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aclosetfan · 2 years

Note

Now I’m curious about your headcanons for the others and their body types. Do you mind sharing?

pssh, not at all! I think about this a lot actually haha. I'm throwing in Princess and Robin too because they're ignored too often! The list below is just my go-to. Story-depending, it changes! (also threw in extra fun details). All under the cut :)

1) Blossom: Her somatotype would be ectomorphic, meaning she has little fat/muscle. I see her body shape as an inverted triangle (larger on top, slimmer on bottom), or a rectangle, with a triangle-shaped face. I see her at an "average" weight and height. Stick straight hair that can't hold a curl (but still canonically NOT messy). I think her hair is a lighter red-orange, where it's more orange than red. Deals with stress acne she tries to hide under her bangs, and I think she'd have pink-banded braces in her tweens and teens. Freckles easily if out in the sun. Good posture. Ear piercings. Wears makeup, but only the basics. I want to say that I think her nose should be on the bigger side. Idk one time I was accused of bullying her for making her look "nerdy" soooo i really just don't play around with her anymore. 🤣🤣

2) Buttercup: A tall athletic build, so more her somatotype could be defined as a mesomorph, but I see her pear-shaped, which is commonly defined as ecto-endomorph, where the body is thinner on top with higher fat storage on the bottom. Idk i go back and forth. The bottom line is, I see her as the flat-chested one with a solid, strong body type. When working out, she focuses on definition and cardio instead of gains, so her muscle is leaner. She has a sharper face structure (maybe square/diamond). Stretch marks, indicating rapid growth spurts on hips and arms. Her hair is a black messy wavy short nightmare. Out of the three sisters, I feel she's the most self-conscious of her body (mad that she doesn't come off feminine, but also mad when she does--goes with my androgynous/or possibly nonbinary headcanons). I give her bad knees too, and she chews on her fingernails. Makeup-wise, she doesn't like it, but she went through a bad black eyeliner phase.

3) Bubbles: Has an endomorphic body type where she gains both weight and muscle very easily. According to canon, people say she's chubby. I see her hourglass-shaped with a rounded heart-shaped face! Very graceful. Heightwise, considered petite. She's made for hugs! If she were a cheerleader, I'd see her as a strong base, not a flyer (but she'd want to be a flyer). Good thighs. Curly, curly hair that frizzes if she doesn't keep up with it. Her hair is very blond, so her eyebrows and eyelashes look non-existent, which frustrates her. I think she'd have those very cute freckles that some people have solely on her cheeks with a gap in her two front teeth, and I'm a sucker for dimples on Bubbles. Has a button nose. Wears glasses, but hates them. Multiple ear piercings. Makeup guru. Just a cutie, tbh!

Brick: Bony, thin, and lanky. Ectomorphic like Blossom, but unhealthy about it. If he were real, you'd invite him to dinner just to make sure with your own two eyes he eats. For a variety of reasons that I won't explain here, I h/c him as someone who struggles with an unspecified eating disorder. Dark bags under his eyes make his thinness more pronounced, all his facial features are thin. Hella freckles everywhere. Teeth are stained a slight yellow (nicotine and coffee) (smile can still light up a room, but don't tell him that). Dark red hair is messy, long, and also sticky straight like Blossom's but not well maintained or as thick. His hair is dry in texture and when he was little had a bad case of dandruff. Does not care about his outer appearance, but things get better for him when he gets older (story depending), and that's when he starts putting in an effort. Hollowed face structure, probs square or triangle. He's a pretty boy, but far from conventionally attractive. Sometimes has piercing, sometimes doesn't. Bad posture.

Butch: Again, like Buttercup, a mesomorphic athletic build, but leans more endomorphic. He can build muscle very easily but has very little body fat. Despite that, he's a big boy lol. More broad in the chest and shoulders. Has an intimidating height and weight, but isn't bony. Not very graceful, and for a long time, he didn't have good control of his powers. As a little boy, he was rather gangly. A lot of stretch marks on his thighs, hips, chest, and arms. Angular face shape, squared jaw. Like Blossom, I think this guy would need braces, but they don't help. When he was little, they were knocked out of his head so many times, they don't grow back correctly anymore. Permanently missing a few molars. I h/c that all the kids have a bunch of scars, but Butch ended up with one on his eyebrow that everyone makes fun of him for because it makes him look like a douche-bag. love those h/cs that say he has curly hair that he tries to spike, so I adhere to that. One-dimpled smile! Various piercings. Bad posture (tries to hide his height). Large crocked nose.

Boomer: Wow, you guessed, it! Endomorphic, plus-sized guy! Slims out more than Bubbles as he ages because guys have an easier time losing weight, but he is never not chubby. I want to say he's an hourglass shape like Bubbles, but I haven't decided yet! He'd have a more rounded or rounded-square face. Again, stretch marks from his growth spurts. On the tall side, usually, I put him right between his brothers on height charts. Boomer is often in denial about his weight. I think deep down it bugs him, but for the most part, he ignores it. I feel that Boomer would change his hair the most, but has wavy blonde hair. Crooked cute smile! Various piercings! TBH I think he's the most conventionally handsome out of his brothers. I just think the blues would be very pretty, and Boomer would know it.

Princess: I like to think of her as Rich Girl thin, lol, but with a mesomorphic/athletic build. She has a round face and is rather petite overall. Has a pronounced gap in her two front teeth (more so than Bubbles) with a slight lisp, and a significant amount of freckles on her face. She has bright red, very curly hair. Aside from that, her ears are pierced. She doesn't have scars and is at an average height and weight, so I don't feel she'd have any stretch marks. Out of all the girls on this list, I'd think she'd actually be considered the most "perfect." Nails always manicured, hair always done, the best clothes, personal trainers, etc. She has the money for it, so she looks like a Country Club Trust Fund Baby. Her most unattractive quality is her personality, which is a real shame. :(

Robin: Robin! Robin has a square body type, leaning more athletic! I think she'd like to jog, so has leaner muscle like Buttercup. On the shorter side, but I also see her as at an average height. Her face shape is still up in the air. Robin thinks she's rather plain, boring, and mousy looking compared to all her interesting friends. Keeps her hair long, but dyes it from time to time to shake things up. No scars except for one on her forearm from falling off her bike, and a notch in her front tooth from the same accident. Doesn't freckle, but tans easily. She has very pretty blue eyes that I'm going to say are prettier than the blues.

#hahaha omg that is so long im so sorry #sorry i gave more details than body type but oh well it was fun!#i feel like im reading this over and my ideas aren't interesting at all #what makes them interesting is how the character views themselves #anon asks #ppg body headcanons

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gb-fics · 3 years

Text

Dressed in Confidence

Fanfiction:

Kiryuuin Shou x Kyan Yutaka (Golden Bomber)

Note: So, you might have seen the self-cover Shou shared yesterday and it inspired me to write a fic right away. For the context: The character originally performing the song has a magic suit that makes him confident and popular with women. Please, don’t question how it works, we’ll just pretend a suit can magically change Shou’s appearance and personality in this fic ^-^ Also, if you haven’t seen the video, please check it out, because he is gorgeous in it and maybe it will make the story seem a little less random ... https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lgzL_Ccmr1Y

„Just go over and talk to her already”, Yutaka urged quietly.

He didn’t know whom of the girls Shou had set his eyes on, but the glances he kept sneaking at the group of women opposite to their booth at the bar were more than obvious. Yutaka had waited to speak up until Jun and Kenji had went over to the counter to secure new drinks for themselves though. Shou was naturally self-conscious and Yutaka hadn’t meant to make him uncomfortable in front of the others. But his silent longing was becoming hard to bear.

