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Miss her… that might be a strong word. But, we got along for the most part, and our interests aligned. She’s dramatic, loves stories, and sang like a canary the time she was captured by exorcists. She’d probably fit in pretty well, here.
Why, thank you! That’s the nicest thing someone’s said to me in a while. I’d never want to die in bed from old age, where’s the fun in that?
Why, thank you! That’s the nicest thing someone’s said to me in a while. I’d never want to die in bed from old age, where’s the fun in that?
[More protests, but this time they come from nearly trembling lips. Charlie watches Fuuta's body as he talks, his actual words paper-thin and easy to shirk by. There's not even any vitriol behind them anymore; a bit of a shame, he thinks...
But the way Fuuta works his mouth makes up for any delight lost in the tone of his voice. Charlie stares as his lips press together, then shudder. He curls his own inwards, pressing teeth into folding flesh as he considers...
Would he be able to eat tonight, too?
Would his 'food' be laced with the same shit Fuuta has injested, or would he just come away with the usual pleasant dull tingle a cocktail leaves?
Charlie's lips part, but he pauses before he speaks. Beneath the table, his shoe continues to caress Fuuta's calf after a notable lack of protest.]
What's wrong? Don't like how it tastes?
Do you want something else? [He voices the thought in Fuuta's head because its obvious what the boy wants. Even without all that squirming and color on his face - Charlie knows what the drinks do here.]
But the way Fuuta works his mouth makes up for any delight lost in the tone of his voice. Charlie stares as his lips press together, then shudder. He curls his own inwards, pressing teeth into folding flesh as he considers...
Would he be able to eat tonight, too?
Would his 'food' be laced with the same shit Fuuta has injested, or would he just come away with the usual pleasant dull tingle a cocktail leaves?
Charlie's lips part, but he pauses before he speaks. Beneath the table, his shoe continues to caress Fuuta's calf after a notable lack of protest.]
What's wrong? Don't like how it tastes?
Do you want something else? [He voices the thought in Fuuta's head because its obvious what the boy wants. Even without all that squirming and color on his face - Charlie knows what the drinks do here.]
[The day after their lurid phone conversation, Charlie will find an envelope slipped beneath his door. It is slightly scented, of fine paper weight, and to make sure there is no mistake on the intended recipient or the sender... "my curious little friend" is written on the front. (Wait... Had he ever given her his room number?)
Inside, there is a single piece of paper. On it, a delicately colored, hand-drawn sketch of a flowering bunch of paulownia.
Nothing else ♡]
Inside, there is a single piece of paper. On it, a delicately colored, hand-drawn sketch of a flowering bunch of paulownia.
Nothing else ♡]
[ Finally, finally, his addled brain manages to put the pieces together. This fucker must have known that the drinks would get him worked up -- it must be why he'd been so insistent that he order some cocktails, not to get him drunk, but to cause this.
Fuuta's expression does tinge with a hint of indignity and anger at that realization, though he's still too paralyzed fighting against his own nerves to jerk away from the caress at his calf. And though sheer spite drives him to take another bite of his plate, he becoming very aware of the fact that he's fighting a losing battle here. Every bite, every sensation against his tongue has his nerves sparking, and the very act of swallowing earns a hard shudder; he wants more, but of something else. ]
That's not -- ... [ The attempt at a snapped retort cuts off as he has to swallow thickly to keep himself from drooling. Worse than that, even when he does look up from his plate to shoot Charlie a glare, his eyes automatically latch upon the other's lips, his brain quick to wonder how it'd feel to get to kiss him again.
The last time they'd kissed had felt wonderful, after all. And that had been without anything in his system. How good would it feel now? To feel teeth against his lips, tongue on tongue, that slick sensation against nerves rendered so sensitive they're practically tingling ...
He'd been staring at Charlie for a moment, almost dazed in his mounting arousal, and it takes visible effort when Fuuta abruptly stands. It takes even more of a struggle for him to declare, blearily, ] 'm going to the bathroom.
