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Waking up in a room that she still didn't quite remember had become so commonplace that it was almost familiar (again?) Ken Takakura posters that used to stare down at her in heart-throbbing stoicism had somehow been usurped by, of all things, alien and occult posters. Mothman? When had she ever believed in Mothman?!
These were the traces of a young woman that didn't exist anymore–with experience in the paranormal (for example, that Mummy dude just a few hours ago! Like, what the fuck?!) which current Momo was still grappling with.
She'd grappled with Okarun earlier, too. Takakura? There was something that he was keeping from her–that every one of her supposed “friends” were keeping from her.
It wasn't like she was ignorant of the soft fluttering sensation in her chest whenever the Dork Lord showed up, or how her stomach flipped when she grabbed on to him. Reaching for him felt as easy and natural as breathing, but she couldn't explain why. Her body just… reacted.
Physical touch was, well, problematic.
Momo thought she'd had it under control, but when he tried to get out of the fact that he'd definitely been stalking her, as soon as her fingers gripped the skin of his face she was transported into a fog of ghosts and delusion. Fragments of memories or dreams or–or whatever the fuck you wanna call ‘em flooding her brain and her stomach and making her queasy.
These hands had grasped his face before. Tenderly traced over the bridge of his nose while he was sleeping; no glasses covering his boyish, round features. And he had been so soft and pliant, eyelashes fluttering open to blearily reveal pools of brown–strong, dark coffee that could wake her up if only she'd let it.
It had been all too easy to allow anger and confusion to consume her instead, shoving aside the pieces that caught and scraped at her raw skin and focusing on making the dweeb admit it.
Obviously, they'd been very close. For some reason, when Takakura had been crying in her hold, she'd felt a powerful wave of shame. Even though he was being a stalker! Comfort sprang out of her mouth before she could think otherwise and he promised her that he'd find a way for them to be close again.
Some hidden part of her blushed and was thrilled. Stubbornly, she squashed it.
Then the Mummy guy showed up. And a–a freaking space whale?! Man, she didn't even want to get into that nonsense!
But there had been a moment, with Takakura’s arms wrapped around her shoulders, desperately trying to keep her from plunging into the inky nothingness—the fragments came racing back, sharp and dangerous.
His strong, thick fingertips clutched into the back of her sweater, hauling her closer to him as they interlocked. The breaths he expelled into her neck, frantic and strained–fuck, she'd felt that before, seen the sweat drip down his temple as his skin flushed above her. Weighing more than he looked, with her knees wrapped around his hips (strictly for safety reasons!), she could sense the whisper of memory brushing her temples, the familiar shift and grunt, a baritone moan rocking her to her fucking core–
‘Shut upppp,’ she groaned internally at herself, slapping pouting cheeks between her hands and pulling at her skin in frustration.
Whatever. They'd lived. Aliens were real, apparently? And herself and Okarun (Jiji said that she's the one who came up with that lame-ass nickname) were their primary targets. But then why was he so blasé about his injuries? Huge gouges crisscrossing his chest and shoulder, and that's not even taking into account the many scars that were present underneath.
Old burns on his torso and face, they damn near covered the entire bottom of his feet.
A huge slash across his back–like, from a sword? A fucking sword, dude?!
Most worrying of all, however, was the hand print of scar tissue on the center of his chest. It looked like it would fit her palm and fingers perfectly, and the color red coupled with raw terror zipped down her spine.
Flashes of said digits, turquoise painted and unmistakable, trailing along his naked chest, over the marks, over fresher purple bruising in the rough shape of a mouth—
Worse yet, he'd looked so at peace sitting at the table with her and Vamola (who insisted on calling her Sister–which was weird, but she was settling into it.)
As though he'd done it hundreds of times before, perhaps even daily. Like he belonged.
And maybe he had.
In the spare room, Momo found an old backpack with a dirty outfit inside. They were her baggy, oversized clothes but… they didn't smell like her closet or shampoo. Bitter, mineral tones of pencil lead, fresh ink pens, and the sharp chemical print of a glossy magazine floated aromatically from the pile as she pulled it out.
When she'd been wrapped around Takakura, holding him in place and concentrating her chi (which was also fucken weird, okay), also while burying her face into his shoulder blades and bracing–yeah, okay, he smelled like that.
