His bosses' little tips and tricks are always tinged with creepiness.
"Of course. I just thought you could use a little creativity in your methods. They're quite tame for such an angry young man. You have so much potential."
The praise grates against him and he grumbles an unenthusiastic thanks as he leaves. Inexplicably he thinks of Fuu. The worried look on her face when she told him: you're not bad.
He opens the door to one of the apartments he usually sleeps in, only to find it's taken. A stern looking man sits with his arms crossed, his chin leaning down on his chest.
His title might be bodyguard, but Kagetoki is the one who really keeps an eye on the brothers. He's sent out on the more "delicate assignments" in Umanosuke's words. He was hired long before Mugen. That's probably why he's always looking down on him. Thinks he's hot shit. It annoys him, but it's not like he wants anymore responsibility. From his point of view the old guy is hardly around. Whatever those "assignments" are, they usually keep him busy and out of his hair.
He's always been annoyed with him and his quiet demeanor. For such a supposedly lethal guy, he's boring as hell to be around. Always speaking in riddles and bullshit. Mugen pounds the wall beside the yellowed light switch to get his attention.
"Hey buddy, you mind goin' somewhere else. I'd like to get some sleep."
Kagetoki's head rises from his chest. It's always weirded him out that he never startles, even when he's woken up from a dead sleep. Always calm. Always stoic. Wish I could do that.
"There are plenty of other unoccupied rooms." he murmurs, voice raspy from sleep. His steady eyes rise to meet Mugen's.
"Then you go to one. I got my hands bloody enough for one day, I think I deserve the better room, don't you?"
He expects a fight, he likes to prod at him sometimes to see if he can get a reaction, but but the man just stands up from his place on the old couch.
"You haven't even begun to get blood on your hands."
"The fuck you talkin' about? I always get blood on my hands."
He shakes his head as he passes him.
"Not that kind. The kind that doesn't wash off."
There he goes again with more of his cryptic bullshit .
Mugen slams the door behind him, searching through the empty apartment for the one decent bed. It's softer than the others, with blankets that only smell mildly old rather than damp and moldy. He should have told Umanosuke to fuck off. He'd rather be in his crappy apartment than this shithole.
No, there's somewhere else he'd rather be.
He thinks about her as he lays down, bunching a nearly flat pillow beneath his head until it's somewhat comfortable. He imagines what it would feel like to have her lay across his chest, rest her cheek on him. She'd be shy, probably. He loves watching her cheeks go red when he says something dirty or does something to piss her off. She likes it though. He thinks with a grin. He remembers her beneath him, how he knew exactly how to touch her, how it felt like she was made just for him. Nothing has ever been just for him. Until now.
He grew up in an orphanage where no one wanted him, but wanting was all he ever knew. He wanted a home. He wanted a game boy. A dog. A family. Shoes that weren't 2 sizes too small. He wanted something normal, the stuff everyone else seems to get, but not him. Never him. He grew up fast and got over it. Some people aren't meant to have the good shit. He's one of 'em. It's not fair but that's how it is. He forged his own way, even if it wasn't the right way, he's survived. He takes what he wants without looking back.
He's always been good at taking.
But meeting her has clicked something into place, the universe and all the bullshit he's been through makes sense. Sort of. There is something that's just for him and she fell right into his lap.
The whole thing makes him feel just a little crazy. He only met her less than a month ago. There's no reason to be feeling this greedy desire to make her his. He's acting like she already is. He hasn't done anything to earn her. In fact he spent the better part of the day pissed off at her little comment about prancing around half naked as good for business. The idea of her being with someone else– the wannabe samurai or any random asshole, fills him with black rage. He doesn't have to do shit to earn her.
She is his.
Maybe that attitude will bite him in the ass later, who knows. But the knowledge is innate: like knowing the sun is going to rise several hours from now, breaking through the threadbare moth-eaten curtains.
Thinking this hard is depleting his already spent energy stores. He's exhausted.
He thinks about her again, rolling around in his jacket, her soft legs draped over his lap, her tongue in his mouth. He decides he has enough energy to think about that a little longer.
