Hold On to the Night
Title: Hold On to the Night
Author: foxflare
Genres: Modern-day human AU, PWP, humor, rainbow-flavored crack.
Rating: NC17
Pairing: Akon/Grimmjow, plus a couple of cameos. >>
Disclaimer: I own no part of Cl2(aq) + H2O(l) ↔ 2H+(aq) + Cl-(aq) + ClO-(aq). Kubo Tite-sama whitens and brightens all.
Notes: HOMG FIC. FIC FROM ME. SMUT FROM ME. Or as close as I've gotten so far. XD Random filthy fun, 100% inspired by and dedicated to the wunnerful and infectious blood_crow, who saw a crackalicious Grimmjow in this picture and NEEDED FIC FOR IT, ASAP.
We'll just ignore the fact that I'm not very good at ASAP and have at it anyway, hmmm? ;D ♥
The light above my table was off.
The specimens were safely stored away, the calculations on the whiteboard left looking awkward and unbalanced as row upon row of jilted brides. The wedding would have to be postponed for yet another day. While not exactly tired, I was entering that oneiric phase that comes from having been staring too long at the same space. Microscopes, after a time, can tunnel a person's thoughts as much as their vision; like a sniper with a narrowed line of sight, I began to feel I might have lost my quarry somewhere in the peripheral darkness beyond the lens. I thought, There will be no epiphanies for me tonight.
I wasn't disappointed. It was part of the routine. You don't enter into any scientific field with the expectation that what you do or what you may end up finding will be either frequently or tremendously relevant. By and large, we're all just counting the coins in the vault of a billionaire who deposited his fortune one yen at a time. Bookkeepers in the employ of a cosmic Scrooge McDuck.
I traded my white lab coat for a brown tweed blazer and called out to my boss that I was leaving for the night.
Kurotsuchi waved distractedly over his shoulder, less a goodbye and more an impatient dismissal that I knew by then -- had always known, really -- not to take personally. The man was a known eccentric and obsessive, a nightmare to work under if you went in with the expectation to be treated like a human being. My nickname at school had been Akon the Android, which goes a long way toward explaining why I had held my position at the Institute for going on a decade, while the majority of Kurotsuchi's researchers turned in their resignations somewhere between a couple of weeks and a handful of months into their tenures. I had been hired right out of university and had been there ever since. The pay was decent, the work engrossing, and distractions and small talk considered to be an intolerable breach of company protocol. In short, my ideal professional environment. Colloquially, my dream job -- and yes, it had everything to do with electric sheep.
As I zoned out to the quiet hum of the elevator that transported me daily between the ground and twelfth floors of the building, I contemplated the remainder of my evening.
Home. Shoes off. Frozen meal tossed box et alii into the microwave. A beer and a smoke on my balcony while I waited for the timer to ding. Then a hot shower and, if I could be bothered, an easy wank, maybe polish off the last of the halfway freezer-burnt coffee ice cream that had been dying a slow death in my fridge for the past three weeks before finally calling it a night and hitting the sack. Not the most eventful life, but then, it didn't need to be. I'm not exactly what you would call a "people person." I don't generally dislike them; I've just never found them to be very useful beyond their performing the little mysteries of life -- emptying the dumpster in the alleyway before the world wakes up, restocking the konbini shelves during slow hours, that sort of thing. Small, daily miracles that I appreciated but never really gave more than passing thought. They barely belonged to the same world. More like a shadow dimension, a place that existed beneath and yet parallel to this one, where Things Got Done and I was free to remain none the wiser.
They say ignorance is bliss, and while I had devoted my life to unraveling the enigmas of the universe one theory at a time, there were some things I was perfectly content not knowing.
Psychology, for instance. A pseudo-science at best, where those who did the research were just as prone to the conditions they studied. It's impossible to achieve untainted results in such a field. I've never been one to question why I do or do not like something. What does it matter? It's a waste of time. I smoke like a fiend -- forty cigarettes a day on my days off (I don't do it so much at work; smoking is disallowed in the lab and I'm usually too caught up in what I'm doing to take more than a handful of breaks in the lounge) -- but what do I care why I do it, whether it's to calm my nerves or stimulate my senses or out of boredom or simple physiological addiction? I smoke, and I enjoy it, and if I didn't do it for any of those reasons I'd probably still do it for another one. It's true that every sum is defined by its parts, but, well, I have bigger things to think about than myself. Why gaze at your own navel when there are wormholes to peer through?
Therefore I didn't question what it was, exactly, that made me pause outside the Institute, discontent at the thought of simply going home. In any case, that first step to the left felt booby-trapped, like if I'd performed it I'd have ended up with gum on my shoe, or dog shit. It just seemed like a bad idea, that's all. Something I'd regret, and as a person of precious few regrets, the irrational possibility alone was enough to deter me.
So, right I went, following some unseen gravitational pull deeper into the industrial district of the city, where gleaming facilities like the Institute eventually gave way to older, more worn-down factories, like someone had hit the Rewind button on a documentary about industrial evolution. I walked and I smoked, lighting one cigarette off the smoldering end of its predecessor, and so forth, until the factories became the newly renovated apartments and businesses for the young and the stylish, lofts fashioned out of former warehouses, basements and boiler rooms turned into interesting-looking bars with exposed piping conversation pieces and glossy walnut interiors aesthetically contrasting gritty brick walls and stained cement floors. It wasn't really my scene -- give me modernism any day, sleek chrome and glass. I lived in what was effectively a person-sized Petri dish, spartan and sterile, all straight lines and precise curves, a rubberized kitchen floor and a legless bed attached to the wall by its headboard, so that it looked like it was hovering in the middle of the room. A woman from work who I used to sleep with occasionally had commented that it looked like I'd tried to bring the Institute home with me. I didn't say anything, just tapped my cigarette ashes into a nearby ashtray, but looking around, I thought she might very well be right. It isn't that my place of business "feels like home" to me -- I'm not a sentimental person, and nowhere has had that effect on me, not even my own apartment -- but I do feel the most in my element when in the thick of my work. If I thought anything so romantic as destiny actually existed, I'd say I was born to do it, but as I don't, I can still admit with full confidence that it's the only thing I've ever wished to do.
Wished. Wanted to do would be more accurate. Wishing distorts reality. What other concept could be so deceptive as to turn the magnificent journey of a meteor into nothing more than an excuse to make a selfish request of a make-believe being? Shooting stars. . .you may as well put a gun to their heads, if I can be anthropomorphically frank.
Which I can. Nothing's stopping or smiting me.
The same nothing that made me look up and notice the tacky glowing sign above the stairwell leading to a seedy-looking basement bar. LAS NOCHES, it read in bright blue-violet neon characters. The L and the S were topped by neko ears. The S ended in a tail that underlined the second word.
Shrugging, I dropped the remains of my cigarette on the sidewalk and didn't bother to crush it out as I descended the stairs and opened the windowless door.
Seated on a barstool just inside the door, a bouncer the size of a whale halted my progress with one massive paw pressed against my chest. His small, half-lidded eyes perused my person with only fleeting interest before he nodded gruffly that I was free to proceed.
The place was bigger on the inside than it looked from the street, taking up both the basement and ground-level floors of the building. It was lit like any other club, full of flashing rainbow lights, and the music was some run-of-the-mill extended dance remix of a popular song. The only atypical thing about it was the people -- or rather, the animals.
The place was a zoo, and somewhat more than figuratively speaking. Hanging from the ceiling, a dark, well-built man in a beaked half-mask and red feathered wings strapped to his back gyrated on a swing built to resemble a bird perch. On the dance floor, two long-haired blonds, one with bull horns and a pierced septum and the other with one glove that resembled a lobster's claw, seemed to be simulating an unlikely potential method of producing a litter of very odd seahorses. Turning around, I saw that each leg on the trousers of the cetacean bouncer did indeed end in two halves of a broad, flat, fabric "tail."
Great, I thought. I'd come on Furry Night.
Then I remembered the sign out front, and realized every night here was probably Furry Night.