Feeling like a creep, Momo plucked at the fabric, trying to fight the urge to pick it up and hold it to her nose. Er! Just to confirm, of course!
Ten very long seconds was enough time to ponder the potential merits and pitfalls of someone walking in and finding her huffing a boy’s used clothes.
She was basically alone. And in the spare room. Vamola was in the living area, watching Bakatono (out of habit?)
No one would know.
About to give in (‘holy shit, you’re a crazy bitch!’) Momo was spared the eternal indignity of having to deny that she ever came close to doing so when she noticed a thick, spiral bound book sticking out of the forgotten back pack.
If there was one thing she could be unrepentant about, it was being an incorrigible snoop.
Besides, they were supposed to be close, right? She’d probably seen it before. Yeah! Reassured by her own grandiose ego, Momo clutched the sketch pad to her chest and scuttled back to her room. Closing the door behind her, even going so far as to turn the lock silently into place, she sat upon the edge of her mattress to peruse her plunder.
The first page was a drawing of some kind of crab monster. It encouraged a surprised giggle to burble out of her mouth. What a dork. Totally obsessed.
Some landscapes–most notably the school roof and a view of the Shrine from beyond the Tori gate. Very well drawn, he had a knack for small details that really brought the scene to life. She could almost feel the wind flowing through the picture and into the paddy fields not pictured behind the viewpoint.
A close up of a large koi fish, surrounded by smaller fish of the same kind, in a tank somewhere that she didn’t recognize.
Still lifes; a pile of pencils on a desk, cloth draped over a can of bean paste with a flower on top. All too highbrow for her, she figured, but she could appreciate the careful crosshatching that made the linen look textured and real. Like she could touch it and revel in the warmth and soft scratch of rough fabric.
Oh, a drawing of a Maneki Neko. It was flipping off the viewer–kinda cute actually, even if the sight also made her unconsciously grit her teeth in annoyance. The cat was smoking, too. What a strange character. Maybe it was a store mascot?
One of those big-headed alien freaks that had attacked them earlier, standing next to a weird black and white creature with ginormous human lips and terrifying stalk eyes.
Her fingers stuttered and halted upon a portrait of herself.
Looking the same as she did every day in the mirror.
But the Momo in the picture (a total fucking stranger to her) was smiling at the artist–at Okarun. Waving at him with both hands and a thoughtfully shaded blush high on her cheeks.
Pencil lead. The breeze in her auburn hair. They had been on the roof of the school. Their spot? Takakura had been grumbling about how she was supposed to hold still, but grinned behind his sketchbook nonetheless—
Memory eluded her once more.
Sonofabitch.
Growling in frustration, Momo flipped slowly through the sketch book. The ink-haired boy must have drawn quite a lot in his spare time, there were so many to graze with mystified fingertips, wondering at what she was missing.
Jiji, making an absolutely awful face that brought a soft smile to her lips. They were friends again, sort of-she at least knew that she was fond of him and his antics.
That pink-haired skank that was supposed to be her friend (as if!) Dancing ballet and holding a pose. Her hair was much, much longer, though.
A Godzilla/accordion abomination that stood taller than an apartment complex. It was accompanied by several scribbles and diagrams depicting it as some sort of suit?
Vamola, whom Momo had already figured out must have been a foreign exchange student or something, pouring over a children’s beginner kanji book. Intense, studious, like she could fight the symbols and learn them that way.
The gloomy guy in the big jacket and glasses that had accompanied them back home from Shimane–he was wearing a weird mask.
And scattered throughout; oh, so many tiny, private moments reserved between Takakura and herself.
Momo, sitting in a chair, wearing one of her favorite outfits–the sun shone clearly via the shading, cutting over her between drawn blinds.
Momo, stuffing her face with noodles at her Granny’s table, the artist positioned beside her, like that was his place.
Momo, tiptoeing down a half wall on the sidewalk, arms stuck out to either side for balance as she concentrated.
Momo, ruffled and drowsy in her fucking bed, grasping the pillow beneath her and completely dead to the world–perfectly asleep and unaware that a boy was perched nearby, capturing her likeness. Perfectly comfortable with it?
Heart aching keenly at the hints of touch that coasted over her arms, her cheeks, and through her hair, with each turn of a page and every new pencil drawing, Momo felt tears come unbidden.
This was real. It had to be.
