48language. ooc. nonlinear. i don't remember writing a 135-word fic.
lilith
(a college boy and his succubus)
by appleschan
The library chair prickles strangely cold.
"Fuck this shit," says Ichigo and then he moves to another chair, pulling with him his laptop and reams of paper –grunting at some sore spots in his abdomen and thighs.
Along with his move, two girls three tables from him retreated as well, maintaining the same distance. Ichigo hears them whispering to themselves, "how do we know he's not really, really a gangster? A yakuza of sorts?"
Ichigo shoots them a glare (like he would do anything else) and for fun's sake, he shoots them a yakuza-of-sorts glare. The two girls may find their way out earlier.
But by no means is he a yakuza of sorts, Kurosaki Ichigo is a normal college student who dresses neatly and drinks moderately. He is programming major and that it was met with a certain degree of shit show from Keigo: "holy sheeeeeeet! Ichigo, you will never get laid, I tell you! What are you? A fucking nerd like Ishida? Oh man, you can't get girls there! Fuck programming, I go where the women are." Asano Keigo is majoring in Women Studies (because that's his only purpose).
But Ichigo doesn't suffer in programming: it's quiet and easy and filled with intelligent people who don't talk to each other except when discussing the latest in their love languages like JavaScript and c- and C#. And if there are arguments, vicious bugs are there to bust each other's compilation of codes –both coded and real. People in here don't annoy each other with their personal shit. Ichigo adores it. And he particularly adores the university library –with built-in electrical sockets in every table (apartment pay is expensive; bills are goddamned impossible) and there's genuine silence to bask in and a row of Shakespeare's works for downtimes.
-and then he types the last line, not missing a comma, then carefully settles in his chair and waits for his codes to compile, resisting the urge to stretch out his kinked muscles.
(his back hurts; his ass hurts)
.
.
.
Holy fucking shit, it's like porn –which doesn't really amount to something because porn films are make-believe, untrue, overblown, absurd, distorted sexual fantasies, but-
"Holy fucking shit, it's like porn!"
(Keigo, Mizuiro and Chad will be coming anytime soon for some study group overnight Ishida suggested and that fucking nerd will come too and with their arrival, his sanity will depart him)
A woman is currently fucking him.
"Ahhh! What the-?" He thought he'll never shriek like a girl.
Ichigo tries to reorganize his thoughts. Motherfucker –move! Think! The fuck-! She is on top of him, straddling him. The woman keeps on literally bouncing on his hips –dick.
(but there aren't much thoughts to organize, actually)
Ichigo, of course, in all honesty, had no idea (or memory) where the woman came from and how she found him alone in his university apartment and started fucking him.
"The –the fuck…is this-? The fuck a-are you-?" These words come as soft, pathetic whispers. After all, what can a man do when his dick is being –well- shoved into a woman's body?
Ichigo thinks it's one of the Limits of Man his Philosophy and Aesthetic professor was yapping about (his professor who is sexually-charged and has balls of steel to go to his classes very drunk and likes wearing a sakura-haori). "Ah, tradition," his professor lectured one sunny day when he took the class out to conduct a lesson in a bamboo sansui, "a woman possesses a sensual power to make a man slave to her, but it is kept hidden. Behind her meek smile, politeness and finery is a flower waiting to bloom. I encourage you young men to initiate that blooming, but let her have her way, be gentle and let her hold control over your body and simply soar with her, you will find that it is like, alas, seeing a crocus bloom beautifully during spring."
Fucking hell no. She is no flower. He'd report the shit out of her to the authorities for doing this. Yeah. He just needs to see her face –which is impossible at the moment because the fucking lava lamp exploded yesterday and the light switches are too far to reach and the woman has her head thrown back that he could only make out the angle of her jaw, sounds like kittenish mewls are coming from her –damn. And he tries to remember if he took any sort of drug.
He –they are on top of his kitchen island. Be calm, motherfucker, be calm- my pants aren't even fully pulled down! It feels uncomfortable though, hitched in his thighs.
He could sense that the woman is small: slender and smooth and soft and Ichigo has no idea where to put his hands, so he grips the edge of the counter, looking like a stiff log, his nails grating the marble.
"Shit, fucking shit! ahh!"
Ichigo can't think and do much and is absolutely dumbfounded: he decides it must be a dream.
He comes hard and fast and without warning 11 seconds later.
.
.
.
That was a motherfucker of a dream, Ichigo supposes, sitting still on the library chair.
It's 5 pm and the last of the afternoon sun is thinning and so are the students in the library with him –oh hell yes, end of the day. Looking at the compiling progress on his laptop, he figures it will take him at least ten more minutes before he can pack his things.
The dream was very vivid, so vivid and realistic his back still hurts (shit, the chair is starting to get kind of cool, Ichigo shifts uncomfortably) and his ass still hurts as well, kitchen counter-island is not ideal for some positions.
And all that resulted to a very early morning cock-stand –stiff like hell, a fucking tree log, won't go soft even after practically spending an hour taking an icy shower and furiously jerking off.
Some say that the mind has got everything to do with it; dirty thoughts. Ichigo tells himself he's not thinking about any of that.
The cock-stand continued, hidden by his bags and baggy clothes and stacks of paper and the library table, and Ichigo had not given "being lucky" much thought before, but narrowly escaping his friends this afternoon while hiding a hard dick kind of changed his mind.
But the more pressing issue, he thinks, is that the impression the woman in his dream left on him, the same way a cliché TV show about an unforgettable one-night stand that eventually led to true love would make its characters describe that night: extraordinary.
(not the usual "extraordinary" though; bizarre)
.
.
.
("Who t-the fuck…are you?" Ichigo asks the woman, huffing and puffing and positively thrumming with life. Fucking strange.
He comes hard and he doesn't remember the last time he did.
"Do not speak, human."
Human?)