The main stage area was split into three long catwalks, like a crow's foot, each with its own floor-to-ceiling dance pole. I found a seat at a small round table near the empty center catwalk, placed an order for a gin and tonic with a half-naked saber-toothed waiter, and spent a few minutes idly observing the other patrons and employees. To my left, a long and extremely lean silver-haired man, complete with black-tipped fox ears and the double fluffy tails of a kitsune attached to the back of his G-string by some miracle of physics even I had difficulty figuring, was rolling his hips with a sway that would have made a cobra jealous, and reaching charmingly for one of those sleek, slick salaryman types who, if it weren't for the flicker of intensity in his dark eyes, I would have guessed was merely tolerating the vulpine spectacle wagging in front of his face, and not actually enjoying it.
On the right, a wolfish brunet with a set of decently-fitted by too-white fangs ornamenting his sullen mouth lavished his attention upon a watching redhead, who himself was inked beneath his grass-green mesh shirt with tattoos like tiger stripes shifting behind a screen of bamboo. In one semi-discreet corner, a small and, for lack of a better word, beautiful man was performing some kind of fan dance with peacock feathers for a sad-eyed blond whose gaze would occasionally flicker indecisively between the stage show and his own private distraction. I couldn't blame him. There was an unnerving, almost overwhelming amount of eye candy to choose from, even by club standards. My thoughts shifted back to the bouncer whale, and I wondered if his evaluation of my looks had less to do with whether I was underage or had the aura of a troublemaker, and more with whether or not my appearance was up to snuff. I supposed I should feel flattered. I'd say that I'm not a bad-looking guy, but the truth is I rarely mull over my appearance at all beyond basic hygiene and the ability to work an iron. If anything, I'd consider myself strange-looking. Dark hair with a weird, stubborn part that some might mistake for an avant-garde stylistic choice. Dark eyes, and a completely smooth brow that I'll admit bugged me occasion for reasons unknown. I'd always felt like something was. . .missing there. Something more than just a set of average eyebrows. But whatever that was had always eluded me. An as yet unanswered riddle. The quarry beyond the lens.
My vision suddenly went hazy -- but not owing to any existential conundrum. At the front of the center stage, a small smoke machine had activated with a hiss and was chugging out plumes of sweet-scented fog that turned the lights into shafts of violet mist, while the first familiar strains of an '80s pop tune, heavy with synthesis, began to boing around the club.
My forehead wrinkled. Erasure? Unusual choice for a gentlemen's establishment of negotiable repute, more often relegated to flash games about rainbows and robotic. . .
Open your eyes, I see
Your eyes are open. . .
". . .no fucking way."
If there was a god, He had to be shitting me. Either that, or someone had lined the filter of my cigarette with blotter acid.
Wear a disguise for me
Come into the open. . .
I don't shock easily. Or at all, most of the time. Hell, my own mother once conjectured that was why I was born without eyebrows -- they would have served no purpose on my face. I'm just not the perturbable type. Especially where sex is concerned. Toys, kinks, fetishes, people of indeterminate or interchangeable gender. . .none of it's ever bothered me, nor have any of my own proclivities (or lack thereof). I sleep with whomever I'm attracted to, and I do it however I feel like doing it at the time (providing my partner is willing, of course).
I was ninety-nine point nine percent certain, however, that this particular brand of paraphilia had never landed so much as a glancing blow against my mind -- but when it hit. . .
When it's cold outside
Am I here in vain?
A pair of latex boots the same shade of lavender as the proverbial black eye they were giving my psyche stomped across the stage in time with the beat of the song. They blended into a matching pair of chaps so tight they reminded me of the skinless demonstration dummies back in my university anatomy class, every thread of every muscle (of which there was a good deal -- I could appreciate that much, at least) rendered in synthetic candy-colored detail. A toned, tanned and hairless chest was buckled into seemingly ornamental plastic pink straps. Every inch of his exposed skin looked as though it had been dipped in a vat of body glitter immediately before the show, causing its owner's every movement to reflect and refract light like a prism (or a vampire). Hoof-shaped wrist cuffs concealed the tops of large hands, but their fingertips flashed with holographic lacquer when they were revealed in the gripping of the pole. Predatory cobalt eyes had been turned positively felid with makeup, gunked thick along their lash lines and at the edges with blue liner. A mop of turquoise hair feathered up into some kind of hybrid between a mullet and a mohawk, and to top it all off, sprouting immediately in front of that psychedelic hairline--
--was a horn. A good thirty centimeters long, painted in spiraling stripes of purple and white and blue like a child's lollipop.
And I got the distinct impression that it was pointed directly at me.
Hold on to the night
There will be no shame. . .
Wouldn't there? It was. . .wrong. And not in any arbitrarily moralistic way pertaining to the societal taboo of interspecies mating habits.
It simply wasn't supposed to exist.
And yet there it was, shaking its turquoise-tailed ass in the general vicinity of my face, stooping low and moving in the sorts of ways horses usually lacked the necessary joints to perform. There it was -- and against all laws of logic and sound, practical judgment, it was becoming more and more attractive with every second that wiggled past.
My breath quickened despite myself as the. . .dancer. . .expertly executed a series of inverted split-leg spins around the pole, flashing patches of dark skin that looked, somehow, so much hotter than the opaline sheen of his muscular arms and too-high cheekbones. Like the molten core of some frost-dusted planet. Neptune is said to be drowning in oceans of liquid diamond; I wondered if the same could be said of Uranus.
Uninhabitable, the logical portion (indeed, the majority) of my brain protested. I thought of the icy void of space (Where stars still burn), of the freezer-burnt coffee ice cream that awaited me in the fridge at home (Enough left for two, freshly finished fucking on the kitchen floor, puddles of lust like small biohazards, rubber suits, rubber condoms discarded in the trash alongside last week's Chinese, mooshu beef and cum of sum yung gai oh fuck somebody stop me--).
There I was, a man of science and cold, hard facts -- and the hot, hard fact of my pounding dick was telling me I was completely smitten with a fucking unicorn.
Always, I wanna be with you
And make believe with you
And live in harmony, harmony, oh love. . .
No, I didn't.
I was positive I didn't.
So then why was I turned on like twelve-year-old boy with a step-stool who'd just discovered his dad's stash of porno mags on the top shelf of the closet?
Psychology again. I wasn't supposed to worry about these things. Hell, it was practically a point of pride. There's nothing quite like throwing yourself into the study of the world around you to aid in the comprehension of your own insignificance. In some people, this overabundance of perspective leads to depression. I am not most people. Merely an atom in the eye of a Colossus, perhaps, but a unique atom. A mutation at once too small to affect but too different to deny.
Philosophy. Equally pointless, but at least more redeemably methodical than the chaotic inward spiral of self-analysis. In layman's terms, what I mean to say is that it is precisely this overwhelming sense of anonymity that gives me the freedom to be as apathetic as I am, and thus, as peculiar in comparison with the general population. Only when you have lost everything are you free to do anything, as the adage goes, and while I possess many things, some of which I would even be disinclined to do without, none of them really matter where the big picture is concerned. I don't matter. I'm a one-panel plot device of a character whose only purpose is to heighten the intrigue of the overarching storyline. Nothing wrong with that. In a way, it grants me all the immortality I could ever hope for. I am Schrodinger's cat, simultaneously dead and alive within the macrocosmic box of my limitations as a human being. Offscreen, I could be anyone, do anything. And I am. And I do.
Ergo, I should be able to do anyone who is anything, without the slightest trace of shame. Even saddled (apparently those straps weren't purely ornamental after all) strippers (or, technically, exotic dancers, as he had yet to take anything off) for whom suitable camouflage would have been the plush toy collection of a five-year-old girl.
Correct?
Correct.
My dick throbbed in agreement.
Looking back, I think it might have written the original thesis.