“I can’t just do that”, Shou protested. Obviously, he knew what Yutaka was talking about immediately. He didn’t even seem surprised that Yutaka had noticed. “I’m not some kind of gigolo.”

Yutaka frowned. Although he was pretty good at seeing Shou through, he sometimes didn’t understand his reasoning anyway.

“Chatting up girls in bars and being a gigolo are two totally different things.”

Next to him Shou squirmed on the bench seat.

“I just don’t have that kind of confidence”, he whined.

“You are handsome, famous and you have money. Women have every reason to be interested in you. So, pull yourself together.”

Yutaka had lost count of how often he had given Shou similar pep talks already.

“I’m not”, Shou said right away. He cleared his throat. “I mean, I’m famous. And I do have money. But I’m not handsome.”

It was difficult to come up with the right reply to that. Yutaka never found the right words to talk about Shou’s looks.

“You should let them decide for themselves”, he pointed out.

Shou shifted his weight again. He reached down to check for the bag he kept on the floor between his legs. He had kept checking for it all evening, as if he was scared it might suddenly disappear.

“Please, if I go over there, I won’t even be able to look them in the eyes.” Shou winced.

Yutaka hoped that Jun and Kenji would hurry. The conversation was starting to make him uneasy. He didn’t know how to cheer Shou up without praising him, and he didn’t know how to praise him without making him uncomfortable. Being Shou’s friend could be difficult.

“What’s in the bag anyway?”, he changed the topic. Not the best solution, but at least a way to distract Shou from his self-pity.

“Ah, I wrote Party wo Tomenaide for that franchise, remember? They’re currently working on this magic suit and they gave me a prototype when I recorded the video for the self-cover. It’s supposed to make you cool and confident and popular with women.”

“And you brought it to the bar?” Yutaka hadn’t meant to let disdain sneak into his voice, but Shou pulled up his shoulders instinctively as if he wanted to shield himself from potential judgement.

“Just in case”, he said defensively. “We sometimes end up talking to women, when we’re in a group and I thought it might be a good chance to try it out. See if it even works. In case there is ever something I’ll need a lot of confidence for.”

Yutaka felt soothed to think Shou had only eyed the women as test objects to sate his curiosity about the suit and that he had not fallen in love from across the room. His tendencies in that regard were sometimes worrisome.

“Well then, give it a try”, he suggested. He had heard about the suit but hadn’t known Shou actually owned a prototype. He was curious, if it would work. Shou’s confidence could surely use an occasional boost and it would be great to no longer be the one responsible for it.

“If you insist”, Shou mumbled, but he was already fumbling with his bag. It was obvious he had only waited for some sort of permission.

He pulled out a suit coat and inhaled soundly before he got up. For a moment, he just stood there with the piece of clothing in his hands indecisively. Then he slipped it on in a surprisingly smooth motion.

All Yutaka did was blink and the next second, a completely changed person stood in front of him. Shou’s traditional Tamiya shirt had miraculously transformed into a silky, black suit. It even came with matching dress shoes. But it wasn’t just that. His hair had changed, too. It was styled in perfect shape and showed green streaks that made his look seem edgy and interesting. He was even wearing makeup that differed his usual style. A bright yellow flower stuck in his buttonhole.

Shou had transformed into someone so conventionally attractive, he might indeed start working at a host club.

Absent-mindedly he straightened his suit coat and turned towards the group of women.

He looked dazzling, but almost like a stranger.

Yutaka was surprised that he hesitated for so long before approaching the women anyway. He followed him with his eyes, curious how this would turn out.

Shou’s posture seemed straighter than usually as he walked through the room, yet he still managed to look awkward. He looked like a person who was arguing with himself about every step.

Finally, he stopped right behind a cute girl with bangs. Yutaka should have been able to guess it was her whom Shou had been watching. He would have chatted up her more light-haired friend, but when it came to Shou, she was just his type.

The girl didn’t notice him, though.

Shou just stood for a moment, although her friends had already noticed him. Seemingly, Shou had no idea how to draw attention to himself. He hesitated for far too long, before he reached out and tapped the girl on the shoulder. She flinched, which caused Shou to jolt in return and the whole situation was so awkward to watch, that Yutaka winced under his breath. The good looks and the confidence to approach women had done nothing for Shou’s coolness.

The girl turned around and even from across the room, Yutaka could tell that she seemed startled at Shou’s appearance. Her expression wasn’t annoyed but spoke of pleasant surprise. If a girl looked at you like that at first sight, it was very difficult to blow it.

Even from across the room Yutaka could tell that Shou would blow it.

Instead of looking at the girl while talking, he kept his eyes on the ground and his posture shifted, making it seem as if he wanted to curl back up into himself. He looked exactly as miserable and self-conscious talking to women as he had as a teenager. Everything about his body language radiated insecurity.

Yutaka sighed.

The woman shook her head. Instead of taking it with dignity, Shou managed to look even more miserable. Knowing him, Yutaka assumed he was probably blushing. He still didn’t make eye-contact.

After a very painful minute, Shou turned around and shuffled back to their table. He no longer seemed confident at all. His outward handsomeness remained, but it didn’t match with the way he carried himself at all.

“Sorry”, Yutaka said. “At least now you know.”

Shou sat down on the bench next to him again. Yutaka noticed that he wasn’t slumping down as usual, though, but sat surprisingly straight. It made him look taller and more self-assured.

“Too bad the suit is not working.”

“Oh, I don’t mind”, Shou said and turned towards him. His voice wasn’t as quiet and gloomy as Yutaka had expected. He spoke smugly. “I’d rather spend my time with you anyway.”

Yutaka eyed him suspiciously. The makeup suited him; his features looked more contoured and his skin smooth. His lips were always wide, but tonight they glistened invitingly. It was still Shou’s face, but the makeup brought out all its good qualities more strongly.

“What?”, he asked.

“Why would I waste my time with these women, when I can spend the night with a pretty guy like you?”, Shou asked. He was meeting Yutaka’s eyes head on. That was rare for him already, but tonight his gaze was challenging rather than stubborn.

Yutaka was so irritated by his unnaturally confident tone, that it took him a moment to realize what was going on.

“Oh, ha ha, very funny”, he said dryly.

“I mean it”, Shou insisted and placed his hand on Yutaka’s shoulder. He often did that, especially when he got tipsy and he had already had a couple of beers tonight, though by no means enough to justify him acting so out of character. His touch right now felt different, however. He wasn’t just seeking out body contact, he was using the gesture as an excuse to lean in, bringing them closer together. Suddenly, Yutaka was very aware of how close Shou was sitting.

“Let me buy you a drink”, he said, before turning around. Shou usually hated calling over the waiter and when they went to a restaurant together, he normally left it to the others. He was too shy and polite to raise his voice at strangers.

Now, he raised his arm and called out loudly: “Excuse me?” to make the young waitress turn around. “A bottle of champagne, please. Your most expensive one.”

The waitress nodded and headed off.

Shou turned back to Yutaka.

“Champagne? The expensive one? What’s gotten into you?”, Yutaka asked, still irritated. Before this, he could have written it off as a joke, but Shou would never waste money just to prank him. “You never order anything high-end.”

He still felt like he was talking to a stranger.

“Nothing but the best for my kitten”, Shou said.

Yutaka chocked.

“What?! What did you just call me?”

“Kitten”, Shou repeated. He sounded hoarse. His eyes trailed down Yutaka’s body and he didn’t try to hide the fact that he was shamelessly checking him out. It made Yutaka feel unexpectedly hot.

“Unless you prefer another pet name?”

And then Shou smiled.