[ Too bad his knees practically give out with the first step he takes, his shoulders hunched as he ends up stumbling, needing to lean heavily against the table to keep from just spilling to the floor. And mortifyingly, the front of his sweatpants are tented visibly, a fact he desperately tries to hide by shoving down the hem of his hoodie. Oh, this is bad. ]
Fuuta's expression does tinge with a hint of indignity and anger at that realization, though he's still too paralyzed fighting against his own nerves to jerk away from the caress at his calf. And though sheer spite drives him to take another bite of his plate, he becoming very aware of the fact that he's fighting a losing battle here. Every bite, every sensation against his tongue has his nerves sparking, and the very act of swallowing earns a hard shudder; he wants more, but of something else. ]
That's not -- ... [ The attempt at a snapped retort cuts off as he has to swallow thickly to keep himself from drooling. Worse than that, even when he does look up from his plate to shoot Charlie a glare, his eyes automatically latch upon the other's lips, his brain quick to wonder how it'd feel to get to kiss him again.
The last time they'd kissed had felt wonderful, after all. And that had been without anything in his system. How good would it feel now? To feel teeth against his lips, tongue on tongue, that slick sensation against nerves rendered so sensitive they're practically tingling ...
He'd been staring at Charlie for a moment, almost dazed in his mounting arousal, and it takes visible effort when Fuuta abruptly stands. It takes even more of a struggle for him to declare, blearily, ] 'm going to the bathroom.
[ Too bad his knees practically give out with the first step he takes, his shoulders hunched as he ends up stumbling, needing to lean heavily against the table to keep from just spilling to the floor. And mortifyingly, the front of his sweatpants are tented visibly, a fact he desperately tries to hide by shoving down the hem of his hoodie. Oh, this is bad. ]
( the vast majority of people that makoto has spoken to here in the Golden Peacock seemed to prescribe to the same concept: that the essence of strength and power was that which allowed someone to kill (or threaten to kill) others, or to otherwise defend themself from similar mortal attack. it’s strange to him. having died himself, it’s not as though he doesn’t understand the mortal coil, but things had been so different in hell. high-ranking demons had spoken in haughty and contemptuous tones to him in confidence of how boorish and low-brow others seemed when they flaunted their physical strength or magical prowess—violence was seen as something low-class. only no-name demons, whose reputation was so negligent that they had to wildly shout their names into the crowd to force others to recognize their existence, even for a moment, would act so uncouth and brazen. not to say, of course, that high-ranking demons were gentle… violence simply had a different place in their society. it was a plaything—a coddled and beloved pet. it nestled even more inextricably into their desires and lusts than it did for humans (or perhaps they were just less ashamed about it?), particularly since a demon couldn’t be permanently killed by way of violence. makoto had seen other demons employed by datenshou torn to shreds and consumed in the process of entertaining and satisfying their guests, but they would just be back and walking around the brothel days later, as if nothing had happened.
he is quietly (and hypocritically) grateful that datenshou is far more cautious about his own clientèle.
as strange as they are, hell’s rules appeal more to someone like him. he’s not physically strong and never has been, and unless he opted to exchange this body for a wildly different one, he likely never would be. becoming a demon hasn’t given him power, beguiling influence, or magical affinity. he has nothing, but he does think he could learn to make demons fear him. fear is, in essence, an aversion to what one doesn’t know or understand, and he, as a human-turned-demon, is largely an anomaly. they think they understand him, celebrating him as some sort of exotic bauble, but… in the last few months before being brought here, he had started to see the shape of something. could he use that? could he take into his own hands how others saw him, underestimating and disregarding him as powerless or guileless, and use it to his advantage? it only takes one show of unsettling power to firmly place another demon beneath your thumb—conceptions are not easy to change.
the thing that had frustrated him in being brought here is that the rules had changed again. if every world has its own path to power, with its own answer to what it was, and he kept being tugged between them… how could he ever make any progress and feel as if he were truly moving forward? he might be immortal, but the yoke of wasted effort and spinning one’s wheels is an exhausting one. and ultimately it’s all a goal that’s merely reactive to all that he’s gone through in the last year or so. if unaffected by the machinations of others, is it really what he wanted? hell, has he ever really known that? he just isn’t sure. )
Yeah.
