Work Text:
11:59:00 PM
The room is dark. A fix-er-up laptop washes the small room in blue light. There’s a person there, too, with a few empty mugs and a bag of chips and abysmal posture and the sorts of circles under his eyes that would make for superb raccoon cosplay.
11:59:30 PM
He yawns, stretching his arms above his head and shrugging back into the couch. Maybe a nap wouldn’t hurt. He slips the glasses off his face.
12:00:00 AM
His housemate’s boxy old CRT TV coughs to life against the wall.
He shoves his glasses back on.
It pops, bzzt-zap-fizzes, drones while it warms up. The signal is all static. Strangely gold static that fills the room with noise. Barely, he can hear the click of a tape. The red light ticks on to record. Voices faintly make their way over the airwaves. They start far away, but get closer when a human silhouette begins to take shape on the screen. The conversation—if the strange sounds can be called that—gets caught up in the static warbling and becomes something unrecognizable. That is until the silhouette takes up the screen in full. It looks like it reaches over the camera, and then—
“—this? Are we? Oh, we’re live!” Long copper pigtails frame the most arresting set of brown eyes as they look directly into the camera. With a knowing smirk, she cups her boobs under her shirt and bounces them for the camera. Sparks fly, or are those real sparkles? Maybe they are real, live, glittering star sparkles. At least as real at the neon lights that materialize above her and cartoony hostage at her feet.
Oh, no, the hostage is most certainly real. Hands bound and gagged at her side is someone with close-cropped hair and a hat. With the way they are bound, their buttoned shirt pulls open across the chest like a cheap porno. Another look at the bouncy one and her decked-out miniskirt sailor top combo brings back memories of old pigtail posters in high school. Is that Risette? There’s no way that’s Risette. That would be weird, wouldn’t it? But then she giggles, and it sounds exactly like her old interviews and oh fuck. That’s Risette, that’s Risette making fuck-me eyes at an invisible audience. Holy shit.
Reaching out one hand, Risette pulls a rhinestone microphone from thin air and announces “Good evening, my dirty little viewers. Welcome to Rise’s Hot Stuff Extravaganza. We’re coming to you live from the wet and wild Island of Lesbos for the voyeuristic tease of a lifetime!” She turns her back to the camera, looks over one shoulder, and shakes her pleated ass until the camera pans down to it.
“That’s right, it’s Rise, no scandalous superstar idol in sight. Risette would never tie up her girlfriend and show her off on live TV, right sweetheart?” Rise holds the glittering microphone in her direction. The hostage nods emphatically and the camera zooms in on her wild eyes. “That would be sooooo naughty!” There’s that giggle again, the kind that launches a thousand ships and punches a thousand dicks.
“C’mon, honey, smile for the camera. You know I’m going to want to see it when we watch the recording later.” Rise winks at the camera, pink tongue poking out. In reply, the girlfriend flushes and squirms against her binds. The picture goes hazy with static for a moment, then the pair reappear centered and standing. With her back to the camera, Rise obscures her girlfriend’s form behind her own. Nothing can be done to hide the motion of her arms, her hands, suggesting sultry curves as they travel from shoulders to thigh. Her arms tense and snap up, slapping sounds echoing off the studio walls. The girlfriend yelps, gives a muffled cry when Rise squeezes. Her voice is deep and throaty in the exact opposite way of Rise’s clear calls. Rough. Uncontrolled.
Rise spins—truly and rightly spins on the ball of her foot in strappy mega heels—to face the camera. With a flick of her hips, she beckons the girlfriend to kneel in front of her, facing the camera gag and all. The woman is already shorter and Rise’s heels put her directly in line with the mini skirt. A dazzling smile and three buttons later, and Rise is tossing the outer layer of her top in at the camera. It lands at the girlfriend’s knees; her eyebrows shoot up.
Clad in a much tighter cropped shirt, Rise holds her microphone to the sky and yells, “It’s time for an encore. You wanted me to bare it all?” She places the microphone to her girlfriend’s mouth. It picks up muffled alarm. “You heard her, folks. After all these years I’m going to bare. It. All.” With her free hand, Rise slaps her own hip and mocks a scandalized gasp, exactly the kind of face that might go along with a leather led scolding.
Static overtakes the image now. Now? Fuck. Rise’s picture reforms sharply. It’s that moment that Rise lands an explosive kick, complete with sparkles, over her girlfriend’s head. Panning down, the camera centers on the inside of Rise’s model thighs and the flip of her skirt—upskirting, nice—only to catch the shocked look of the captive underneath her. When she completes her acrobatic ass-capade Rise puts her back to the camera and stares down that button-down shirt with the collar undone. Her next steps go like this: she spreads her legs wide, puts her hands above her head, tosses the microphone with a cartoon woosh and a blink on the horizon, and rocks her hips to and fro. Her remaining top goes flying across the studio. She unclasps her bra (lacy, orange, not-so-opaque) to the sounds of her exaggerated gasps. Rise moans like a professional when squeezing the cups over her boobs. Then the bra is discarded slowly, teasingly dropping on to her girlfriend’s knee. With the flip of a pigtail, Rise stares back at the camera and samples pinup poses like naughty calendar come to life. There’s the pout and the bit lip, the innocent gasp and a hand over her mouth, the subpar swoon. At the moment she winks, the camera zooms in once more to capture her wet, pink lips and glinting eyes. Yes, there’s more sparkles. Of course there’s more sparkles.