In any case, I was in no position to argue -- that position being directly in front of a pale blue-wrapped package, its outline beneath the satiny fabric impressive even soft, as the man leaned back on both feet and one broad palm, rhythmically humping the air and stroking his horn with his free hand in a manner that was more demanding than suggestive. That close, I couldn't help catching a faint whiff of. . .him. The saccharine, sweet-sixteen smell of whatever gluey base in which his body glitter had spent its time congealing. Baby powder, probably underneath the latex, as I doubted he'd been sewn into his chaps. AquaNet and androstenol, and deodorant -- one of those generic, masculine, low-grade-cleaning-products scents with names like Arctic Surge or Polar Ice that are geared towards making men believe they're freezing their sweat glands shut with sticks of solid nitrogen. The combination shouldn't have been as sexy as it was. Bottled, it could have stripped the wax off of floors. But on him. . .
On him it simply stripped me of my common sense. One by one, my mental faculties were peeled away like the layers of an onion, dyed and dropped between two glass plates, as easy to read as baby's first cell in freshman bio. And from the look in his eyes and the smirk on his lips, he was far from ignorant of the effect he was having on me.
The last dangling thread of my rationality argued that, well, that was his job, wasn't it? That effect was his livelihood, the result of a carefully calculated study of people. He was a magician, an illusionist.
I wanted to decipher every single one of his tricks, and maybe show him a few of my own.
Unfortunately, the fantasy was already fading before my very eyes, netted in a second shimmering cloud from the smoke machine as Andy Bell's falsetto scattered into the flamboyantly gay ether whence it came, taking with it one last, blurry silhouette of a few sinewy turns around the pole that, ribboned by his body, resembled a vertical version of a gymnast's high bar far more than the phallus it was usually intended to represent. He was a dancer, I decided -- that fluid, graceful juxtaposition between athlete and artist. It was only that he happened to paint nudes.
Always, I wanna be with you
And make believe with you
And live in harmony, harmony, oh love. . .
My heart (my heart?) sank when his retreating shadow was at last fully swallowed by the artificial fog, although my erection continued to strain against the seams of my slacks. All right, Akon, calm down, now. Count backwards from twelve. Deep breaths. Or should I have been holding my breath? Clamping off the flow of oxygen, deadening my blood. . .although with my luck, rigor would set in before I ever went limp.
Nothing to do but wait it out.
I nursed my drink and my dignity through another (comparatively lackluster and completely forgettable) performance, then smoked through a second one.
Fuck. I knew I wasn't exactly on top of the times, but were people spiking drinks with Viagra in lieu of roofies these days?
Desperation was beginning to sink its claws in. I contemplated the likelihood of my being able to drink myself impotent before I reached the level of alcohol poisoning. I couldn't walk home like this. I wasn't entirely confident in my ability to walk at all with the throbbing leviathan between my legs.
My eyes scanned the club, looking for. . .what, a book to hold in front of my crotch? This wasn't fucking middle school. I was a grown man in a strip joint, for crying out loud; it's not like it would look out of place for me to leave with my trousers tented like a big top on opening night. Unless. . .
My gaze hit the men's room door like a compass needle feels an irrepressible pull towards a dominant magnetic pole. Maybe. . .
It was a hypothesis worth testing.
I cast a second furtive glance around the club, then tugged my wallet loose from my back pocket, fished out a couple of bills and dropped them on the table before cautiously standing, grabbing my blazer and making my wide-legged way towards the restroom.
. . .Success! Thankfully, the place was empty, too. I could find only one minor hiccup in my plan when I surveyed the stalls in dismay.
Not a single fucking door. Of course.
Probably to impede the actions of just such a degenerate as myself.
Still, if I was quick -- which, if the state of my cock was any indication, I most certainly would be -- and quiet. . .
I calculated the risks at lightning speed.
Then tossed the results in the proverbial incinerator, stepped into the stall furthest from the door, draped my jacket over the barrier and unzipped my fly.
The tip of my cock jutted from the gap in my boxer shorts, the slit already beginning to glisten with pre-come, which I chose to take as anecdotal proof that my decision had been a wise one -- prowling the streets with an erection like a dowsing rod was one thing, but doing it stained. . .I just didn't need the kind of legal or physical grief something like that could attract.
I made short work of the button on my boxers, biting back a hiss when my palm grazed the alarmingly sensitized head of my cock. I couldn't remember the last time I'd been so aroused. To be honest, it bordered on unpleasant. For all that I'm a moderate-to-avid fan of vices in general, at my core I really don't like the idea that I could be controlled by something; that there is, somewhere in the universe, something capable of sticking a little wax cock onto an Akon voodoo doll and keeping it in a permanently upright and locked position. No one gets to set the timer on my self-destruct function who is not me. Not Kurotsuchi, not God McDuck, and most especially not lavender latex beasts of lore.
I clenched my teeth together as my cock gave a sudden jolt of excitement.
Spreading my thighs further apart and closing my hand gingerly around the shaft, I muttered to myself, "How high?"
I worked fast, easily finding my favored rhythm and speeding the process along with the wet glide of my own secretions. Images flashed in front of my eyes like the lingering afterburn from a flash bulb, a strobe effect of lilac and pink and a blue diamond gaze that cut through defenses I couldn't recall building in the first place. Sky blue and smoke, the colors of divinity and debauchery. Slick, rippling flanks, the hypnotic spiral of a bobbing horn, and an ass Rodin would have wept for the opportunity to sculpt (what? I'm not completely uncultured outside of bacterial circles). I was so tangled up in my own fantasies, I didn't even hear the swish of the door opening, or the brief change in volume of the music still thumping in the main room of the club. In fact, it took a few seconds to register that not only had a second hand wrapped itself around my cock, but that it didn't even belong to me.
I froze, which is really the only sensible thing one can do when one finds one's most tender and vulnerable parts in the sudden clutch of a foreign grip. Whipping around, for instance, was out of the question.
Luckily, instinct kicked in in record time: assess the issue and make the appropriate modifications. Adaptation is the key to survival.
I looked down and, mental gears whirring, took stock of the situation. The hold wasn't threatening in and of itself -- not too tight, and no use of sharp bits. The hand itself was obviously male, the knuckles large and lightly dusted with hair, and covered in golden skin that contrasted not displeasingly with holographic fingernail polish. . .
I had to remind myself I didn't believe in ghosts, either.
It was him. Flesh and blood and, with the absence of those ridiculous hooves and lack of a horn jutting past my field of vision, utterly, marvelously human.
I opened my mouth.
"What the fuck are you doing?" --Is what I meant to ask. What actually shinnied free of my throat sounded more like "Hahnngh--!"
I swallowed, my mouth and throat interminably dry. A hot chuff of breath and the gentle, almost accidental-feeling bump of a nose against the back of my neck turned my spine into a row of rapidly toppling dominoes. The hand around my dick gave a squeeze, to which my dick gave an answering twitch. Fucking shit.
He waited, I suppose, for me to protest this sudden turn of events. And I'll admit, I did find myself more than a little unnerved. After all, it's not every day a stranger interrupts your beating off in a public restroom and wordlessly offers you their assistance in finishing the job. Probably even rarer to find yourself willing to accept that offer, considering the types of people who might normally (if the term "normal" could in any sense be applied in such a situation) be eager to volunteer for the task. But this night had been decidedly abnormal, from the moment my feet traded the well-waxed tiles of the Institute for the grit of the pavement outside. Extraordinary, both in its strangeness and with the word dissevered: extra-ordinary, mundanity lit in such a way as to expose the potential hypersaturation lying dormant in its pigments. I felt as though I had stumbled upon a new species, alien and curious. As a scientist, what other choice did I have than to vivisect it?
Besides, if there's one thing at which I have always been adept, it's acing tests. Far be it for me to pass this one with anything less than flying, iridescent, star-sprinkled colors.
And pass it I did, poised for a beat like an insect on the point of a pin before chancing a small, slow pump of my hips, urging my erection deeper through the tunnel of his hand.
A chuckle, raspy and low, reverberated in my left ear, letting me know that my course of action had been the correct one.
