"yall fightin demons im jackin mine off"
we all need a little theylien pussy to power us through november. as always, drop me a line if you want~ peace xo
It's a necessary sacrifice, you think, swirling your tongue around your middle three digits until they're slick. Incredibly necessary, because if Number Ninety-six isn't monitored every hour of every day, isn't placated at the first hint of discontent, who knows what sort of havoc they might wreak?
Your hand disappears under the waistband of their underwear, fingers sliding through the wiry hair in search of the bundle of nerves at the top of their sex. You press on it, ever gentle, rub firm circles over it with your fingertips, and Ninety-six groans and clings to your shoulders as their back arches. A heavy burden indeed, but more bearable than the weight of worlds, you figure. You'll manage.
You cup the nape of their neck as you continue to explore: the clitoral hood and the fantastically sensitive nub beneath, the plump outer labia, the soft inner folds, fever-hot under your touch and already wet with arousal. Ninety-six breathes like they actually need the oxygen, the air rattling around their clenched teeth as their hips chase the movements of your hand.
"You're such a fucking tease," they hiss, venomous to hide—desperation, certainly, but is that affection you hear as well? They're being careful not to cut you with their nails and your neck is still damp from the kisses they covered you in the moment the door clicked shut. You file the thought away to consider it later, choosing for now to duck your head and nip the soft underside of their jaw. Ninety-six's answering moan is almost a whine.
"Try a little patience, Kyu-chan," you tell them.
"Try fucking me already," they counter, "if you even know how."
A challenge? Very well. You withdraw your hand, earning a snarl, and then hook those same two fingers under the elastic that keeps their panties up and yank them down to their knees. Ninety-six takes care of the rest—kicks them halfway across the room, actually—winding a leg around your waist a moment later to pull you in for a rough kiss, which you meet with a muffled cry of your own and a shudder that reaches your very bones.
It's just another game, you tell yourself. The act of pushing Ninety-six onto the mattress behind you, mindful not to catch the loose ends of their hair as you plant your hands on either side of their head, is just another piece in your strategy; you can't afford to lose, after all. They take the first finger with ease and then wail piteously when you wait to add a second, electing instead to circle their clitoris with the very tip of your thumb.
"Astral," they complain, "come on."
"But you're so cute like this," you say, feeling your lips twitch.
"Fucking bi—"
You push in another two fingers, both at once, and Ninety-six gasps and drops back onto the bed. "You could stand to be a bit nicer to me," you remark, thrusting firm and slow. "I admit your obstinacy is often something to commend, or at least marvel at, but a simple 'please' can work wonders."
"Works harder than you, I expect," they toss back, impressively petulant between their needy little whimpers. You keep your pace steady and your pressure light, which wears Ninety-six down more than your taunting ever could. "C'mon, Astral, just—ugh! Can't you just—"
You just tilt your head, your touches still gentle. Ninety-six buries their face in the blankets; you admire the vibrant flush of color creeping up their neck.
"Can you please just. You know. Do the thing already. Fuck."
It's as good as you're going to get, you decide, but it'll serve. The low groan Ninety-six makes when you crook your fingers quickly gives way to a series of higher, sharper cries as you increase the force behind your movements; your thumb on their clitoris starts massaging insistently, which very soon has them scrabbling at the bedding for purchase as their thighs shake.
"All that time sealing you in the Key, and I could have just done this," you murmur, almost to yourself.
"Shut up," Ninety-six spits. Their glare lasts all of three seconds before you hit another sweet spot. "Fucking fuck, that's so good!—how are you so good at this? You're Astral! You're all—shit!—all demure and innocent and—you know, all that shit—"
"Perhaps originally, but I am a fast learner," you respond. "And you do like to keep me on my toes. It's only natural I acquire new skills to keep you in check."
"Just don't stop," they mutter, closing their eyes tight. "Just, for the love of—I don't know, whatever-the-fuck—just don't stop, please, I need it, I need more—"
"Kyu-chan," you murmur in their ear, solely because they hate the nickname. "Sweet, sweet Kyu-chan. Who knew you could look so lovely?"
"Don't talk pretty when I'm trying to come," they insist.
"I don't know. I think you like it." Ninety-six greedily meets your thrusts, their chest heaving as they breathe hard and fast. "Actually, I know you do. You like being told how cute you are. You like the attention you get when you manage to be good for a change. And I think you like knowing you've corrupted me, but that's another topic."
They find it in them to flash you a grin, though in the next moment their mouth twists and they tip their head back, bearing their throat. You can't resist: you drop your weight onto your elbow to lean forward and lick the exposed tendon, then sink your teeth into their jumping pulse, which earns a loud, eager whine.
"Fuck—fuck—fuck, I'm gonna come, I'm gonna come—"
"Mm, come for me, Kyu-chan," you whisper against their collar.
Ninety-six muffles themself by burying their face in your shoulder, wet eyelashes tickling your skin as they rock desperately against your hand. You don't lose your momentum through their orgasm; the vague ache in your wrist is nothing compared to the sounds of their cries, the pulsing around your fingers, the hot come trickling into your palm. You want to taste it, want to taste them—want to do anything to hear them moan your name again—
"Astral," they whimper, clutching your back, "Astral."
Their hand reaches for yours, fingers tightening around your forearm to stay you. This part is no less pleasurable: you slowly pull out, and your slick, glistening knuckles make you acutely aware that—yes, you are still wearing pants, and you would like to fix that sooner instead of later.
You lean up on your knees, and Ninety-six, rather than sit up, lies back. They make eye contact and very meaningfully lick their lips, now curved into a smirk.
Well—you need to hold them down somehow, you tell yourself, fumbling with the clasp of your shorts like you're Yuma just learning how to Duel. If Ninety-six's laughter is grating to your ears, it's utter heaven between your legs; a trade is a trade is a trade.