He was in her head, she could fucking smell him, could see the second pillow on her mattress and recognize that it had to belong to someone, or else why would she never use it!
Little hints scattered around her room; a set of artist’s pencils, a small alien plush (fuzzy and green) seated on her manga shelf that reminded her of the noise and chatter of an arcade, a hoodie that she’d never fucking seen before draped over one of her bean bags–the fact that there were two goddamn beanbags now!
A flash of the boy lounging on his stomach, comfortably flopped onto said bag. The ground rushed to meet her and suddenly she was curled, supine and boneless upon his strong shoulders. But not to attack him–not even to tease and tickle. The little hairs that curled at the back of his neck fluttered in her expelled breath. And she remembered what his skin tasted like, reliving the moment she pressed kisses into his freckles.
Takakura had been deeply involved in her life. He’d stayed in her home, slept in her bed, worn her clothes, eaten at their table—
God, if these visions were real… the honest, visible facts of his occupation of her personal space were almost proof enough, really.
Had they been… together?
Whatever they were, it was more than just friendship. Momo didn’t know what her friends fucking tasted like, or how utterly wrecked they sounded underneath her weight, or the shape of their mouths when they were begging her for more.
But she knew him. Somehow.
A polite knock sounded on her door and she startled so hard that the sketchbook nearly went sailing across her bedroom. It crashed noisily to the leopard print carpet near the bed while Momo had a mini panic attack and tried to get a hold of herself.
“Uhh,” she started, like a genius, “Y–yeah?”
Someone needed to call the Hugo Awards, because she was a goddamn wordsmith.
(How the fuck did she know about a literature award for science fiction and fantasy?)
“M–Miss Ayase,” that soft-spoken, yearning voice was back, and with it the whispers of devotion, flowing over her skin like an electrical current.
Shit. This was really the worst time he could have shown up.
“Uhm, Vamola let me in. I–I didn’t barge in, I–I would never–”
“What do you want,” Momo squeaked horrendously, suddenly aware of how close she’d moved to the door without even intending to. She also kinda sounded like a bitch, fuuuuccckkkk—
“Y–you seemed, er, I wanted to… to apologize,” he continued, undeterred by her bitchiness, “I–I–I was out of line earlier.”
Blushing, Momo leaned against the doorjamb, an aquamarine nail pinched between her teeth as she tried to chase the frog from her throat, “You’re damn right you were. Why would you go around demanding somethin’ like that in the first place, huh?”
Honestly, she couldn’t tell if she was trying to fluster him or actually digging for the truth.
“Uhh, i–if you open the door… I–I’ll tell you.”
That was a bad idea. She knew it–Momo recognized bad ideas because she’d had so many in her life.
Like the Tuna. Or being nasty to her Granny. Or treating Miko and Muko coldly just because they knew more about her missing memories than she did.
But the fragments of sensation didn't feel like a bad idea. They sluiced through her bloodstream, hot and intensifying with every stuttered breath that ghosted over the shell of her ear, with the phantom sensation of lips and fingers, just beyond hers.
Waiting for her.
Momo got the feeling that Takakura had always been the one waiting on her.
But today, he took the initiative–in a lot of fucking ways actually. Not just the aliens, but how he insisted that he was in love with her. How he begged and fought with Momo because she supposedly loved him in return.
Taking a deep breath and pasting a placid, disinterested look on her face, she grasped the doorknob, unlocked it, and slowly opened the door.
Those huge calf eyes were fixed on her, wide with surprise. A blush dusted Okarun’s cheeks and she could escort a hard swallow on its way down his throat with her gaze.
The boy squared his shoulders and balled his long, artist's fingers into fists, staring her straight in the eyes again, chin held high.
He was still a little shorter than her, though.
“I know you don't remember me yet, and that's,” he faltered momentarily, looking lost and scared before he visibly gripped his resolve once more, “Th–that's okay. I'll do whatever it takes to help you remember. I asked you out because I wanted to. Because I miss you, so fucking much, Momo. I miss dating you, kissing you, and carrying you.”
It was a lot, okay? Momo stepped back, shaking her head, though not in disbelief–just to try and shake the visions loose.