"Enjoy my show?" His voice was the sound of sex itself, practically a purr, a vibrator constructed out of a human voice box.
I chuckled myself, or near enough to it -- a hot expulsion of air that might have carried on it the smoky scent of derisive amusement.
"Stupid question," I said. Well, it was. It's a personal pet peeve of mine, people who ask about the obvious.
"You're stupid," the Unicorn Man bit back, giving my cock a warning tug, "saying shit like that to the guy who's got your dick in a chokehold."
"Point taken." And again, it was. "Sorry. Neither of my doctorates is in the social arts."
"A brainiac, huh?" His left hand joined his right in fondling my junk, this one pointedly cupping my sac, rolling my aching balls between his fingers. Somehow it was relieving to know that puns weren't beyond him. "I love you Mister Wizard fuckers. You always dream up the kinkiest shit."
"Like being given a handjob in a bathroom stall by a mythological quadruped?"
"Quadruped?" he echoed, and I wondered for a moment if he was asking for a definition. "You wish. Like fuck you'd ever get me on my hands and knees."
"Save a horse, ride a cowboy?"
"Something like that. But if you ever want me to show you the way to Candy Mountin', all you gotta do is beg."
"A generous offer," I said, and felt broad shoulders shrug behind me.
"I'm a generous kinda guy."
"Hence our current position?"
"Hence," he magnanimously agreed.
"You do this for all your audience members, or am I this evening's only special snowflake?"
The Unicorn Man said nothing to that, and I sensed the time for witty banter was over.
Slowly, so fucking slowly, his fist began to drag up and down my cock, his hold teasingly, almost maliciously loose along the shaft, only tightening at the base and when he reached the tip. Mesmerized, I watched my cock grow more and more flushed beneath his ministrations, watched the head swell and darken from pink to something like fuchsia, until the blood was robbed from even the muscles of my eyelids and they closed of their own accord. The guy's left hand moved away from my balls to grip my hip and hold my ass against his crotch, and I found myself wondering absurdly about the tensile strength of G-strings under the kind of stress his had to be enduring, if the hard length sliding slowly along the cloth-covered fault line between my cheeks was any indication.
The feel of something warm and wet and oddly rough being dragged along the side of my neck caused me to jerk, startled. His tongue, I realized when it made a second sweep of the area, sending new tingles of desire throughout my already flaring and overwrought nerves. He was bathing my neck like some kind of big jungle cat, tonguing the shell of my ear, grazing sharp canines along the lobe. Some schools of myth, I remembered, classified unicorns under the category of "monster," described them as dangerous, feral, carnivorous beasts that gored their prey on blood-stained horns. Come to think of it, those were the fantasies I could get most behind (figuratively speaking) -- the ones still capped by the hulls of their factual seeds at the ends of their deepest roots. Try to feed even an ordinary horse with anything but flat fingers and you'll be relegated to the realm of slip-on shoes for the rest of your life. A unicorn wasn't a unicorn at all -- just a wild horse and some idiot who hadn't quizzed it on its table manners before inviting it to dinner.
Somewhere in the chaotic throng of electrical impulses ricocheting wildly against the walls of my skull, a spark of alarm crackled to life.
I wasn't the wild horse.
But the worry was snuffed out just as quickly as it had appeared, trampled under the hooves of stronger, louder, more numerous and insistent impulses as the Unicorn Man's strokes sped up.
I leaned forward, bracing my left hand against the cold, cracked tile wall above the john and jamming the knuckles of my right between my teeth to stifle a groan. This guy's fingers were dexterous, strong, talented. . .fuck it, they were magic. They danced around my length the way the rest of him had danced around that pole, pumping with all the fluid precision of a well-greased piston, raking short, blunt nails so tauntingly along the underside, tickling the frenum, rolling the pad of his thumb in firm circles over my slit. I was so tense, my left leg began to shake. My hand was growing wet from saliva and the steam of my harshening breaths. I lost all capacity for higher thought, descending into a purely reptilian awareness of the hot hand manipulating my cock and the heavy, broken panting petting my ear, sandpaper-rough and locomotive-loud, the smell of my own lust hanging in thick, murky curtains from the bassline hooks of an unknown song, and an irrepressible, all-consuming need to come, to come hard, come fast, come right fucking now--
My eyes rolled, delirious with pleasure as my orgasm ripped through me. I felt like I was tearing apart at the seams. The fabric of space-time split and warped around me, slowing and magnifying every pulse of my cock as I shot my load against the toilet, the wall, the floor. It might have lasted hours, as far as I was concerned, and when it finally receded to the point where reality began once again to strongarm the damn near psychotic power of my climax back into submission, I felt every inch the mindless moron my little escapade had framed me to be.
A damp hand wiped itself on the front of my trousers -- so much for escaping unstained -- before slipping into my back right pocket and giving my ass a firm, almost laudatory squeeze.
And then the sound of boots thudding their shiny way to the door. A shrill creak, a burst of noise, and then my dream boy, my Unicorn Man, was gone.
Suddenly exhausted, drained of all energy, fluids, thought, everything, I slumped to my knees on the grimy floor and rested my feverish forehead against the cool porcelain of the toilet bowl, ignoring the thought of quadrillions of germs left by hundreds, possibly thousands of asses, and the artificially pine-fresh smell of the blue water contained theirein.
At length I pulled myself together, finding, after a couple of minutes, strength enough in my legs to stand. I did up my fly and made a cursory effort at cleaning up the stall with a wad of toilet tissue. What was left, I figured, wasn't anything their janitor hadn't faced before. Then I took a few deep breaths, washed my hands, scrubbed my face (because really, quadrillions of germs from thousands of asses), and did my self-esteem a disservice by taking a good, long look at myself in the rusty mirror.
I looked like I'd been sampling the chemicals I worked with on recreational time. And then spent the last three nights becoming intimate with your more glamorous variety of gutter. My pupils had yet to recover from their frenzied, endorphin-induced dilation, giving my ordinarily flat gaze a glassy, cataleptic sheen. Iridescent glitter clung to my shirtsleeves, sides and hips, the crook of my neck, even, despite my impromptu bird-bath, my jawline. Oh well. At least it stood a chance, in the dim streetlight, of obscuring the pale smears on my dark slacks.
I wondered if I'd undress to shower later and find my nuts looking like disco balls.
I shrugged into my blazer. There were worse souvenirs to take home from a night of sexual activity with a more or less anonymous partner.
It didn't surprise me when I failed to spot either coruscant hide or turquoise tail hair of said partner as I made my way back through the club, heading for the exit. The whale-bouncer mutely watched me go. His expression was dull and for the most part impartial, but I thought I caught a glimpse of two short, bushy eyebrows lifting like the two halves of a drawbridge to let a ship pass from bay to open sea as I stepped over the threshold. I wondered if he was impressed by or embarrassed for me. Perhaps a little of both. The feeling was mutual.
Once I reached the sidewalk at the top of the stairs, my hand went automatically to my back right pocket to retrieve a cigarette, and my fingers brushed against something that I was certain had not been there before. Tucked between my pack of Lucky Strikes and my freshly squeezed ass, not unlike the dollar bill it may well have impersonated in the elastic band of a pale blue G-string, was a cocktail napkin adorned with Las Noches' unforgettable logo. On it were written two things.
The first was a name: Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez. Silently I mouthed the guttural, foreign-sounding consonants. It suited him, I thought -- a growl of a name, just as Black Forest fantastical as the man himself.
The second thing was a phone number.
My mouth curved upward in a position so rare it took me a second to place it as being a smile. I raked a hand through my hair, pushing my palm against my too-smooth brow, and entertained the idea that I may have erred in my earlier dismissal of a Eureka Moment possibly being at hand that evening.
I returned the napkin to my pocket, lit a cigarette, and started for my apartment with what the untrained eye might have mistaken for a swagger in my step.
And I didn't sing.
I never sang.
Not even a hint of a hum.
"Hold on to the night, there will be no shame. . .always, I wanna be with you, and make believe with you, and live in harmony, harmony, oh, love. . ."