It wasn’t a smug, cocky smile. His smile was warm and genuine and it looked just a little bit insecure as if he worried that he had crossed a line. It made Shou look shy and kind and charming. His teeth weren’t showing, but his lips seemed even wider and absolutely gorgeous and the small dimple on his left cheek didn’t seem as misplaced as usual, but it fit in perfectly with his handsome face. The smile turned him from a stranger into nothing but Shou, but the best version of Shou that he could possibly be. It was Shou the way he would look if he were no longer worried and self-deprecating; still shy but no longer scared.

Yutaka’s knees grew weak. But it wasn’t just his knees. It was his shoulders that suddenly held no tension anymore and his arms, that turned into butter and his whole body felt like it might just melt away when Shou smiled at him like this and called him cute names.

“Uhm”, he said.

“Your champagne”, the waitress interrupted them and Yutaka turned hastily, glad for the interruption that allowed him to clear his head. Something about this suit seemed to be working at least.

The waitress placed a bucket filled with ice on the table, that held a bottle of champagne. Steam was rising from the bottleneck, indicating that it had just been opened. Yutaka hadn’t expected it to be done for them already, but it was probably better that way. They would surely have created a mess otherwise.

The bottle came with four glasses and only their sight made Yutaka realize he had completely forgotten about Jun and Kenji. He wondered what was taking them so long.

“Let me get that for you”, Shou offered, although Yutaka hadn’t moved to fix himself a glass at all.

Shou placed his fingers on Yutaka’s wrist as if he wanted to physically stop him from helping himself. Once again, the gesture wasn’t untypical for Shou. He often touched people while talking to them, but this time, it had a different quality. Usually, his touches were distracted as if he didn’t really notice what his body was doing at all. But right now, he looked down on his hand resting on Yutaka’s bare wrist, and then he looked up, meeting his eyes, as if he wanted to make absolutely sure, that Yutaka became aware of the contact. His touch was fully intentional this time and Yutaka sensed heat creeping up his neck.

The touch lasted just long enough to not feel accidental, then Shou pulled back and reached for the bottle of champagne instead. He closed his long, slender fingers around the bottleneck firmly and took up a glass. His movements were secure and controlled. Yutaka had always admired Shou’s hands, that seemed too elegant and coordinated for someone who moved the way he did. But when it came to his hands, Shou always seemed to know what he was doing.

He poured a glass of champagne without spilling a drop and held it out to Yutaka.

Yutaka thought that with all the things that had changed, Shou’s hands had stayed exactly the same.

He took the glass and Shou held his gaze for a moment. It was Yutaka, who looked away first. Shou was wearing coloured lenses and his eyes were bright and intriguing. He didn’t seem in a hurry as he poured himself a glass as well.

Yutaka watched his movements closely. He could still recognize Shou’s way of moving, but he seemed less stressed and therefore less awkward. The only real difference seemed to be, that he was relaxed for a change and Yutaka wondered, if Shou would always look this sexy, if only he managed to put him at ease more.

Shou placed the bottle back into the bucket and held up his glass to Yutaka while meeting his eyes again.

“To a night full of fun”, he said. He said it like he was thinking of something dirty.

“To a fun night”, Yutaka agreed and clinked his glass to Shou’s. He did his best to make it sound less suggestive.

He emptied half of the glass in large gulps. The champagne made him feel bubbly inside, but he doubted it was because of the alcohol. This version of Shou made him nervous.

“Tastes expensive”, he observed lamely, although he couldn’t tell one champagne from the other.

Shou smiled again and once more, Yutaka thought that his lips looked stunning tonight.

“Oh, you guys ordered champagne!”, Kenji’s voice chimed in unexpectedly.

“When did you change, Shou? Is that the magic suit?”, Jun asked and pulled up his chair to sit down opposite to them.

Although Yutaka had hoped to be rescued from this weird tension, he still felt mad at them for interrupting.

Kenji placed himself on the bench next to Shou.

“He brought the suit to the bar to pick up girls, but it doesn’t work”, Yutaka declared maliciously. He was no longer sure if he was annoyed with Jun and Kenji for showing up, or for staying away for so long, or with Shou for acting so weird in the first place.

Shou patted the bench next to himself.

“Here, Kenji, come closer”, he said.

Kenji shuffled closer.

“Why?”, he asked. It was very much like Kenji to comply first and ask questions later.

Shou raised his hand and ran his forefinger across Kenji’s sharp jawline.

“So I can get a better look at your handsome face.”

Something inside of Yutaka constricted uncomfortably. He didn’t know why he felt so upset, but he couldn’t deny that he felt jealous of Kenji. Since the suit hadn’t worked on the girls, he had assumed it was only him having this effect on Shou.

“Oh god, what’s up with you?”, Jun asked, sounding seriously worried.

Kenji gave an embarrassed sound, but started pouring champagne for him and Jun as well without waiting for an invitation.

“The suit is turning him gay”, Yutaka explained nonchalantly and emptied his own glass.

“What’s turning me gay is sitting here with such cute guys”, Shou said lightly. He didn’t sound embarrassed at all. Rather than joking, he seemed flirting.

“That’s disturbing”, Jun said somewhat too loudly. “Someone get him out of this suit!”

Shou batted his eyelashes before looking right at Jun at the other side of the table.

“Please, Jun”, he said. “If you want to undress me, all you have to do is ask.”

Jun made a startled noise that turned into a mixture between a nervous laugh and a cough.

Yutaka placed his glass on the table too soundly.

Shou turned towards him. He leaned in closely.

“Don’t be jealous, kitten”, he said lowly. “I haven’t forgotten about you.”

Yutaka wondered how Shou had noticed his feelings without even looking at him, when Yutaka had troubles naming them himself. He felt oddly happy when he heard the pet name again. Shou hadn’t used it for Jun and Kenji. Maybe that meant something.

“I’m not jealous”, he lied and reached for the bottle of champagne. “I just need more alcohol, if you’re going to stay like this.”

He poured himself the rest of the champagne until his glass was so full, it nearly overflowed, before he put the empty bottle back onto the table.

Shou pulled the flower from his buttonhole. Up close, Yutaka could tell that it was a yellow rose.

“Here”, Shou said. When his voice was so low and deep, Yutaka’s body turned into butter again. He wondered, if Shou had the same effect on Jun and Kenji while wearing the suit.

“What are you doing? Get that thing out of my face!”

“Take it”, Shou insisted. “This one is only for you. To remind you, that you’re special to me.”

Yutaka hesitated. He wished Shou would sound joking, because a joking Shou was something he knew how to deal with. He still had the feeling that he was getting pranked, but he didn’t know how to avoid it.

He took the rose gingerly and placed it on the table plate demonstratively instead of keeping it in his hands. Shou’s facial expression was impossible to read. Yutaka could not tell, if he had offended him.

“It’s empty already?!”, Kenji complained. He had taken up the champagne bottle and studied it in disbelief.

“I can order another round!”, Shou offered right away and already raised his hand, but luckily, Kenji stopped him.

“It’s fine”, he said quickly. He seemed to be a little uncomfortable around this new version of Shou as well.

“Yes, I think it’s time we all go home”, Jun confirmed.

“No!”, Shou protested. “No, no! This party can’t stop! We have to keep drinking! Let’s celebrate all night.”

“It’s late”, Kenji pointed out.

“And you seem to need rest the most”, Jun agreed.

“You should take off this suit”, Kenji added. He spoke very gently, not like he was soothing Shou, but as if he was seriously worried about him.

“They’re right”, Yutaka said softly. He realized that he was worried about Shou, too. Tonight, he seemed unpredictable and possibly reckless. “Let’s pay the bill and then I’ll take you home.”

Shou turned and looked at him cheekily.

“I see, so you want to continue the party elsewhere.” His tone left no room for wondering what kind of party he had in mind.