( the third vial fills. he feels… tired. )
But it’s like you said. If they want it enough, they might just try to take it. So as long as I have a way to prevent something like that…
( he trails off, something occurring to him as his particular end of the deal—the realization causes a sudden and violent twist to his gut, one perfectly caught between anxiety and exhilarated anticipation. he… well. as much as it’s been a while and that there will always be a part of him starved to make good on whatever offers he received when he received them, he can’t help but think… )
Um… for your side of the bargain, ( he looks back up to charlie, looking furtive in a vaguely nervous sort of way, ( would you mind if—we did that at a later date?
( he shifts where he sits, trying to sift through the morass of his surface thoughts for something resembling a salient reason. he has plenty, but they aren’t always packaged in ways he thinks seemly for other people to hear. ) I-I just think… I might need a little time to prepare.
( the third syringe filled, he removes it and offers it to charlie, then pressing a cotton ball to the bead of blood at the injection site. he doesn’t bother wrapping it with a bandage or anything—he knows it will disappear in a moment or two. )
he is quietly (and hypocritically) grateful that datenshou is far more cautious about his own clientèle.
as strange as they are, hell’s rules appeal more to someone like him. he’s not physically strong and never has been, and unless he opted to exchange this body for a wildly different one, he likely never would be. becoming a demon hasn’t given him power, beguiling influence, or magical affinity. he has nothing, but he does think he could learn to make demons fear him. fear is, in essence, an aversion to what one doesn’t know or understand, and he, as a human-turned-demon, is largely an anomaly. they think they understand him, celebrating him as some sort of exotic bauble, but… in the last few months before being brought here, he had started to see the shape of something. could he use that? could he take into his own hands how others saw him, underestimating and disregarding him as powerless or guileless, and use it to his advantage? it only takes one show of unsettling power to firmly place another demon beneath your thumb—conceptions are not easy to change.
the thing that had frustrated him in being brought here is that the rules had changed again. if every world has its own path to power, with its own answer to what it was, and he kept being tugged between them… how could he ever make any progress and feel as if he were truly moving forward? he might be immortal, but the yoke of wasted effort and spinning one’s wheels is an exhausting one. and ultimately it’s all a goal that’s merely reactive to all that he’s gone through in the last year or so. if unaffected by the machinations of others, is it really what he wanted? hell, has he ever really known that? he just isn’t sure. )
Yeah.
( the third vial fills. he feels… tired. )
But it’s like you said. If they want it enough, they might just try to take it. So as long as I have a way to prevent something like that…
( he trails off, something occurring to him as his particular end of the deal—the realization causes a sudden and violent twist to his gut, one perfectly caught between anxiety and exhilarated anticipation. he… well. as much as it’s been a while and that there will always be a part of him starved to make good on whatever offers he received when he received them, he can’t help but think… )
Um… for your side of the bargain, ( he looks back up to charlie, looking furtive in a vaguely nervous sort of way, ( would you mind if—we did that at a later date?
( he shifts where he sits, trying to sift through the morass of his surface thoughts for something resembling a salient reason. he has plenty, but they aren’t always packaged in ways he thinks seemly for other people to hear. ) I-I just think… I might need a little time to prepare.
( the third syringe filled, he removes it and offers it to charlie, then pressing a cotton ball to the bead of blood at the injection site. he doesn’t bother wrapping it with a bandage or anything—he knows it will disappear in a moment or two. )
Edited 2024-10-19 22:21 (UTC)
No, she isn’t. Former jail-mates stick together and all that.
Sure. You like blondes?
Sure. You like blondes?
[The drinks are potent tonight. Charlie is, of course, aware of the Resort fare's 'encouraging' qualities. Everyone is. A point he'd insist to Fuuta, were their banter still the verbal sort. As the boy is now, he's clearly beyond coherent words.