Author: foxflare
Genres: Modern-day human AU, PWP, humor, rainbow-flavored crack.
Rating: NC17
Pairing: Akon/Grimmjow, plus a couple of cameos. >>
Disclaimer: I own no part of Cl2(aq) + H2O(l) ↔ 2H+(aq) + Cl-(aq) + ClO-(aq). Kubo Tite-sama whitens and brightens all.
Notes: HOMG FIC. FIC FROM ME. SMUT FROM ME. Or as close as I've gotten so far. XD Random filthy fun, 100% inspired by and dedicated to the wunnerful and infectious blood_crow, who saw a crackalicious Grimmjow in this picture and NEEDED FIC FOR IT, ASAP.
We'll just ignore the fact that I'm not very good at ASAP and have at it anyway, hmmm? ;D ♥
The light above my table was off.
The specimens were safely stored away, the calculations on the whiteboard left looking awkward and unbalanced as row upon row of jilted brides. The wedding would have to be postponed for yet another day. While not exactly tired, I was entering that oneiric phase that comes from having been staring too long at the same space. Microscopes, after a time, can tunnel a person's thoughts as much as their vision; like a sniper with a narrowed line of sight, I began to feel I might have lost my quarry somewhere in the peripheral darkness beyond the lens. I thought, There will be no epiphanies for me tonight.
I wasn't disappointed. It was part of the routine. You don't enter into any scientific field with the expectation that what you do or what you may end up finding will be either frequently or tremendously relevant. By and large, we're all just counting the coins in the vault of a billionaire who deposited his fortune one yen at a time. Bookkeepers in the employ of a cosmic Scrooge McDuck.
I traded my white lab coat for a brown tweed blazer and called out to my boss that I was leaving for the night.
Kurotsuchi waved distractedly over his shoulder, less a goodbye and more an impatient dismissal that I knew by then -- had always known, really -- not to take personally. The man was a known eccentric and obsessive, a nightmare to work under if you went in with the expectation to be treated like a human being. My nickname at school had been Akon the Android, which goes a long way toward explaining why I had held my position at the Institute for going on a decade, while the majority of Kurotsuchi's researchers turned in their resignations somewhere between a couple of weeks and a handful of months into their tenures. I had been hired right out of university and had been there ever since. The pay was decent, the work engrossing, and distractions and small talk considered to be an intolerable breach of company protocol. In short, my ideal professional environment. Colloquially, my dream job -- and yes, it had everything to do with electric sheep.
As I zoned out to the quiet hum of the elevator that transported me daily between the ground and twelfth floors of the building, I contemplated the remainder of my evening.
Home. Shoes off. Frozen meal tossed box et alii into the microwave. A beer and a smoke on my balcony while I waited for the timer to ding. Then a hot shower and, if I could be bothered, an easy wank, maybe polish off the last of the halfway freezer-burnt coffee ice cream that had been dying a slow death in my fridge for the past three weeks before finally calling it a night and hitting the sack. Not the most eventful life, but then, it didn't need to be. I'm not exactly what you would call a "people person." I don't generally dislike them; I've just never found them to be very useful beyond their performing the little mysteries of life -- emptying the dumpster in the alleyway before the world wakes up, restocking the konbini shelves during slow hours, that sort of thing. Small, daily miracles that I appreciated but never really gave more than passing thought. They barely belonged to the same world. More like a shadow dimension, a place that existed beneath and yet parallel to this one, where Things Got Done and I was free to remain none the wiser.
They say ignorance is bliss, and while I had devoted my life to unraveling the enigmas of the universe one theory at a time, there were some things I was perfectly content not knowing.
Psychology, for instance. A pseudo-science at best, where those who did the research were just as prone to the conditions they studied. It's impossible to achieve untainted results in such a field. I've never been one to question why I do or do not like something. What does it matter? It's a waste of time. I smoke like a fiend -- forty cigarettes a day on my days off (I don't do it so much at work; smoking is disallowed in the lab and I'm usually too caught up in what I'm doing to take more than a handful of breaks in the lounge) -- but what do I care why I do it, whether it's to calm my nerves or stimulate my senses or out of boredom or simple physiological addiction? I smoke, and I enjoy it, and if I didn't do it for any of those reasons I'd probably still do it for another one. It's true that every sum is defined by its parts, but, well, I have bigger things to think about than myself. Why gaze at your own navel when there are wormholes to peer through?
Therefore I didn't question what it was, exactly, that made me pause outside the Institute, discontent at the thought of simply going home. In any case, that first step to the left felt booby-trapped, like if I'd performed it I'd have ended up with gum on my shoe, or dog shit. It just seemed like a bad idea, that's all. Something I'd regret, and as a person of precious few regrets, the irrational possibility alone was enough to deter me.
So, right I went, following some unseen gravitational pull deeper into the industrial district of the city, where gleaming facilities like the Institute eventually gave way to older, more worn-down factories, like someone had hit the Rewind button on a documentary about industrial evolution. I walked and I smoked, lighting one cigarette off the smoldering end of its predecessor, and so forth, until the factories became the newly renovated apartments and businesses for the young and the stylish, lofts fashioned out of former warehouses, basements and boiler rooms turned into interesting-looking bars with exposed piping conversation pieces and glossy walnut interiors aesthetically contrasting gritty brick walls and stained cement floors. It wasn't really my scene -- give me modernism any day, sleek chrome and glass. I lived in what was effectively a person-sized Petri dish, spartan and sterile, all straight lines and precise curves, a rubberized kitchen floor and a legless bed attached to the wall by its headboard, so that it looked like it was hovering in the middle of the room. A woman from work who I used to sleep with occasionally had commented that it looked like I'd tried to bring the Institute home with me. I didn't say anything, just tapped my cigarette ashes into a nearby ashtray, but looking around, I thought she might very well be right. It isn't that my place of business "feels like home" to me -- I'm not a sentimental person, and nowhere has had that effect on me, not even my own apartment -- but I do feel the most in my element when in the thick of my work. If I thought anything so romantic as destiny actually existed, I'd say I was born to do it, but as I don't, I can still admit with full confidence that it's the only thing I've ever wished to do.
Wished. Wanted to do would be more accurate. Wishing distorts reality. What other concept could be so deceptive as to turn the magnificent journey of a meteor into nothing more than an excuse to make a selfish request of a make-believe being? Shooting stars. . .you may as well put a gun to their heads, if I can be anthropomorphically frank.
Which I can. Nothing's stopping or smiting me.
The same nothing that made me look up and notice the tacky glowing sign above the stairwell leading to a seedy-looking basement bar. LAS NOCHES, it read in bright blue-violet neon characters. The L and the S were topped by neko ears. The S ended in a tail that underlined the second word.
Shrugging, I dropped the remains of my cigarette on the sidewalk and didn't bother to crush it out as I descended the stairs and opened the windowless door.
Seated on a barstool just inside the door, a bouncer the size of a whale halted my progress with one massive paw pressed against my chest. His small, half-lidded eyes perused my person with only fleeting interest before he nodded gruffly that I was free to proceed.
The place was bigger on the inside than it looked from the street, taking up both the basement and ground-level floors of the building. It was lit like any other club, full of flashing rainbow lights, and the music was some run-of-the-mill extended dance remix of a popular song. The only atypical thing about it was the people -- or rather, the animals.
The place was a zoo, and somewhat more than figuratively speaking. Hanging from the ceiling, a dark, well-built man in a beaked half-mask and red feathered wings strapped to his back gyrated on a swing built to resemble a bird perch. On the dance floor, two long-haired blonds, one with bull horns and a pierced septum and the other with one glove that resembled a lobster's claw, seemed to be simulating an unlikely potential method of producing a litter of very odd seahorses. Turning around, I saw that each leg on the trousers of the cetacean bouncer did indeed end in two halves of a broad, flat, fabric "tail."
Great, I thought. I'd come on Furry Night.
Then I remembered the sign out front, and realized every night here was probably Furry Night.