“What? No!”

“I’ll take you to a fancy hotel”, Shou suggested and this time, he leaned in so far that Yutaka involuntarily pulled back. “Just give me a chance. If you let me, I’ll make you feel things that no woman has ever made you feel before.”

Yutaka’s neck felt hot again and now his face started to heat as well. He thought of everything that entailed. He thought of feeling Shou inside of him.

“Just let me try”, Shou coaxed, but he no longer sounded flirtatious. He sounded like he was begging. The despair in Shou’s voice scared him. He didn’t know what to do with it.

“Shou”, he said as sternly as possible and grabbed him by the shoulder to push him back. It felt like dealing with someone, who was very, very drunk. “It’s really time you take off that suit and get some sleep.”

Shou pulled back from his touch and wrinkles were showing around the root of his nose. The lines made his face look so characteristically himself, that Yutaka felt almost relieved.

“I don’t want to”, Shou said and finally, he sounded like his stubborn self again. “I don’t want this party to end.” He seemed to be repeating the words like a spell now and gestured towards the table as if he wanted to include everything. “I don’t want this night to end. I want to stay with you all night.” He gestured towards himself. “Like this.”

Yutaka didn’t fully understand what Shou meant, but his emotions seemed so raw and honest, it pained him anyway.

“You can’t, Shou. You are not yourself.”

Shou hung his head.

“I am”, he said. “I am.”

“Hey”, Yutaka said gently and touched his arm. Jun and Kenji stayed out of the conversation like they always did, when Shou turned difficult. It was only ever Yutaka, who managed to soothe him. “You need some rest.”

“Fine”, Shou agreed reluctantly. “But you have to take me. And I’m keeping on the suit.”

“Okay.” Yutaka sighed. He figured they could argue over the details later. He looked up at their bandmates. “Why don’t you guys go pay? We’ll pay you back later. I’ll make sure Shou gets home safely. Maybe the fresh air will help.”

“Alright”, Jun agreed. The fact, that neither of them argued about splitting the bill immediately although it contained the expensive bottle of champagne proved they were all irritated by Shou.

“Come here”, Yutaka said as gently as possible and took Shou’s arm to pull him up from the bench. “Let’s get you home.”

Shou followed without resistance. He picked up his bag, that was now empty and allowed Yutaka to guide him over to the front door of the bar.

It was colder outside, although the temperatures were warm enough that they didn’t need a jacket. The cold air cleared Yutaka’s mind a little, but finally getting some distance to Shou certainly helped as well. Inside the bar, he had started to feel dizzy.

Yutaka pulled out his phone and opened an app.

“I think I’m going to call us a cab, alright? We can’t take the train with you looking like this. Also, you might try to pick up random guys, if we don’t get you home straight away.”

“You’re jealous again”, Shou observed and this time, he sounded gleeful.

“I’m not”, Yutaka muttered and requested a ride before putting the phone back into his pocket.

When he looked up, he realized Shou was standing awfully close again. The suit seemed to be making him taller as well, because Yutaka had to look up to him slightly. Maybe it was just his straight posture in combination with the heel of the dress shoes though.

“Have you heard of personal space before?”, he complained and took a step backwards.

Shou took a step forward immediately. If anything, he was standing even closer than before.

“Sorry, that my handsomeness is making you nervous”, he said with a sleek grin. Yutaka had not thought that to be sentence he would ever hear from Shou unironically.

“Uh”, Yutaka said. He had been meaning to deny it, but Shou’s face was so close now, that he forgot how to say words.

“Shh, kitten”, Shou said quietly. He reached up and cupped Yutaka’s face with both hands. His touch was gentle but very secure. Yutaka could sense how bony and strong his fingers felt. They were surprisingly cool.

He knew that he was supposed to pull back, but he stood frozen, and he felt guilty for that. He knew that Shou was not himself and it was up to him to keep the situation from getting weird. But truth was, that he liked the way Shou touched him and he liked it when he held his gaze for so long and he liked it, when he called him kitten.

“Don’t”, he forced out softly anyway. “You can’t just do something like that in public.”

They were the only ones out on the street, but someone might walk out of the bar any moment. Anyone could see them.

“I don’t care”, Shou said. “I don’t want to worry about who could possibly see us. I’m tired of always worrying. I just want to kiss you.” He paused. “May I?”

Yutaka knew exactly what the answer was supposed to be. Under no circumstances could he allow this to happen, because it was reckless and dumb and moreover immoral.

“Yes”, he whispered.

Shou leaned in and kissed him with astonishing force. His kiss wasn’t hesitant at all. He kissed like he knew what he wanted. His lips were soft and his hold on Yutaka was firm. It made him feel very safe and oddly frail. He parted his lips and allowed Shou to kiss him like no one had ever kissed him in a public space before. Their teeth clicked together and Shou’s nose brushed his cheek and when he pulled back eventually, Yutaka was out of breath.

Shou looked at him and he broke into that sweet, bashful smile again, that looked so much like him, except lighter and happier than Yutaka had ever seen him before.

For a moment, he thought that he might just give in. He considered going back to a hotel with this new version of Shou, who would hold him in his strong arms and whisper sweet nothings into his ear and kiss him full of confidence. Yutaka would grow weak in his arms, because he was handsome and cool and self-assured.

But it wasn’t real.

“Stop it”, he said as gently as possible as Shou moved to lean in once again. “This is no good.”

“We can go somewhere more private”, Shou offered immediately.

Yutaka shook his head.

“It’s this suit. There is something wrong with it. It obviously works on men instead of women. It’s making you weird. You need to take it off.”

“No, no, please”, Shou said and he reached up instinctively, clawing his hand into the lapel of the suit coat as if he was scared Yutaka might try to tear it off. “This suit is not changing me. It’s just making me more confident. It’s … This is me. This is the version of me that’s in my head. It’s who I want to be. All the time. I don’t want to … I can’t let this end. I want to stay this version. I don’t want this party to end.” Vaguely he gestured back to the bar.

“So, you want to be someone, who promiscuously hits on all of his bandmates?” It had been meant as a joke, but it came out bitter. The way Shou had touched Kenji’s face made their kiss just now meaningless – regardless of whenever it was the suit or something Shou repressed violently.

“I want to be someone who is at terms with and open about his sexuality”, Shou blurted out.

Yutaka was pretty sure that the surprised was written all over his face. Before tonight, Shou had never indicated liking men at all.

“I want to be able to joke about it”, Shou said. “I don’t want to hide from the people closest to me. But most importantly, I want to show you how I feel. You’re the person I …”

He finally let go of his suit coat and his arm dropped down by his side as if he no longer had the energy to gesture at all.

“I wanted to try if the suit worked. I thought, if it does, I’d one day wear it to tell you. I wasn’t meaning to do it right away. Things got out of hand. I was scared of this night ending, because … I don’t know what will come afterwards.”

Yutaka licked his lips.

“So, you …?”, he started, but didn’t know how to finish the question.

“Yeah”, Shou confirmed. “I love you. And when I’m wearing this suit … when I’m wearing it, I’m cool and handsome. I’ll keep wearing it. And if you give me a chance, I think I can make you like me a little too. You allowed me to kiss you like this. You are at least somewhat attracted to me in this suit. I can be this version of myself for you. I’ll keep being it.”

Yutaka shook his head slightly.

“What are you going to do?” He wasn’t mocking Shou. He was sad, because Shou sounded so desperate. “Keep wearing the suit in your sleep?”

Shou shrugged and smiled helplessly.

“I hope they’ll design magic pyjamas soon”, he said.

Yutaka looked at Shou and all he saw was a handsome host. He had no idea where the despair in his voice was coming from. It was as if he couldn’t see below the pretty surface at all.

