ゴミ漁り [fuuyuko+hanbei]
Oct 15, 2016 17:29:04 GMT -5
Tomie Magahara, Hanbei Karatsu, and 1 more like this
Post by Fuuyuko Suwa on Oct 15, 2016 17:29:04 GMT -5
"Don't."
Fuuyuko snarls, her lips and her spittle and her sake-soured breath wetting his ear lobe in the process. "Don't you," easing from around his waist, here comes her leg, "fuckin' dare," the bare, dirt-black heel at the end of it bluntly connects with his ass meat, "finish inside of me. You hear?" It lifts, and connects, and lifts and connects and grinds, again and again.
But she continues to kiss his neck damp. God knows what Fuuyuko wants. Him, I suppose.
Whether they're Shinigami or Rukongai, even an idiot like her can discern when men are getting close. She digs the nails on one hand into his nape; and smushed under the palm of the other, fingers curled over the wooden table rim--that'd be his table, rounded by four chairs and only one occupied, of which she decided to walk over and sit down on and part her thighs ever so suggestively and slightly--smushed under that other hand lay an elegant parasol. Redwood handle, tyrian canopy.
It takes one more kick (and a thrust) to finally get him off. I mean, doesn't get him off, but. Shinigami or average, cute or plain, she won't be letting that happen. She's drunk, yeah, but not yet drunk enough for that. And besides, it certainly will not be happening in here.
Not on Gomiasari Tavern's cornermost table, in the company of some dozen scattered onlookers.
And boy, those onlookers sure are onlooking.
Fuuyuko doesn't recognize any of them, to her mild relief. After the first two minutes of muffled lip-smacking, most had the decency to avert their eyes. They just whispered at their tablemates and shook their heads and looked up in fast, furtive motions. Waiting for it to be done. Cowardly old men; all those tattoos on them, daggers at their hips, yet they see one black robe and they don't dare approach him. She doesn't care about their judgements.
Not even the bartender seems familiar; then again, Gomiasari has always been more pit stop than local haunt. It stands at the foot of the district, painted sweet colors and adorned in lanterns, like a friendly maw. Ready to bite down on the coin-purses of weary travelers and Shinigami, like this one here. What a trap. She could buy a whole sake drum at Jun's bar with the money she spent on the few decanters here. Good sake, too. Not this watery swill.
Fuu zeroes in on a pair of wide-eyed lads while shoving her left breast back underneath the kimono lapel. "What? What are you lookin' at? Show's over." They turn their heads off in different directions at the poison hiss of her voice, as if they hadn't been staring the entire time, no sir, not them. As if their staring hadn't been blatantly obvious.
She looks away from them, back to her one night (five-minute) stand. He's tidying himself up, tucking himself back into his outfit and she silently watches. Handsome, for a Shinigami. Affectionate, if smelly. And yet--chalk it up to the performance or the alcohol, but not the welt on the back of her head--he couldn't erase the vague unease that plagues her.
Fuuyuko very much wants to pull him back against her. Round #2, yes, that will do the trick, hit the spot. But, oh, hasn't she been needy enough? Look at his neck; caked in rouge. So much rouge, in fact, that you can barely tell the individual lip prints from one another. It's simply a sheet of red. Putting on a fresh coat of balm before walking over to him was, perhaps, a mistake. But, well, she just couldn't resist her new tube of lipstick. Red is so classic.
She sighs and dabs her sleeve in a pool of spilled sake. And then she tugs him close to her by the collar of his kimono.
"Lipstick on your neck," Fuu mumbles, cautiously wiping it away, "sorry 'bout that." It's the least she can do.
It's not like she'll be there tomorrow when the hickies show themselves.
Fuuyuko snarls, her lips and her spittle and her sake-soured breath wetting his ear lobe in the process. "Don't you," easing from around his waist, here comes her leg, "fuckin' dare," the bare, dirt-black heel at the end of it bluntly connects with his ass meat, "finish inside of me. You hear?" It lifts, and connects, and lifts and connects and grinds, again and again.
But she continues to kiss his neck damp. God knows what Fuuyuko wants. Him, I suppose.
Whether they're Shinigami or Rukongai, even an idiot like her can discern when men are getting close. She digs the nails on one hand into his nape; and smushed under the palm of the other, fingers curled over the wooden table rim--that'd be his table, rounded by four chairs and only one occupied, of which she decided to walk over and sit down on and part her thighs ever so suggestively and slightly--smushed under that other hand lay an elegant parasol. Redwood handle, tyrian canopy.
It takes one more kick (and a thrust) to finally get him off. I mean, doesn't get him off, but. Shinigami or average, cute or plain, she won't be letting that happen. She's drunk, yeah, but not yet drunk enough for that. And besides, it certainly will not be happening in here.
Not on Gomiasari Tavern's cornermost table, in the company of some dozen scattered onlookers.
And boy, those onlookers sure are onlooking.
Fuuyuko doesn't recognize any of them, to her mild relief. After the first two minutes of muffled lip-smacking, most had the decency to avert their eyes. They just whispered at their tablemates and shook their heads and looked up in fast, furtive motions. Waiting for it to be done. Cowardly old men; all those tattoos on them, daggers at their hips, yet they see one black robe and they don't dare approach him. She doesn't care about their judgements.
Not even the bartender seems familiar; then again, Gomiasari has always been more pit stop than local haunt. It stands at the foot of the district, painted sweet colors and adorned in lanterns, like a friendly maw. Ready to bite down on the coin-purses of weary travelers and Shinigami, like this one here. What a trap. She could buy a whole sake drum at Jun's bar with the money she spent on the few decanters here. Good sake, too. Not this watery swill.
Fuu zeroes in on a pair of wide-eyed lads while shoving her left breast back underneath the kimono lapel. "What? What are you lookin' at? Show's over." They turn their heads off in different directions at the poison hiss of her voice, as if they hadn't been staring the entire time, no sir, not them. As if their staring hadn't been blatantly obvious.
She looks away from them, back to her one night (five-minute) stand. He's tidying himself up, tucking himself back into his outfit and she silently watches. Handsome, for a Shinigami. Affectionate, if smelly. And yet--chalk it up to the performance or the alcohol, but not the welt on the back of her head--he couldn't erase the vague unease that plagues her.
Fuuyuko very much wants to pull him back against her. Round #2, yes, that will do the trick, hit the spot. But, oh, hasn't she been needy enough? Look at his neck; caked in rouge. So much rouge, in fact, that you can barely tell the individual lip prints from one another. It's simply a sheet of red. Putting on a fresh coat of balm before walking over to him was, perhaps, a mistake. But, well, she just couldn't resist her new tube of lipstick. Red is so classic.
She sighs and dabs her sleeve in a pool of spilled sake. And then she tugs him close to her by the collar of his kimono.
"Lipstick on your neck," Fuu mumbles, cautiously wiping it away, "sorry 'bout that." It's the least she can do.
It's not like she'll be there tomorrow when the hickies show themselves.