The main stage area was split into three long catwalks, like a crow's foot, each with its own floor-to-ceiling dance pole. I found a seat at a small round table near the empty center catwalk, placed an order for a gin and tonic with a half-naked saber-toothed waiter, and spent a few minutes idly observing the other patrons and employees. To my left, a long and extremely lean silver-haired man, complete with black-tipped fox ears and the double fluffy tails of a kitsune attached to the back of his G-string by some miracle of physics even I had difficulty figuring, was rolling his hips with a sway that would have made a cobra jealous, and reaching charmingly for one of those sleek, slick salaryman types who, if it weren't for the flicker of intensity in his dark eyes, I would have guessed was merely tolerating the vulpine spectacle wagging in front of his face, and not actually enjoying it.
On the right, a wolfish brunet with a set of decently-fitted by too-white fangs ornamenting his sullen mouth lavished his attention upon a watching redhead, who himself was inked beneath his grass-green mesh shirt with tattoos like tiger stripes shifting behind a screen of bamboo. In one semi-discreet corner, a small and, for lack of a better word, beautiful man was performing some kind of fan dance with peacock feathers for a sad-eyed blond whose gaze would occasionally flicker indecisively between the stage show and his own private distraction. I couldn't blame him. There was an unnerving, almost overwhelming amount of eye candy to choose from, even by club standards. My thoughts shifted back to the bouncer whale, and I wondered if his evaluation of my looks had less to do with whether I was underage or had the aura of a troublemaker, and more with whether or not my appearance was up to snuff. I supposed I should feel flattered. I'd say that I'm not a bad-looking guy, but the truth is I rarely mull over my appearance at all beyond basic hygiene and the ability to work an iron. If anything, I'd consider myself strange-looking. Dark hair with a weird, stubborn part that some might mistake for an avant-garde stylistic choice. Dark eyes, and a completely smooth brow that I'll admit bugged me occasion for reasons unknown. I'd always felt like something was. . .missing there. Something more than just a set of average eyebrows. But whatever that was had always eluded me. An as yet unanswered riddle. The quarry beyond the lens.
My vision suddenly went hazy -- but not owing to any existential conundrum. At the front of the center stage, a small smoke machine had activated with a hiss and was chugging out plumes of sweet-scented fog that turned the lights into shafts of violet mist, while the first familiar strains of an '80s pop tune, heavy with synthesis, began to boing around the club.
My forehead wrinkled. Erasure? Unusual choice for a gentlemen's establishment of negotiable repute, more often relegated to flash games about rainbows and robotic. . .
Open your eyes, I see
Your eyes are open. . .
". . .no fucking way."
If there was a god, He had to be shitting me. Either that, or someone had lined the filter of my cigarette with blotter acid.
Wear a disguise for me
Come into the open. . .
I don't shock easily. Or at all, most of the time. Hell, my own mother once conjectured that was why I was born without eyebrows -- they would have served no purpose on my face. I'm just not the perturbable type. Especially where sex is concerned. Toys, kinks, fetishes, people of indeterminate or interchangeable gender. . .none of it's ever bothered me, nor have any of my own proclivities (or lack thereof). I sleep with whomever I'm attracted to, and I do it however I feel like doing it at the time (providing my partner is willing, of course).
I was ninety-nine point nine percent certain, however, that this particular brand of paraphilia had never landed so much as a glancing blow against my mind -- but when it hit. . .
When it's cold outside
Am I here in vain?
A pair of latex boots the same shade of lavender as the proverbial black eye they were giving my psyche stomped across the stage in time with the beat of the song. They blended into a matching pair of chaps so tight they reminded me of the skinless demonstration dummies back in my university anatomy class, every thread of every muscle (of which there was a good deal -- I could appreciate that much, at least) rendered in synthetic candy-colored detail. A toned, tanned and hairless chest was buckled into seemingly ornamental plastic pink straps. Every inch of his exposed skin looked as though it had been dipped in a vat of body glitter immediately before the show, causing its owner's every movement to reflect and refract light like a prism (or a vampire). Hoof-shaped wrist cuffs concealed the tops of large hands, but their fingertips flashed with holographic lacquer when they were revealed in the gripping of the pole. Predatory cobalt eyes had been turned positively felid with makeup, gunked thick along their lash lines and at the edges with blue liner. A mop of turquoise hair feathered up into some kind of hybrid between a mullet and a mohawk, and to top it all off, sprouting immediately in front of that psychedelic hairline--
--was a horn. A good thirty centimeters long, painted in spiraling stripes of purple and white and blue like a child's lollipop.
And I got the distinct impression that it was pointed directly at me.
Hold on to the night
There will be no shame. . .
Wouldn't there? It was. . .wrong. And not in any arbitrarily moralistic way pertaining to the societal taboo of interspecies mating habits.
It simply wasn't supposed to exist.
And yet there it was, shaking its turquoise-tailed ass in the general vicinity of my face, stooping low and moving in the sorts of ways horses usually lacked the necessary joints to perform. There it was -- and against all laws of logic and sound, practical judgment, it was becoming more and more attractive with every second that wiggled past.
My breath quickened despite myself as the. . .dancer. . .expertly executed a series of inverted split-leg spins around the pole, flashing patches of dark skin that looked, somehow, so much hotter than the opaline sheen of his muscular arms and too-high cheekbones. Like the molten core of some frost-dusted planet. Neptune is said to be drowning in oceans of liquid diamond; I wondered if the same could be said of Uranus.
Uninhabitable, the logical portion (indeed, the majority) of my brain protested. I thought of the icy void of space (Where stars still burn), of the freezer-burnt coffee ice cream that awaited me in the fridge at home (Enough left for two, freshly finished fucking on the kitchen floor, puddles of lust like small biohazards, rubber suits, rubber condoms discarded in the trash alongside last week's Chinese, mooshu beef and cum of sum yung gai oh fuck somebody stop me--).
There I was, a man of science and cold, hard facts -- and the hot, hard fact of my pounding dick was telling me I was completely smitten with a fucking unicorn.
Always, I wanna be with you
And make believe with you
And live in harmony, harmony, oh love. . .
No, I didn't.
I was positive I didn't.
So then why was I turned on like twelve-year-old boy with a step-stool who'd just discovered his dad's stash of porno mags on the top shelf of the closet?
Psychology again. I wasn't supposed to worry about these things. Hell, it was practically a point of pride. There's nothing quite like throwing yourself into the study of the world around you to aid in the comprehension of your own insignificance. In some people, this overabundance of perspective leads to depression. I am not most people. Merely an atom in the eye of a Colossus, perhaps, but a unique atom. A mutation at once too small to affect but too different to deny.
Philosophy. Equally pointless, but at least more redeemably methodical than the chaotic inward spiral of self-analysis. In layman's terms, what I mean to say is that it is precisely this overwhelming sense of anonymity that gives me the freedom to be as apathetic as I am, and thus, as peculiar in comparison with the general population. Only when you have lost everything are you free to do anything, as the adage goes, and while I possess many things, some of which I would even be disinclined to do without, none of them really matter where the big picture is concerned. I don't matter. I'm a one-panel plot device of a character whose only purpose is to heighten the intrigue of the overarching storyline. Nothing wrong with that. In a way, it grants me all the immortality I could ever hope for. I am Schrodinger's cat, simultaneously dead and alive within the macrocosmic box of my limitations as a human being. Offscreen, I could be anyone, do anything. And I am. And I do.
Ergo, I should be able to do anyone who is anything, without the slightest trace of shame. Even saddled (apparently those straps weren't purely ornamental after all) strippers (or, technically, exotic dancers, as he had yet to take anything off) for whom suitable camouflage would have been the plush toy collection of a five-year-old girl.
Correct?
Correct.
My dick throbbed in agreement.
Looking back, I think it might have written the original thesis.