“Aren’t you going to say anything?”, Shou plead. “I confessed to you. Don’t I deserve an answer?”

“Please, take off the suit”, Yutaka said. He suddenly felt exhausted. He was tired of dealing with this person in front of him. He just wanted to talk to his friend. “I want to give you a proper reply, but I can’t when you are wearing this suit.”

“It makes me better”, Shou insisted.

“This …” Yutaka gestured towards Shou and the green streaks in his hair. “I feel like I’m talking to a stranger. I need to make sure it’s really you.”

Shou looked at him for a long time and Yutaka was convinced he would decline. But then he nodded and slowly took off the suit coat.

He blinked and then Shou was already different.

He was back in his Tamiya shirt, his arms bare and pale and awkwardly holding on to the suit coat. His hair was blonde again and looked uncombed because he had run his hands through it early this evening. His face was flushed and bare and his eyes were tiny, but dark and so much warmer than when he was wearing coloured lenses. He kept his eyes cast down and yet Yutaka had the feeling he was seeing them for the first time tonight. He seemed small, hunched over once again and his head too large for his shoulders, making him look frail and in need of protection.

Yutaka felt a giant wave of affection rushing through him and he had to stop himself from wrapping his arms around Shou.

He had missed him. He had missed him so much more than he had ever expected. And he thought that this awkward little guy with the small eyes and the messy hair was the most beautiful version of a human being possible.

“Hey”, he said quietly.

Shou looked up briefly, but he didn’t manage to hold his gaze for too long, just as it had always been.

“Hey”, he replied.

“Do you …?” Yutaka broke off. For a moment, he considered that Shou might have forgotten about everything that had happened tonight. “Do you still feel the same? Without the suit?”

“Yeah”, Shou confirmed. “The same. Plus, an awful lot of regret for saying it out loud.”

Yutaka chuckled.

“I’m sorry for making you uncomfortable.” Shou looked down onto the suit coat in his hands. His hands still looked the same. “I behaved awful tonight. Sorry for putting you into a position like this. Let’s just forget I ever said anything. In fact, let’s just forget about this entire night.”

Worried lines were showing everywhere on Shou’s face. His face looked all weird and wrinkly. He looked like his old gloomy, over-thinking self again.

“I should probably burn this thing to make sure I never do anything this stupid again.”

“You probably should”, Yutaka agreed.

Shou had looked happier when wearing the suit, more relaxed. Yutaka wanted him to look this happy always, but he knew they’d have to find a different way for that.

“Sorry”, Shou mumbled again.

Yutaka paused for a moment.

“Though, if I’m honest, I’m going to miss you calling me your kitten”, he confessed jokingly.

Shou looked irritated. Yutaka let him suffer for just a few seconds more.

“I’m also going to miss you kissing me”, he added.

Shou looked up and sucked in his lower lip. His teeth were showing visibly. He looked by no means conventionally attractive and Yutaka loved him for that.

“Really?”, Shou asked insecurely.

“Really”, Yutaka assured him without hesitation.

Shou started smiling and it was the same smile as before. The warm one with the cute dimple, that made his lips look gorgeous and that was shy and hesitant, but finally happy without a trace of worry. And Yutaka thought, that they were going to get there and that they wouldn’t need a magic suit for it at all.

“We can always work on that”, Shou said. “Right, kitten?”

#Golden Bomber #Kiryuuin Shou #Kyan Yutaka #kirikyan #fanfiction #fanfic

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thanksanonymous · 6 years

Text

early bird dinner [erotica]

I bat my eyelashes at the diner busboy in the hope that he’ll give me a booth to myself. I forego a menu in favor coffee and smile as he roughly slides a lukewarm dark roast across the warped wooden tabletop. The walls are painted different shades of mustard yellow: Dijon, Honey, Grey Poupon. I sip my brown water and look out the window advertising “BreakFast ALL DAY!!!” to the tune of a tinny 80s playlist, the effeminate male singers sounding constantly on the brink of orgasm.

I reach to pull a curl behind my ear and catch the unmistakable scent of myself on my fingers. I smile, Eve straight out of the Garden, and wonder who can make out the snakes in my windswept hair. The stooped, scowling man and woman here for early bird dinner? The pierced teen threesome eating Belgian waffles? The busboy himself, watching me from the corner of his eye and busying himself re-folding the napkins, re-stacking the menus?

Billie Jean comes on. I dream of splattering my sexuality across the canvas of this bleak, whitewashed town like a fistful of green fingerpaint.

I’ll talk about sex over scrambled eggs, but I want the act of sex to be sacred. Pull my hair until I crick my neck, slap my ass and leave a deep red welt, but trace my face with the tip of your finger as if I were porcelain. And don’t you dare call it role play. This is divine. The beast of prey inside of you howls at the wolfess inside of me. You split me from the inside out and dip your wet tongue inside my raw, pink places. You thrust between my soft red lips and fill my mouth with you.

Midday, when I’m hungry, I fold my body over my bureau and slip a finger inside of myself. I gaze empty-eyed at my delicate perfume bottles as I frantically stroke my g-spot. My face contorts, I arch my back and moan for you, “Please.” Sometimes after I come, I imagine you wiping wet strands of hair from my sweat-streaked face and pulling them back in a firm fist, covering my panting mouth with your open lips. “Again,” you growl, and force my eyes to meet yours as you roughly shove your fingers inside of my swollen pussy, loud and wet. My juices drip down your wrist.

The bartender coughs phlegm into a paper napkin as the TV news anchor warns against a batch of tainted vaccinations. “Superman, where are you now?” whines Genesis. The sun has gone down and I’m the only patron left. I order a Deluxe Egg and Cheese for $4.99. It arrives hot and dripping, strands of sautéed purple onion dangling over the sides like spider legs. I will eat this sandwich, wipe my oily fingers, pay in small bills, and shrug on my winter coat, exiting into the cold as an ambulance speeds by.

---

Submission is as intrinsic to me as being a woman, as being attracted to men. It’s not a flavor of my sexuality; it’s my total sexuality. Submission is all 24 tubs at Häagen-Dazs, not just the butter pecan. Every glance, every touch is a wave in this invisible tide. Ebb, surrender. Flow, possess.

But I’ve been swimming in shallow pools. I’ve given myself to men who can’t receive me. Men who nudge me against bedroom walls and cough up commands that sound like questions. Men who shove themselves to the back of my throat but avoid my gaze as I choke for air. Men who spank my ass with limp wrists to test its buoyancy, not to remind me that I am theirs.

I’m not sure who these men are performing for. Me, in some desperate attempt to satisfy? More likely their own idea of who they ought to be - the looming shadow that polices their masculinity. I imagine a darkly lit auditorium, a hogtied woman spread center-stage, a hairy, naked man nervously stepping from the wings, sweating. “Well?” bellows the lone audience member, the tall shadow, tapping his gleaming black dress shoe on the linoleum floor. “You like this, don’t you?”

Perhaps in the way women are quick to fake orgasm, men are quick to fake dominance. They believe it should come naturally to them. When it doesn’t, they risk falling out of an unspoken natural order, an order that persists in spite of our attempts to revise cultural narrative over the past century. Behind closed doors, we still expect men to have a glint of unrestrained savagery in their eyes. And most women are still not prepared to hear: “Actually, dear, I was hoping you could handcuff me to the four-poster and call me a filthy slut.”

So non-dominant men who find themselves in bed with submissive women narrow their eyes, inflate their chests, and experiment with dirty words, blushing all the while. But these performances are in vain. Dominance is a presence: it is either there, or it is not there, the way Susan is either in the room, or not in the room. There is no wondering. Dominance is a holistic way of being hinted at by language, movement, and the color behind one’s eyes. The series of actions, the methods of touch - that’s just the butter pecan.