A desperate moan breaks Rise’s high-pitched whimpers and purrs. Surprise paints over her eyeliner and rouge, head snapping back to her girlfriend. There’s whispering too soft to be heard behind Rise’s bare back. Then her giggles fill the room once more, spreads her legs so that her captive’s gagged mouth smashes directly into her skirt. The kneeling woman pulls back with a red face, but her eyes stay fixed on the pleated hem dancing in her line of sight. Pep in her step helps Rise snap her legs back together with a cute little hop. Cute isn’t quite the right word for the way she yanks down her skirt’s zipper and squirms the tight waistline down her thin legs with the shake of her ass. Fuck, her panties are bright yellow. Tied on. Zooming low, the camera captures the thin fabric and the orange polka dots and the gap of her thighs and, oh, the tiniest jiggle at her hips. Even with a waist like a modeling agent’s wet dream, she has to have enough ass to fill a skirt. Just a little. Just enough.
Bent over, the camera stays close to the pull of her panties. Close enough that her shout of victory sounds misplaced. Then there are a new set of hands—short nails and white cuffed shirt—squeezing her ass, framing the shot. Rise hums, pleased. One of the hands immediately snakes between her legs. Pressing practiced fingers, Rise throws her head back with a halo of copper hair. “Naoto.” Finally, a name and a plea all in one. Naoto, the girlfriend-hostage at large, undoes the ties hiding Rise’s last unrecorded skin. The yellow fabric falls without ceremony. A performer would never allow that, though, and Rise takes the moment to shimmy from her hips to her chest with a brassy ta-da underscoring her celebration.
“Oh, Naoto! You keep me honest, baby.” She blows a kiss. With sparkles. “Here I am, world. Rise exposed at last!” A flick of her hips brings her back to the camera, striking a pose for all to see. The camera cuts to her feet in comically high heels, pans up slowly, dodges a barrage of pink shoujo bubbles, and lets the audience soak it in. Rise is thin and long in the way you’d see on billboards. Her legs easily take up half of Japan if she’d let them, all creamy and smooth. Neat, dark hair rests above her flushed pussy, thigh gap inviting viewers to imagine what might fill that space instead. Toned tummy and tiny waist, the way up to Rise’s boobs is no bad act of its own. But her chest, small and perky and pink beyond reason, is giving viewers everywhere a reason to give their hand the best kind of workout. Leaning into the attention, Rise twirls her fingers around one pigtail and stares back with half-lidded eyes.
Expect reports of mass fainting on the news tomorrow.
Naoto reaches around Rise’s leg, still gagged, and earns a smirk from her lover. Thwack! And Naoto’s suspenders leave her reeling where they snap against her half-open shirt. “Silly, don’t act like you won’t be enjoying the show later on.” Naoto protests. “You know I’m weak to you. You really do encourage aaall,” Rise tackles her girlfriend to the studio floor, “my bad habits.”
From there, the show finishes quickly. Rise rips open Natoto’s shirt and bra to reveal—woah where was she hiding those? Pants are unzipped and shoved below hips with more heft than Rise’s airbrushed look. Naoto’s briefs and pushed out of the way next. Straddling her with ease, Rise drags their hips together in perfect alignment. Her hair falls over her shoulders to brush against Naoto’s chest, undulating in time to their hips. Naoto arches to meet her every push, planting her booted feet to the floor to leverage the position. She jerks to the right, must be searching for just the spot when Rise gasps. Found it.
One more time, the screen blurs behind a wall of static. It doesn’t last long, but by the time it returns Rise and Naoto are displaying an excellent specimen of the beast with two backs. The camera pans over their frantic push and pull, lowering to the ground just in time to get full view of Rise’s blissful spank bank fuel of a whine. Naoto’s fingers are shoved between them. She has to wiggle her way half out of her sleeves to make the reach, but it doesn’t take a close up to show when she succeeds. Rise squeals seconds later, shoving her hips harder into Naoto’s touch and grinding gooey sounds between them. When Rise catches her breath canting against Natoto’s gagged gasps, she finally rips off the tie and lets Naoto’s cries echo. It doesn’t last long, and neither does Naoto. Rise hits her with a kiss wet enough to drench a nun’s panties, hitches their hips until Naoto collapses beneath her. Studio lighting does nothing to hide the wet spot on the floor.
Girlfriend on the ground with cartoon swirls for eyes, Rise makes a wide v with her fingers to show off everything wet and red between Naoto’s legs in a slow, slow drag. Naoto’s hands jump to cover her mouth and run into the gag. Neither does much to cover her moan. Like a trophy, Rise reaches behind her plops Naoto’s fallen hat between her pigtails.
Rise stalks up to the camera with a toothy grin. Sparkles in her eyes and sticky victory sign at her cheek, Rise chirps, “We’ll be right back once my lovely girlfriend can get it up again!” Then her tongue slides between the v, sucking up slick and mimicking a—
The studio is drowned out by the catchy jingle of a commercial break. Opulent script and hot pink curtains close over the women. Holy fuck. Holy fuck.
Static. The TV blips off. Silence. The electric kettle chimes from the kitchen, and the viewer exhales low and slow. Wide-eyed, he swallows and works up the nerve to speak.
“Souji?” his deep voice calls, glasses glinting to the blinking red pattern of the recording light. The tape is full. He hopes there’s more than static on—no, no he doesn’t. Shame on you. “Didn’t you say the Midnight Channel was done for?”
Silver bangs swish as Souji leans through the door, two steaming mugs of coffee in his hands.
“What!?”