In any case, I was in no position to argue -- that position being directly in front of a pale blue-wrapped package, its outline beneath the satiny fabric impressive even soft, as the man leaned back on both feet and one broad palm, rhythmically humping the air and stroking his horn with his free hand in a manner that was more demanding than suggestive. That close, I couldn't help catching a faint whiff of. . .him. The saccharine, sweet-sixteen smell of whatever gluey base in which his body glitter had spent its time congealing. Baby powder, probably underneath the latex, as I doubted he'd been sewn into his chaps. AquaNet and androstenol, and deodorant -- one of those generic, masculine, low-grade-cleaning-products scents with names like Arctic Surge or Polar Ice that are geared towards making men believe they're freezing their sweat glands shut with sticks of solid nitrogen. The combination shouldn't have been as sexy as it was. Bottled, it could have stripped the wax off of floors. But on him. . .
On him it simply stripped me of my common sense. One by one, my mental faculties were peeled away like the layers of an onion, dyed and dropped between two glass plates, as easy to read as baby's first cell in freshman bio. And from the look in his eyes and the smirk on his lips, he was far from ignorant of the effect he was having on me.
The last dangling thread of my rationality argued that, well, that was his job, wasn't it? That effect was his livelihood, the result of a carefully calculated study of people. He was a magician, an illusionist.
I wanted to decipher every single one of his tricks, and maybe show him a few of my own.
Unfortunately, the fantasy was already fading before my very eyes, netted in a second shimmering cloud from the smoke machine as Andy Bell's falsetto scattered into the flamboyantly gay ether whence it came, taking with it one last, blurry silhouette of a few sinewy turns around the pole that, ribboned by his body, resembled a vertical version of a gymnast's high bar far more than the phallus it was usually intended to represent. He was a dancer, I decided -- that fluid, graceful juxtaposition between athlete and artist. It was only that he happened to paint nudes.
Always, I wanna be with you
And make believe with you
And live in harmony, harmony, oh love. . .
My heart (my heart?) sank when his retreating shadow was at last fully swallowed by the artificial fog, although my erection continued to strain against the seams of my slacks. All right, Akon, calm down, now. Count backwards from twelve. Deep breaths. Or should I have been holding my breath? Clamping off the flow of oxygen, deadening my blood. . .although with my luck, rigor would set in before I ever went limp.
Nothing to do but wait it out.
I nursed my drink and my dignity through another (comparatively lackluster and completely forgettable) performance, then smoked through a second one.
Fuck. I knew I wasn't exactly on top of the times, but were people spiking drinks with Viagra in lieu of roofies these days?
Desperation was beginning to sink its claws in. I contemplated the likelihood of my being able to drink myself impotent before I reached the level of alcohol poisoning. I couldn't walk home like this. I wasn't entirely confident in my ability to walk at all with the throbbing leviathan between my legs.
My eyes scanned the club, looking for. . .what, a book to hold in front of my crotch? This wasn't fucking middle school. I was a grown man in a strip joint, for crying out loud; it's not like it would look out of place for me to leave with my trousers tented like a big top on opening night. Unless. . .
My gaze hit the men's room door like a compass needle feels an irrepressible pull towards a dominant magnetic pole. Maybe. . .
It was a hypothesis worth testing.
I cast a second furtive glance around the club, then tugged my wallet loose from my back pocket, fished out a couple of bills and dropped them on the table before cautiously standing, grabbing my blazer and making my wide-legged way towards the restroom.
. . .Success! Thankfully, the place was empty, too. I could find only one minor hiccup in my plan when I surveyed the stalls in dismay.
Not a single fucking door. Of course.
Probably to impede the actions of just such a degenerate as myself.
Still, if I was quick -- which, if the state of my cock was any indication, I most certainly would be -- and quiet. . .
I calculated the risks at lightning speed.
Then tossed the results in the proverbial incinerator, stepped into the stall furthest from the door, draped my jacket over the barrier and unzipped my fly.
The tip of my cock jutted from the gap in my boxer shorts, the slit already beginning to glisten with pre-come, which I chose to take as anecdotal proof that my decision had been a wise one -- prowling the streets with an erection like a dowsing rod was one thing, but doing it stained. . .I just didn't need the kind of legal or physical grief something like that could attract.
I made short work of the button on my boxers, biting back a hiss when my palm grazed the alarmingly sensitized head of my cock. I couldn't remember the last time I'd been so aroused. To be honest, it bordered on unpleasant. For all that I'm a moderate-to-avid fan of vices in general, at my core I really don't like the idea that I could be controlled by something; that there is, somewhere in the universe, something capable of sticking a little wax cock onto an Akon voodoo doll and keeping it in a permanently upright and locked position. No one gets to set the timer on my self-destruct function who is not me. Not Kurotsuchi, not God McDuck, and most especially not lavender latex beasts of lore.
I clenched my teeth together as my cock gave a sudden jolt of excitement.
Spreading my thighs further apart and closing my hand gingerly around the shaft, I muttered to myself, "How high?"
I worked fast, easily finding my favored rhythm and speeding the process along with the wet glide of my own secretions. Images flashed in front of my eyes like the lingering afterburn from a flash bulb, a strobe effect of lilac and pink and a blue diamond gaze that cut through defenses I couldn't recall building in the first place. Sky blue and smoke, the colors of divinity and debauchery. Slick, rippling flanks, the hypnotic spiral of a bobbing horn, and an ass Rodin would have wept for the opportunity to sculpt (what? I'm not completely uncultured outside of bacterial circles). I was so tangled up in my own fantasies, I didn't even hear the swish of the door opening, or the brief change in volume of the music still thumping in the main room of the club. In fact, it took a few seconds to register that not only had a second hand wrapped itself around my cock, but that it didn't even belong to me.
I froze, which is really the only sensible thing one can do when one finds one's most tender and vulnerable parts in the sudden clutch of a foreign grip. Whipping around, for instance, was out of the question.
Luckily, instinct kicked in in record time: assess the issue and make the appropriate modifications. Adaptation is the key to survival.
I looked down and, mental gears whirring, took stock of the situation. The hold wasn't threatening in and of itself -- not too tight, and no use of sharp bits. The hand itself was obviously male, the knuckles large and lightly dusted with hair, and covered in golden skin that contrasted not displeasingly with holographic fingernail polish. . .
I had to remind myself I didn't believe in ghosts, either.
It was him. Flesh and blood and, with the absence of those ridiculous hooves and lack of a horn jutting past my field of vision, utterly, marvelously human.
I opened my mouth.
"What the fuck are you doing?" --Is what I meant to ask. What actually shinnied free of my throat sounded more like "Hahnngh--!"
I swallowed, my mouth and throat interminably dry. A hot chuff of breath and the gentle, almost accidental-feeling bump of a nose against the back of my neck turned my spine into a row of rapidly toppling dominoes. The hand around my dick gave a squeeze, to which my dick gave an answering twitch. Fucking shit.
He waited, I suppose, for me to protest this sudden turn of events. And I'll admit, I did find myself more than a little unnerved. After all, it's not every day a stranger interrupts your beating off in a public restroom and wordlessly offers you their assistance in finishing the job. Probably even rarer to find yourself willing to accept that offer, considering the types of people who might normally (if the term "normal" could in any sense be applied in such a situation) be eager to volunteer for the task. But this night had been decidedly abnormal, from the moment my feet traded the well-waxed tiles of the Institute for the grit of the pavement outside. Extraordinary, both in its strangeness and with the word dissevered: extra-ordinary, mundanity lit in such a way as to expose the potential hypersaturation lying dormant in its pigments. I felt as though I had stumbled upon a new species, alien and curious. As a scientist, what other choice did I have than to vivisect it?
Besides, if there's one thing at which I have always been adept, it's acing tests. Far be it for me to pass this one with anything less than flying, iridescent, star-sprinkled colors.
And pass it I did, poised for a beat like an insect on the point of a pin before chancing a small, slow pump of my hips, urging my erection deeper through the tunnel of his hand.
A chuckle, raspy and low, reverberated in my left ear, letting me know that my course of action had been the correct one.
"Enjoy my show?" His voice was the sound of sex itself, practically a purr, a vibrator constructed out of a human voice box.