More fragments assailed her; her fingers leaving bruises on slim hips, the surge of power that flowed through her as she rode him, his lips against her most private place, whispering words of love and praise into her dripping cunt before he fucking bit her thigh—
But she'd been saving herself for a Ken Takakura that she hadn't met yet! “That–fuck, is that real?” Momo mumbled, sitting down heavily on the edge of her (their?) bed. She heard the door close.
The Takakura she knew was in front of her suddenly, on his knees while his hands shook above her legs, clearly desperate to touch her but holding himself back. “Are you–? Did you remem–let me prove it,” he breathed, “Please. Please, let me prove that I know you, that I was yours. That I will always be yours.”
Hand drifting to tangle with his–she needed to hold onto him, needed to anchor herself to this plane of existence–the shuddering intake of breath that rocked him etched itself into her heart.
“Thank you,” Takakura breathed, gently encompassing her fingers with both palms, pulling them close to his face. There wasn't much space between them to begin with, but when his chapped lips collided with her wrist, drifting soft as a psalm over her rapid pulse, her body trembled and inched forward searching for more contact.
Chaste kisses seared into her tender skin, and she could feel a throb in her abdomen when he groaned after a particularly lengthy connection.
Holy shit.
“Thank god, Momo. I thought I'd lost you,” he choked, marking a path down her forearm, sucking the sensitive flesh of her inner elbow and continuing wetly, delirious and with tears pooling in the corners of his soil-dark gaze, “I'll show you. I'm yours, I'm yours–”
Repeated affirmations of her claim over his whole being echoed as he moved torturously upward, to the thick pad of muscle (since when did she have anything but noodle limbs?) Momo nearly collapsed into his shaking arms. He was just so fucking expressive; she could feel the joy and sorrow radiating from him as he began to trail open mouthed kisses just beneath the sleeve of her baggy tee.
Whimpering, fuck, he was actually whimpering–like it was killing him to drink so slowly of her, but he held himself in check all the same. Each word was like an oath, a curse and a gift in turn.
Hers? Could he really belong to her? He obviously believed it.
Achingly, her body agreed. It remembered him; thighs shivered and fell open, wide enough for him to slot between (he could crash into her and she'd fucking welcome him on instinct alone, but he still waited on his knees in supplication), the rush of liquid arousal was sticky and obvious, even hidden in her panties, and her walls clenched on nothing.
Why was it so unfair?! Her other hand traced a well known path up his arm until it could thread familiarly in his baby-soft curls, the susurrus of his murmuring turning unintelligible as she automatically pulled on the locks.
“I love you. Momo, I've missed you so much,” he gasped, finally leaning in and twining his hands over her chubby waist. With heated lips at her neck, he pleaded with a woman that didn't exist anymore, “Can I kiss you? Please? Please, I wanna taste you–”
It broke the dam she’d built around her helpless anger and sorrow, her teeth closing on a sob as her own betraying hands remembered to slide around his shoulders–pulling him flush to her in an embrace, cradled between her thighs while her fingers gripped his shirt tightly.
Takakura's gorgeous, appreciative mouth ceased its trail up the column of her throat.
Momo felt like dog shit. He had to think this was a rejection; she cried, confused and distraught, into the crux of her elbow–her cheek pressed hard into his ink-black hair.
Hands moved, slow and firm over her spine, soothing circles left by his thumbs as he inhaled deeply. “Momo, wh–what’s wrong? D–did I, fuck, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have–”
“She's gone,” the bawling girl muttered, bitter and wretchedly, “The Momo you knew is gone, and I… I don't know how to get her baa-ack.”
Tears ran freely down her arm and face, but her body refused to relinquish its hold on him. So, she took his comfort, drowned in his familiar scent, and tried to lose herself in his embrace.
Compassionate shushing filtered through her curtain of hair; continuously murmured nonsense noises, a soothing and fuzzy warmth that Momo could latch on to while she cried out her frustrations.
“And Granny–sh–she’s in the hospital! I can't do, ah hahh, anyyyything to help her–”
“I don’t know what everyone–hic–wants from me–I don’t understand a–any of this!”
“Y–you’re just so nice an—an’ I keep being such a bitch–”
He interrupted her, pulling back just enough that he could rest his forehead against hers, ignoring the snot and the wetness of her cheeks to look into her eyes seriously and reassure her, “You’re not a bitch, Miss Ayase. You’re going through something unimaginable. And I’m so sorry that I… that I made it worse.”
