in celebration of almost certainly being rid of the evil orange. as always, drop me a line anytime~
You're not normally one for lovemaking, but Astral's always the exception, aren't they? Besides, they're so cute like this—big eyes avoiding yours even when you tilt their chin up with a fingertip, tanned skin blushing bright red all the way down to their collar—not even you have the heart to treat them like a piece of meat. So you go all out: pink silk to tie their wrists together, vanilla-scented lotion to rub into their skin. By the time you lick the first stripe up their cunt, they're squirming on the bedsheets and mewing like a kitten. The plan to make them wait for their orgasm is quickly abandoned, or at least delayed, because their heels are digging into your shoulders and their voice is choking on your name, rough like they've swallowed gravel, and then they say the magic words: "Please—please, Kyu-chan—" It decimates you, you must admit.
Astral comes sobbing and riding your tongue, eyes rolled back as they thank every star in the night sky, and each cry is another finger wrapped around your throat. They don't even realize the power they have over you; that's the funny part. You tuck their hair out of their face and let them catch their breath before going at it again, nails pressing into the soft skin of their thighs less to keep them steady and more to mark them as yours.
And, all right: there's not a whole lot they can do for you right now—lack of skill, lack of experience—but you're not too bothered. You're content enough to curl up against their side and rub one out while Astral kisses the underside of your jaw, pointedly ignoring the sound of them murmuring sweet nothings like they're not half the reason your knees are shaking. Then they want to look you in the eyes when you come, and hold your hand and stroke your hair, so you humor them; you don't press your forehead to theirs like even the smallest distance between you is agony, and you definitely don't sigh their name as they run their fingernails down the curve of your spine.
They're not like the others; you went into this knowing as much. That doesn't make you any more prepared for the aftermath, though, when you're wondering what to fill in for the part where you usually grab your shit and go, and Astral decides with a happy little hum to sprawl across your chest and bury their face in the crook of your neck.
"Um," you say. "Hey. Princess. What're you doing?"
The nickname earns a delicate snort, but otherwise they don't budge. "Surely you know," they say primly. When you don't respond, Astral finally leans up an inch or two to look you in the face, a pale eyebrow arched. "You mean to say you aren't familiar with this part? Despite the plethora of human partners you've had? It's quite customary, according to my research, anyway. Typically lovers will spend up to an hour post-coitus basking in each other's company, often flirting or exchanging small talk, or else simply 'cuddling' in peaceful silence, like so. Were you really not aware?"
"Well, first off," you begin, trying your damnedest not to burst out laughing at the incredibly Astral-y explanation of pillow talk, "I wouldn't go as far as to call any of them 'lovers.' And there haven't been that many, thanks. Second, obviously I know it's a thing people do, mostly shmucks and the like. I've just—"
"You've never had anyone hold you?" Astral murmurs, after you've trailed off. Definitely not how you were going to end that sentence, but... not technically untrue, either, though it's not like you were torn up about it or anything. That doesn't stop Astral, of course. After a few moments of staring at you with a very annoying expression—eyes gone soft, lips parted as they tilt their head—they breathe a loud sigh and then resume their position of lying on top of you, slim arms encircling your ribs to hug you close.
"Idiot," you mumble. It's the closest you can muster to a dignified response. You miss being black as smoke, because while your human form has certain... advantages (as recently demonstrated), it also does stupid shit like blush and doesn't hide it well at all, seeing as your skin's the color of cooked rice. And, sure, you could darken it, turn as tanned as Astral or as brown as upturned earth, but then Astral would ask what inspired the change, and they probably wouldn't believe whatever excuse you managed to think up, since I turn red when you get all romantic isn't something you want to say out loud, like, ever.
Astral strokes your cheek with the tip of a cool finger. "You look so sweet like this, Kyu-chan."
"That's not as cute when you're not begging to come," you tell them.
"So crass." You roll your eyes. "It's all right, Ninety-six. I understand. I mean, you're the one who always insists we're more alike than it seems. So you're afraid of intimacy. I was, too, once. A lot of people are."
"I'm not afraid of anything," you grumble.
They just look at you. No—they look through you, which is infinitely worse. Finally you give a loud huff. "I wasn't made to love, Astral," you say flatly.
"You weren't made for anything," they respond.
You press your face into the pillow, wanting to hide the sting you feel. "Thanks for the reminder, asshole."
"No! No, I meant—" You roll away from them, and Astral crawls over you to lean down and look at your face. "You weren't made for anything in particular. That means you aren't bound by any intended purpose. You can do anything, be anything. You know?"
You exhale sharply through your nose, still not meeting Astral's earnest gaze. The irritation ebbs, and behind it—you're not really sure how to quantify what's behind it, actually. Kind of warm, equal parts fragile and strong, as contradictory as that sounds. It makes the color return to your face and your lips twitch at the corners. Feels almost like—
"Number Thirty-nine," you say, cackling, and Astral blinks as you pick up the silk scarf and swat them gently in the face with it. "Stupid bastard just won't quit, will he?"