With eyes on his lips, Charlie makes no effort to dampen his own eagerness. Top lip curls over teeth, worried beneath before his mouth simply hangs, open slightly. Lips parted, his tongue visibly toys behind his incisor - clear desire even without the haze of addled alcohol.
But what Charlie wants is blood.
The risk that Fuuta's vitae will afflict him similarly presents a small challenge, but... if the boy works through his frustration, the potency of the drug should diminish. Conclusion reinforced by the strength of Charlie's lust, rather than logic, his fingers curl one by one, slowly, against the table.
Impatient. But not so much as his dinner date. Charlie's brow raises, overstated surprise, when Fuuta stands abruptly. He mirrors the move, his watch lighting up to deduct chips for their meal. Typically, Charlie uses a little mind trick to get free or discounted checks, but his ledger is far from his mind.]
Yeah, I bet you are- [With no discretion whatsoever, Charlie looks pointedly from Fuuta's erection to his face.] -but it looks like you need some help gettin' there. [Running curved knuckles along the edge of the table, Charlie closes the distance between them to grab the boy's bicep. Supportive, but trapping, he pulls Fuuta away from the table and into another stride.
Once they're moving, he leans down to speak quietly - too loud to be a whisper - in his ear.] You'll wanna move quick, or more people are gonna see you like this.
With eyes on his lips, Charlie makes no effort to dampen his own eagerness. Top lip curls over teeth, worried beneath before his mouth simply hangs, open slightly. Lips parted, his tongue visibly toys behind his incisor - clear desire even without the haze of addled alcohol.
But what Charlie wants is blood.
The risk that Fuuta's vitae will afflict him similarly presents a small challenge, but... if the boy works through his frustration, the potency of the drug should diminish. Conclusion reinforced by the strength of Charlie's lust, rather than logic, his fingers curl one by one, slowly, against the table.
Impatient. But not so much as his dinner date. Charlie's brow raises, overstated surprise, when Fuuta stands abruptly. He mirrors the move, his watch lighting up to deduct chips for their meal. Typically, Charlie uses a little mind trick to get free or discounted checks, but his ledger is far from his mind.]
Yeah, I bet you are- [With no discretion whatsoever, Charlie looks pointedly from Fuuta's erection to his face.] -but it looks like you need some help gettin' there. [Running curved knuckles along the edge of the table, Charlie closes the distance between them to grab the boy's bicep. Supportive, but trapping, he pulls Fuuta away from the table and into another stride.
Once they're moving, he leans down to speak quietly - too loud to be a whisper - in his ear.] You'll wanna move quick, or more people are gonna see you like this.
[ Charlie's oh-so-kind warning comes too little and too late. Through no fault of his own, of course! It's just that Fuuta's sudden rise and stumble hadn't been the most subtle move, and in an establishment like this where most of the clientele leans sophisticated and graceful, even the smallest blunder stands out. Already, there are glances behind thrown his way from guests and staff alike, accompanied by a quiet titter of laughter from a few of the sharper-eyed individuals, and Fuuta freezes like a deer caught in the headlights when he feels all those eyes fixing on him.
Then that grab at his arm jolts him back to his senses, while scaring a strangled squeak out of him. ]
Y-yeah, I know? [ He hurriedly looks away from the rest of the restaurant, ducking closer to Charlie as he shies away from those stares. ] I'm -- moving. I'm moving.
[ He sure is! But poorly.
Fuuta barely manages a few steps away from their table and towards the exit before his posture starts to crumble. It doesn't help, either, that his mind keeps being drawn to that hand gripped around his arm -- thinking about how good that squeeze feels, about how nice it'd be to feel more of it, and elsewhere, over more of his body. By the time they cross the threshold out into the halls of the resort, Fuuta's leaning heavily against Charlie just to stay upright, his steps wobbly and his free hand raked into Charlie's clothes to keep the other close.