I chuckled myself, or near enough to it -- a hot expulsion of air that might have carried on it the smoky scent of derisive amusement.
"Stupid question," I said. Well, it was. It's a personal pet peeve of mine, people who ask about the obvious.
"You're stupid," the Unicorn Man bit back, giving my cock a warning tug, "saying shit like that to the guy who's got your dick in a chokehold."
"Point taken." And again, it was. "Sorry. Neither of my doctorates is in the social arts."
"A brainiac, huh?" His left hand joined his right in fondling my junk, this one pointedly cupping my sac, rolling my aching balls between his fingers. Somehow it was relieving to know that puns weren't beyond him. "I love you Mister Wizard fuckers. You always dream up the kinkiest shit."
"Like being given a handjob in a bathroom stall by a mythological quadruped?"
"Quadruped?" he echoed, and I wondered for a moment if he was asking for a definition. "You wish. Like fuck you'd ever get me on my hands and knees."
"Save a horse, ride a cowboy?"
"Something like that. But if you ever want me to show you the way to Candy Mountin', all you gotta do is beg."
"A generous offer," I said, and felt broad shoulders shrug behind me.
"I'm a generous kinda guy."
"Hence our current position?"
"Hence," he magnanimously agreed.
"You do this for all your audience members, or am I this evening's only special snowflake?"
The Unicorn Man said nothing to that, and I sensed the time for witty banter was over.
Slowly, so fucking slowly, his fist began to drag up and down my cock, his hold teasingly, almost maliciously loose along the shaft, only tightening at the base and when he reached the tip. Mesmerized, I watched my cock grow more and more flushed beneath his ministrations, watched the head swell and darken from pink to something like fuchsia, until the blood was robbed from even the muscles of my eyelids and they closed of their own accord. The guy's left hand moved away from my balls to grip my hip and hold my ass against his crotch, and I found myself wondering absurdly about the tensile strength of G-strings under the kind of stress his had to be enduring, if the hard length sliding slowly along the cloth-covered fault line between my cheeks was any indication.
The feel of something warm and wet and oddly rough being dragged along the side of my neck caused me to jerk, startled. His tongue, I realized when it made a second sweep of the area, sending new tingles of desire throughout my already flaring and overwrought nerves. He was bathing my neck like some kind of big jungle cat, tonguing the shell of my ear, grazing sharp canines along the lobe. Some schools of myth, I remembered, classified unicorns under the category of "monster," described them as dangerous, feral, carnivorous beasts that gored their prey on blood-stained horns. Come to think of it, those were the fantasies I could get most behind (figuratively speaking) -- the ones still capped by the hulls of their factual seeds at the ends of their deepest roots. Try to feed even an ordinary horse with anything but flat fingers and you'll be relegated to the realm of slip-on shoes for the rest of your life. A unicorn wasn't a unicorn at all -- just a wild horse and some idiot who hadn't quizzed it on its table manners before inviting it to dinner.
Somewhere in the chaotic throng of electrical impulses ricocheting wildly against the walls of my skull, a spark of alarm crackled to life.
I wasn't the wild horse.
But the worry was snuffed out just as quickly as it had appeared, trampled under the hooves of stronger, louder, more numerous and insistent impulses as the Unicorn Man's strokes sped up.
I leaned forward, bracing my left hand against the cold, cracked tile wall above the john and jamming the knuckles of my right between my teeth to stifle a groan. This guy's fingers were dexterous, strong, talented. . .fuck it, they were magic. They danced around my length the way the rest of him had danced around that pole, pumping with all the fluid precision of a well-greased piston, raking short, blunt nails so tauntingly along the underside, tickling the frenum, rolling the pad of his thumb in firm circles over my slit. I was so tense, my left leg began to shake. My hand was growing wet from saliva and the steam of my harshening breaths. I lost all capacity for higher thought, descending into a purely reptilian awareness of the hot hand manipulating my cock and the heavy, broken panting petting my ear, sandpaper-rough and locomotive-loud, the smell of my own lust hanging in thick, murky curtains from the bassline hooks of an unknown song, and an irrepressible, all-consuming need to come, to come hard, come fast, come right fucking now--
My eyes rolled, delirious with pleasure as my orgasm ripped through me. I felt like I was tearing apart at the seams. The fabric of space-time split and warped around me, slowing and magnifying every pulse of my cock as I shot my load against the toilet, the wall, the floor. It might have lasted hours, as far as I was concerned, and when it finally receded to the point where reality began once again to strongarm the damn near psychotic power of my climax back into submission, I felt every inch the mindless moron my little escapade had framed me to be.
A damp hand wiped itself on the front of my trousers -- so much for escaping unstained -- before slipping into my back right pocket and giving my ass a firm, almost laudatory squeeze.
And then the sound of boots thudding their shiny way to the door. A shrill creak, a burst of noise, and then my dream boy, my Unicorn Man, was gone.
Suddenly exhausted, drained of all energy, fluids, thought, everything, I slumped to my knees on the grimy floor and rested my feverish forehead against the cool porcelain of the toilet bowl, ignoring the thought of quadrillions of germs left by hundreds, possibly thousands of asses, and the artificially pine-fresh smell of the blue water contained theirein.
At length I pulled myself together, finding, after a couple of minutes, strength enough in my legs to stand. I did up my fly and made a cursory effort at cleaning up the stall with a wad of toilet tissue. What was left, I figured, wasn't anything their janitor hadn't faced before. Then I took a few deep breaths, washed my hands, scrubbed my face (because really, quadrillions of germs from thousands of asses), and did my self-esteem a disservice by taking a good, long look at myself in the rusty mirror.
I looked like I'd been sampling the chemicals I worked with on recreational time. And then spent the last three nights becoming intimate with your more glamorous variety of gutter. My pupils had yet to recover from their frenzied, endorphin-induced dilation, giving my ordinarily flat gaze a glassy, cataleptic sheen. Iridescent glitter clung to my shirtsleeves, sides and hips, the crook of my neck, even, despite my impromptu bird-bath, my jawline. Oh well. At least it stood a chance, in the dim streetlight, of obscuring the pale smears on my dark slacks.
I wondered if I'd undress to shower later and find my nuts looking like disco balls.
I shrugged into my blazer. There were worse souvenirs to take home from a night of sexual activity with a more or less anonymous partner.
It didn't surprise me when I failed to spot either coruscant hide or turquoise tail hair of said partner as I made my way back through the club, heading for the exit. The whale-bouncer mutely watched me go. His expression was dull and for the most part impartial, but I thought I caught a glimpse of two short, bushy eyebrows lifting like the two halves of a drawbridge to let a ship pass from bay to open sea as I stepped over the threshold. I wondered if he was impressed by or embarrassed for me. Perhaps a little of both. The feeling was mutual.
Once I reached the sidewalk at the top of the stairs, my hand went automatically to my back right pocket to retrieve a cigarette, and my fingers brushed against something that I was certain had not been there before. Tucked between my pack of Lucky Strikes and my freshly squeezed ass, not unlike the dollar bill it may well have impersonated in the elastic band of a pale blue G-string, was a cocktail napkin adorned with Las Noches' unforgettable logo. On it were written two things.
The first was a name: Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez. Silently I mouthed the guttural, foreign-sounding consonants. It suited him, I thought -- a growl of a name, just as Black Forest fantastical as the man himself.
The second thing was a phone number.
My mouth curved upward in a position so rare it took me a second to place it as being a smile. I raked a hand through my hair, pushing my palm against my too-smooth brow, and entertained the idea that I may have erred in my earlier dismissal of a Eureka Moment possibly being at hand that evening.
I returned the napkin to my pocket, lit a cigarette, and started for my apartment with what the untrained eye might have mistaken for a swagger in my step.
And I didn't sing.
I never sang.
Not even a hint of a hum.
"Hold on to the night, there will be no shame. . .always, I wanna be with you, and make believe with you, and live in harmony, harmony, oh, love. . ."