I know this because the same is true of my submission. Girlish deference is my second skin. I tried to outrun her once, the hot tongues of feminism licking at my ankles, but she remains inseparable from me. I’ve come to enjoy her, this self who tilts her chin and volunteers the delicate skin of her neck to her lovers in the dark. She is deftly compliant. She is wickedly unrestrained.

Many forget that, in spite of our docility, submissives are pleasure seekers. Perhaps the hungriest of all. Our submission is misconstrued for passivity. In reality, surrender is actionable and opportunities for pleasure are boundless. When a lover’s stare lingers on my body, I acquiesce to the power in his gaze. I’m wet before he lifts a finger. The simplest phrases, even when spoken benignly, electrify: “Come here.” “Look at me.”

There are infinite ways to be taken, so many more than there are ways to be touched. Impatiently, I wait for a man who understands the eroticism of subtle ownership - whose posture and gaze bind me as aggressively to him as nylon rope binds my wrists to wooden bedposts. I wait for a man who is unafraid of the sacred intimacy of utter surrender and control.

My body sinks into the living room couch, a soft vee from head to toe. I honored November’s arrival by wearing oversized everything: woolen socks, argyle sweaters, men’s sweatpants. I spend my evenings swimming in fabric. Four months single, I am haunted by the manic-depressive phantom that is my long-term partner’s absence. As the nights grow colder and the pain of our separation hardens and shrinks in tightening concentric circles, I take comfort in these fabric silhouettes.

Cold rain streaks down the window. I dip a silver tablespoon into a jar of peanut butter and peer halfheartedly at the book sitting tent-folded on the table. Proud of my good intentions, I sit the spoon on my tongue and defer to my phone. I open a kinky dating app and peruse a parade of strangers’ faces. Simultaneously intrigued and mindless, I meet Mr. Buttons (long-haired, snaggle-toothed teddy bear), Daddy Dom (bearded, tattooed weightlifter), and M&M (gothic couple with matching apathetic gazes). I’m quickly bored. Dating apps have proliferated so widely that not even the social experiment holds my attention anymore.

Bored, feeling anonymous and emboldened, I send messages to two men. Their interests range from “rough sex” to “spanking, gagging, and orgasm control.” I muster all of the sex positivity I can recall from Bitch Magazine and Advanced Gender Theory to form a protective shield against the jarring sensation of talking about sex with strangers online. Our conversations begin with pleasantries, comedy and anecdote serving as dry cobblestones between deep puddles of lust and craving. I spend a few hours this way, eating peanut butter by the tablespoonful and tiptoeing, then stomping, through puddles without galoshes. When I pull myself from the couch, my heart is beating and I am drenched in rainwater.

My pupils dilate and replace the glimmer of pixels with the dim outline of the couch, the windowsill. Disoriented, I turn off the light and make my way to bed.

---

The city bus wheezes down the street, the driver cursing fluently under his breath at rogue pedestrians. It’s Monday afternoon and I’m on my way to a date. I peer at my translucent reflection in the bus window, self-conscious of my body, of the way I’m presenting my body to this stranger. Blue sweater and blue jeans veiling a living, hungry woman. I am a character in a movie called Social Convention. I am performing.

The cafe is crowded, overrun with bright-eyed academics and conventionally unconventional twenty-two year olds. To my right, two women lean forward in their high-top stools. They talk at a breakneck pace and gesture with manicured hands, aggressively inspired. Behind me, two male students argue unironically about the elitism of modern university education, spouting vocabulary words as if their professor were sitting idly by. I never knew sentences could contain so many clauses. Surrounded by Hamlet, Willy Loman, and Lady Macbeth, I am suddenly complacent in my role as an understudy.

Visibly bored, the pierced barista hands me an overpriced coffee in a mason jar. I weave through the herd of black coats, nondescript faces buried in their devices, impatiently awaiting their froth and foam. I promptly douse my drink in cream and sugar. One, two, three heaping teaspoons. As I reach for a stirrer, the man I recognize as my date comes in from the cold.

I’m flooded with observation. He is a person, and somehow this surprises and disappoints me. He is slightly taller than I am. Lively green eyes and expansive, curly hair that reaches from scalp to ceiling, a few grey hairs mixed casually with brown. He looks pleasantly electrocuted. I’m not used to men with this much hair. I imagine what it would feel like to have his beard between my legs.

I smile in greeting as we exchange a warm hug. His smile is unassuming and he smells vaguely of lavender. We sit and open our mouths to recite our scripts. To my surprise, he brings out a particular color in me; my script begins to feel less like a script and more like a blurry afterthought. I forget what character I’m playing. He is easy to talk with. Our conversation dances intelligently between topics, sewing tiny stitches of tentative connection between us.

He holds a Ginger Steamer loosely in his hand: ground ginger, sugar, hot water. He lives in a cabin in Vermont without running water. He is here for a month-long musical engagement.

I pull a curl behind my ear and watch his eyes follow my fingers. I watch his lips as he tells me about his travels to Turkey. He asks me how I take my coffee.

“Heavily creamed, heavily sugared,” I reply, unabashed.

I ask him how he takes his coffee.

“Black,” he replies, unabashed.

We smile and look down at our drinks. I wonder, are we always having two conversations at once, all of us?

---

I try to quiet my mind before therapy but the minutes bend and morph defiantly. Every mundane distraction is tempting. The year-round air conditioner sits unplugged in the foggy window. Last month’s faded issue of Time whispers my name from the chipped glass tabletop. I tap my feet impatiently on the carpet, battling my restlessness.

Patrice opens her office door and ushers me inside. Four feet and eleven inches, she is a powerful force, a no-bullshit woman. But Patrice stalks her prey. Every session begins with identical small talk: a comment on the weather followed by a short eulogy to the broken radiator. I wonder what we’ll discuss when spring arrives. We sit.

“I went on a date today,” I begin.

She is a falcon, feather to talon, and dips through the sky, biding her time.

“Really?” she asks, widening her eyes. This is news. I’ve been mourning my breakup dedicatedly for months. I kick my feet up on the scuffed grey ottoman and tell the tale, smiling. As often happens in therapy, my story resists the grasp of convention - a floundering fish - before landing squarely on my kinks. I reveal that this date represents a side of my sexuality I’ve been desperate to explore.

Patrice nods in an attempt to reserve judgment. Visually, anyway.

“So you’re… submissive.” She draws the words out slowly, testing their flavor. I nod.

“So what does that mean for you?” she asks, her eyes narrowing. “Do you like chains? Do you like to be whipped? Beaten up?”

As she edges closer to hyperbole, her tone reveals the movie reel flickering behind her eyes: crackly images of dirty basements, rusty handcuffs, meek women crying and men with bulging forehead veins.

I pause. Swallow. I attempt to provide a description using affirmative language, speaking conversationally as if to say, “I’m alright with this, and you should be, too.” I’m a virgin to this world, I explain, but even virgins dream of sex. Our lizard brains know the ancient temptation of forbidden fruit. We know we will enjoy it before sucking the juice from its folds.

I can tell by her face that Patrice doesn’t like this. She doesn’t like that I want my hair pulled, my lips used, my surrender offered. She wants to talk about my meditation habit and the boundaries I’ve set this week.

She sighs. “Why do you think you enjoy this sort of thing?” she probes. “Most of my clients who are into submission have terrible self-esteem.”

The space heater wheezes on. I point my toes, relax my toes. Cliche loves this conversation, devours it greedily, but arguing with a therapist is more complicated than arguing with the misogynistic comment section. Patrice sits silently, waiting to see whether I’ll drop my golden token into “Daddy Issues” or “Codependency.” Or perhaps, in a moment of profound insight, both.