-- his head's spinning so bad. It feels like his blood's boiling, his heart beating way too fast. And Fuuta can barely get the words out when he lets his head sink against Charlie's arm and mumbles, ]
... this is all your fault. You better -- take responsibility.
Then that grab at his arm jolts him back to his senses, while scaring a strangled squeak out of him. ]
Y-yeah, I know? [ He hurriedly looks away from the rest of the restaurant, ducking closer to Charlie as he shies away from those stares. ] I'm -- moving. I'm moving.
[ He sure is! But poorly.
Fuuta barely manages a few steps away from their table and towards the exit before his posture starts to crumble. It doesn't help, either, that his mind keeps being drawn to that hand gripped around his arm -- thinking about how good that squeeze feels, about how nice it'd be to feel more of it, and elsewhere, over more of his body. By the time they cross the threshold out into the halls of the resort, Fuuta's leaning heavily against Charlie just to stay upright, his steps wobbly and his free hand raked into Charlie's clothes to keep the other close.
-- his head's spinning so bad. It feels like his blood's boiling, his heart beating way too fast. And Fuuta can barely get the words out when he lets his head sink against Charlie's arm and mumbles, ]
... this is all your fault. You better -- take responsibility.
Yeah, she’d be fine for you if she ever showed up.
[Even after spilling into the halls, Fuuta isn't spared lascivious glances. The way he's tucked into Charlie, red and aroused, catches the attention of more than a few passerby. Head to toe, the guests' appraisal is leaden. Charlie gives these temporary voyeurs a quick and devious smile, assuring them.] Yeah, he's alright. Just got himself a little too worked up, you know?
[He's not the only one. Charlie can feel the thrum of Fuuta's pulse beneath his grip. His hold tightens, constricting bloodflow to feel arteries swell. Tongue darting over his lips, Charlie reminds himself of the effects Fuuta is experiencing.
He's not the most patient man.
With quickening strides, Charlie guides his wobbly companion to the door of a luxurious washroom. There he stops; the heat from Fuuta's forehead nestling into him is shock to his resolve. A pause follows as Charlie's other arm rises to fold around Fuuta's shoulders in something almost like a hug. Holding the boy close, he leans down.] You wanted to go to the bathroom, right?
[Now with one hand planted on the shoulder opposite his initial grip, Charlie abruptly shoves Fuuta through the large wooden door and into the lobby. Couches line three of the four walls, the fourth a large multi-paneled mirror. Past the sitting room a line of floor to ceiling stalls await whatever business a cherished resort guest could have.
Charlie drops Fuuta onto a couch, immediately leaning down over him. If the boy continues to cling, he won't try to disconnect.] You said you want me to take care of that for you, right? Or do you want me to find you a playmate? [This is a genuine offer as much as it is goading to get Fuuta to ask for something he so clearly wants.]
[He's not the only one. Charlie can feel the thrum of Fuuta's pulse beneath his grip. His hold tightens, constricting bloodflow to feel arteries swell. Tongue darting over his lips, Charlie reminds himself of the effects Fuuta is experiencing.
He's not the most patient man.
With quickening strides, Charlie guides his wobbly companion to the door of a luxurious washroom. There he stops; the heat from Fuuta's forehead nestling into him is shock to his resolve. A pause follows as Charlie's other arm rises to fold around Fuuta's shoulders in something almost like a hug. Holding the boy close, he leans down.] You wanted to go to the bathroom, right?
[Now with one hand planted on the shoulder opposite his initial grip, Charlie abruptly shoves Fuuta through the large wooden door and into the lobby. Couches line three of the four walls, the fourth a large multi-paneled mirror. Past the sitting room a line of floor to ceiling stalls await whatever business a cherished resort guest could have.
Charlie drops Fuuta onto a couch, immediately leaning down over him. If the boy continues to cling, he won't try to disconnect.] You said you want me to take care of that for you, right? Or do you want me to find you a playmate? [This is a genuine offer as much as it is goading to get Fuuta to ask for something he so clearly wants.]
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