Instead, I explain that my submission is intrinsic, simply a variety of sexuality. It’s not a personality defect, I assert.

But I wonder.

“Well,” she honks, “it sounds like you’re asking to be raped.” She throws her hands up with an unapologetic shrug and a heavy metal grate falls between us, landing certainly with a clatter and a thud. I peer at her from between the rusty slats. I wonder what she sees when she looks back at me.

---

10:30pm. A bitter wind whips against my shoulders as I stand beneath the awning of a busy Mass Ave bar. Sparkling in the thin air, the full moon looms wide above the street. I lean against the brick siding. Skateboarders speed by and pink-nosed couples pass, mittens holding mittens. In front of the bar entrance a group of hefty, bearded men in black hoodies pass a cigarette, barking laughter, their gravelly voices moistened with beer.

I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn to face him. His hair is pulled thickly into a curly bun atop his forehead. In the bright light of the passing cars he is more attractive than I remember. His reflective green eyes are stunning, still.

“Hi,” I say, smiling. We hug, plush coat to plush coat. I feel a calm, stirring anticipation as our shadows join and separate on the sidewalk. Our words are genuine but easy. They veil the busy work of our eyes, dancing over each other in the streetlight glow. We begin to walk, destination-less, down the sidewalk.

“Where to?” he asks. We scour the quieting street for a place to nest. A nearby creamery, five minutes from closing, catches our eye. The unspoken implication of a late-night date is gently postponed in favor of Brown Butter Brownie and Cardamom Vanilla. We place our orders to the tune of rags wiping plastic tables and chairs scraping across the linoleum floor.

We sit in the warm dark of his car spooning sweetness onto our tongues. To my surprise, my words make the journey from heart to mouth without interception. We exchange the details of our lives. He tells me his parents raised him in a cabin without television. They divorced when he was 28. I tell him that I used to work in politics, that sometimes my family feels like a constellation of disconnected satellites in space. We both separated from long-term lovers this past summer - him in June, me in August - and we trade stories of that brand of black pain reserved exclusively for heartbreak.

Mid-conversation, I imagine that I’m a spectator to our exchange. I realize that this moment is a precious moment: this initial sharing, this first discovery. These are the details of a person’s life that, by repeated exposure, become your own, taken for granted over time. But upon first hearing, these details are golden groundwork - the continents on the maps of our lives. Later come the countries, states, and cities. But there is such pleasure in glimpsing that landscape for the first time.

An hour later finds us sitting in warm silence, our cups long empty and the dashboard flashing 12:03. The sidewalks are barren. Stoplights dance between green and red.

“Would you like to come over for tea?” he asks.

I feel my cheeks heat in the dark.

“I’d love to,” I say. He turns to face me.

“I have no expectations about tonight,” he offers, smiling. He shifts the car into gear and begins the short journey back to the guest house where he’s staying this month, quarters traditionally reserved for travelling faculty and distinguished alumni. Gingerly, we enter the front hall and climb the eighteenth-century staircase to the second floor. When he opens the door to his room, I can see it’s a humble space - barely larger than a hotel room - but in the short time he’s been here, he’s made it his own. A sprawling potted plant sits on the mahogany desk beside a leather journal and a short stack of books, most of which I’ve read. Boxes of teas adorn the counter. A window beside the bed peers out onto the quiet residential street.

I take off my boots and climb enthusiastically onto the bed.

“Comfy,” I say. He smiles and hangs our coats in the miniature closet.

“It is,” he agrees. He faces the counter and prepares the electric kettle. Voyeuristically, I watch his shoulders tug his sweater as he reaches for a pair of mugs. Strong, lean, certain. His movements lack any trace of ego. My steady heartbeat echoes in my chest. Despite the unmistakable sexual tension, I feel at ease, like we could be old friends preparing for afternoon tea on the terrace. This space feels free, creative - like anything could happen here.

He hands me a mug boasting the scent of lavender and thick clouds of steam.

“For you,” he says. We sit cross-legged on the beige duvet, kneecap to kneecap. Our conversation leapfrogs from the personal to the spiritual, the political to the sexual. An hour later we are lying upside down, our socked feet splayed messily over the pillows, our heads resting at the foot of the bed. Shoulder to shoulder, our curly hair frames our faces like Chinese fans. In a moment of silence, he lifts himself to rest on his elbow and looks into my eyes.

Instantaneously, the question is is asked and answered. He lowers his face to meet mine and our lips graze tentatively, then certainly. His mouth is warm and inviting, his presence embodied. We trace each other’s upper and lower lips with our tongues, sucking softly, and when our mouths open and our tongues meet, I feel a fierce stirring in my stomach. Every sensation feels amplified in my awareness.

As his mouth covers mine, he reaches his hand into my head of curls, grasping tightly at the root, and pulls my hair firmly to the side. I moan softly, involuntarily, feeling a roiling cascade stampede through my stomach. The small act of dominance intoxicates me, a swift hit of pleasure to a first-time user. I’m momentarily lost in the sensation of certain arousal coursing through me.

He releases his grip and I exhale, returning to my body. He kisses me softly, and then suddenly tugs my hair again, exploring my reaction as I shut my eyes and wince, moaning. He leaves his hand grasping my hair as he runs his tongue along the delicate skin of my neck that has been exposed to him.

I am dripping.

He reaches for my body, moving his hand from my waist to my thigh. His hand is hot through my jeans and my skin tingles beneath his touch. His body is lean but muscular. Exploring, ignited, I run my hands over his shoulders as we kiss. Coils of heat rise up through the fabric of his t-shirt. He tugs my blouse up an inch to reveal the pale skin of my stomach. With his hand pressed to the small of my back, he leans and kisses the small constellation of freckles there, traveling slowly upwards. When he has tired of the game, he uses both hands to pull my shirt effortlessly over my head and tosses it to the floor, lost.

He moves to lie fully on top of me. I feel protected, safe, my body small and warm beneath the firmness of his form. His lips move down the steep tilt of my jawbone. As if I were an exotic delicacy, he tastes me, running his tongue teasingly along my skin and then returning to kiss the same spot with care. Barely audible, my half-moans intermingle with my breath. At once, he pulls my hair back, hard, until the whole of my neck is exposed up to him, my head pushed down into the duvet. My moan is full-bodied, audible now. He devours my neck and collarbone without hesitation as his hand reaches down to my jeans, tracing up from my inner knee to the apex of my thighs. He lets out a soft chuckle of appreciation as he feels my heat. I'm warm and wet through the denim. Already I'm overwhelmed by sensation, his hand in my hair, his lips at my chest, his hands between my legs.

He runs his hand from my ass to my clit through my pants. His touch is void of the tentativeness so commonly found among men of my age. He has touched women before, he knows what to do, and I know he knows, and this arouses me intensely, this partner who knows, this partner who can solicit the reaction he wants.

I moan, opening my eyes in my pleasure as he rubs me. He is watching my face, watching the formless vowels escaping my open lips, taking in the tightness in my temples as my face contorts. He is worlds apart from the men who are too focused on their own pleasure to delight in someone else's. He delights in my pleasure because his hands coax it from me, demand it from me, and the moans escaping my lips and tightness contorting my face are his; my body is his canvas, my pleasure his painting.

It's not long before I'm left in just my knee socks and underwear. He removes his own shirt, his pants. I reach to pull my socks off, but his hands hold mine. "I kind of like them. They're cute," he smiles, shrugging. I leave them on.

He pulls me down beneath him and kisses me again. Our skins touch for the first time. He is warm on my cool skin. I feel my breasts pressed against the firmness of his chest. We explore each other slowly. He runs his hands softly but confidently up my sides; I bring my palms flat against his stomach, run my fingers through the hair on his chest, kiss his collarbone gently. He brings his lips to my shoulder, raising goosebumps on my arms. His tongue finds my earlobe and he licks, softly, before tracing my ear completely with his tongue. He brings his lips to lick, then suck, my nipple. He is gentle, and I arch my back and run my hands through his hair, thick and curly between my fingers.

He reaches beneath my underwear and traces me slowly with his finger as he kisses me. His hand feels shocking on my skin. I haven't received a touch this intimate, this intentional and present, in so long. I am positively wet, dripping for him, and he kisses me as he slowly enters me with his finger. I moan softly, feeling every centimeter of him moving inside of me, feeling my tightness around him. He breathes out, moderating his pleasure, and slowly removes and inserts himself again, this time deeply, until his finger is fully inside of me, his hand pressed to me. From within me he pushes firmly and moves his finger back and forth, exploring me and triggering twinges of pleasure and intimate sensation; he is reminding me that my body, my most intimate places, belong to him. I moan and breath into his mouth as his lips cover mine; we share the same breath, the same air.

As I pant, his finger deep inside of me, he brings his other hand to my hair and reaches to the root. He pulls my hair back as his finger moves inside of me and deep, primal shivers exit my spine, up through my sides, my arms. I feel my face contort with pleasure and when I open my eyes, he is watching me, his eyes hungry. He knows his hold on me is complete.

"Your pleasure is beautiful," he says richly in my ear. I feel exquisite, being watched this way - it feels too good to be true, that my pleasure - this simple expression - is enough to arouse him, to please him. These moans come from the core of me. I have never felt more authentic in bed with a man.

He removes his finger from inside of me and brings it, dripping to my lips. I smell the musk on his fingers, Eve liberated from the Garden at last, and keep my wide eyes fixed on his as I open my lips obediently. I welcome his finger into my soft mouth, and he exhales slowly, his eyes nearly golden in the dim light, watching my every move. I wrap my tongue around my own wetness and hold his gaze as I savor every drop, sucking his finger fully until it is buried in my mouth to the hilt.

When he is clean, he pulls his finger gently from between my lips and pulls me toward the pillows. He lies on his back, an invitation, and I climb on top of him, straddle his waist and bend over to kiss his lips, enjoying the gentle trace of my breasts on his chest. I pull his hair gently, submissively, and bring my soft lips to his neck, his chest, his stomach, fluttering kisses along his body. I take my time discovering him. I ask to remove his boxers and he lifts himself from the bed and he is lying, finally naked, before me. His hair is dark, black, against his skin.

I lean up to kiss his lips, meet his eyes with a smile, before returning my lips to him, kissing again down his side to the softness of his skin on his uppermost thigh. He is hard before my mouth but I wait, kissing either thigh, holding his hips in my hands and tracing the skin there. I kiss his pelvic bone and his hair skims my lips. I reach for him with my hand and feel the warmth and hardness of him throbbing against my fingertips.

I want to tease him. I want to pleasure him. I hold his cock to my cheek and tease his shaft with the tip of my tongue, savoring his warmth. I lick the head of his cock softly, once, with only the tip of my tongue, and he exhales deeply as I bring my tongue to tease the other side of his shaft. My mouth is screaming for his cock, but I try to have patience as I savor this part of him, taking my time and teasing his body.

His breathing quickens and he reaches down to encircle his hands around my hair, pulling it atop my head so he can my eyes, see my mouth pleasuring him. I look up to meet his gaze and our eyes lock - his stunning green to my deep blue - before I kneel between his open legs and open my mouth to him. He lets out a full-bodied moan as I take him slowly, fully, coating him with me, and slide my tongue up his shaft, circling the head of his cock fully with my flat tongue. I moan with him in my mouth as I run my mouth up and down his shaft in full, over and over, grazing the head of his cock with my tongue every time.

I pull him from my mouth, coated in my saliva, and bring both hands to encircle his shaft. I knead him slowly, covering his cock completely with my hands, tonguing the tip of his cock with my tongue. My palms are covered in saliva; he is rock hard beneath my hands. With a slow, tender motion, I knead him and lick the head of his cock rhythmically. He allows me free reign for only a few moments before he reaches for my hair and pulls my mouth down to cover him entirely. He directs my movements firmly, surely, pulling my mouth down to cover his cock in firm, rhythmic motion. When he releases me, he pulls me up to his face. I rub my hand across my lips before he pulls me down roughly and kisses he hard on the mouth. His energy is tangible, aroused, and he whispers into my ear, "I want to be inside of you."

Goosebumps spread across my arms instantly. I nod.

I hop from the bed ungracefully, aware of my nakedness and his eyes on me, as I bend over and reach for my wallet. The light blue Trojan condom that has sitting silently for a few weeks, awaiting a moment like this. It is slightly tattered around the edges after cohabitating with my debit card and cash.

I crawl back onto the bed and rip open the wrapper. He pulls me beneath him with one arm, and puts the condom on swiftly. In a moment he is resting in a bowed plank above me, the skin of his chest grazing my hardened nipples, his eyes looking into mine from above. I spread my legs beneath him, my thighs coming apart with the sound of a gentle wetness unfolding; they are already coated with me. He holds my gaze as he reaches down with one hand and guides himself to my pussy. He traces the head of his cock back and forth across my wetness deliberately, watching my eyes grow desperate and pleading beneath him, and in a moment he pushes the head of his cock inside of me. I feel the wide head of his cock splitting open my folds, entering my tightness. I close my eyes and tip my head back with a cry, a fierce fusion of pleasure and pain, and he reaches for my hair and pulls, facing him, eyes locked with his, again.

"Look at me," he commands, pushing fully to the hilt inside of me, holding himself there in ownership, and slowly, tantalizingly, pulling out. My tightness grips him like a glove but I am leaking around him; I feel my juices dripping out of me, down my thighs, my ass. Faint, breathless moans escape my lips as he fucks me with the greatest restraint. I feel my face contorting in pleasure, my eyes closing to protect myself from the overwhelming ownership of his gaze, but every time he tugs me back to face him, and our eyes lock in an unbearable intimacy. I am swollen and throbbing around him.

The pace is too slow to bring me to orgasm and all the more torturous for it. I can't endure much more for fear of splintering, or breaking into color, or forgetting where I am. Suddenly he pulls me to him and flips us over so he is lying on the bed, his hard cock still pressed to the hilt inside of me as I straddle him in the lamplight. It takes me a moment to remember my surroundings in the stillness, but when our eyes meet, a furious hunger seizes me and I begin to move slowly atop him. His hands encircle my waist, directing my movements.

Every inch of my body is electric; I am tingling from within. Our bodies are shadow and muted yellow light. I arch my back and lean, farther, riding him, seized by a primal energy. Goosebumps flare on either arm. For seconds at a time, I return to myself long enough to realize the moans floating through the air are my own, and then I'm lost again, captive to his right hand around my waist, his left hand that reaches behind me and slaps my ass with a hard smack, urging me on as I ride him harder, obediently. I can't tell whether we've been in this position for 30 seconds or 30 minutes; the frenzy of our pace clouds my mind with sensation, color, and the occasional sound of his low, steady "Good girl" as he reaches up to tug my hair and fuck me from below.

After a while I feel myself tiring, growing lightheaded, and without saying a word he grabs and moves me so we are side by side, him behind me, holding me. He moves in and out of me from behind, and with every slow thrust, I hear the sound of my wetness tightening around him and releasing him. I feel the heat of him behind me as my left hand drifts above my head, entangled with his right.

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