Brows furrowed as she tried to pick apart what he was saying; it was difficult because she was sniffly and snotty and distracted by the way her hands moved comfortably to cup his cheeks, leaving her pinkies to feather affectionately upon his steady pulse. Okarun's eyes fell shut and he leaned into her hands like a touch-starved beast, lost and lonely and so, so grateful.
Instinct told her to kiss him stupid.
Her brain yelled at her that she was a blubbery mess.
As she dropped her hands (they went slowly, almost as if fighting her directives), Okarun let her put space between them, shifting back to rest on his heels and dragging his own digits across her stomach and off of her body with rigid, forced movements.
“Y–you… fuck, you didn’t,” god, if she could stop stammering and sniffling that would be great, “You didn't do anything–hic–I just, just…”
Solid, rough hands were on her knees, thumbs swirling absentmindedly as he listened attentively.
Fragments tore through her again, and her breath escaped in a shudder as she felt the sense memory of those same hands gripping her thighs, pulling and holding tight (so fucking tight!) Leveraging her not inconsiderable weight until she fell down, down to land upon the pillow of his eager, wet mouth.
“We were… together?” she warbled tentatively, her face crimson with a blush, “It's like—it’s like my, uhm, my body r–remembers you, but I can't–” Said memories coaxed her to lean into him, to simply ask this boy, because somewhere in her heart, she knew that he would never say no.
“Yes. We… W–we could be again. If you’ll let me try,” Takakura whispered, swore to her, the brown coffee of his eyes warming her like a bath she wanted to sink into.
A nod. That's all it took, and every line of tension in the boy released, his own wet eyes taking in her motions with clear affection as she grabbed her discarded sweater and wiped at her face.
“Okay,” Momo uttered, both afraid and excited by the desire and overwhelmed joy that flared in his gaze.
“Okay?” Takakura parroted.
Thinking, wondering if she should take the out. He’d respect it; it would devastate him, she intrinsically knew, but he would never hurt or disrespect her on purpose. Momo knew that much, at the very least.
“If you, uhm, can you tell me your name?” she asked meekly, looking at his hands as they crept up her knees with an agonizing slowness (just this side of the plush weight of her thighs.)
Hesitation, then a flick of his eyes to the ground, his gaze hidden by the black fringe of his messy hair.
“Uhhh,” he stalled, “Y–you won't, uh, like it. You didn't like it before. You’d, er, f–freak out if you heard it.” He did not look up after the quiet admission.
This seemed absolutely ridiculous to Momo. C’mon, who doesn't like a name enough to “freak out”?
Firmly grasping his wrists so he couldn't pull back, she leaned in and forced eye contact before attempting one more time, “Please? I–I need to know. It… it feels important.”
The gulp that slid down his throat was audible and he took a couple quick breaths before lifting his chin to mumble, “K-Ken. I'm Ken Takakura.”
There was no bolt of recognition, or sudden inspiration that would snap her memories back into place. But her heart ached keenly at the reminder, the new/old information settling into her like it had always belonged there.
And Momo wasn't surprised at all.
Of course, of fucking course he was named after her childhood crush. It felt like a destiny that she'd been running from for a long time, and as she finally fell to her knees it caught up and ensconced her in loving arms. It was pure relief.
Licking her lips, suddenly aware of just how dry her mouth was, Momo (feeling more secure in her sense of self than she had since waking up in Shimane) leaned closer–up to his fucking ear. Whispering, she felt the tremor run down his body and arms, the sharp spasm of his fingers gripping the meat of her thigh, “Please try… Ken?”
Coiled and waiting, her boy (because there was no denying that he was her boy anymore) snapped into action like a runner on his mark.
Flush against him, with his arms twisting memorably into the back of her tee, his lips crashed into hers, an unceasing wave of yearning traversing from his kiss and cementing itself in her bones.
Something inside her lit up, effused with sweet satisfaction, glorious and replete in the knowledge that this was part of her–that Ken Takakura was an important part of her life, of what made her Momo Ayase.
Opening her mouth, the moan that crawled out to rest lazily on his tongue sent one of his hands racing to cradle and clutch at the back of her neck. Okarun tilted up, craning his neck, sliding inside her like crossing an unseen finish line. The groan of victory that rumbled deep in his chest spurred her on, and she delved and savored.
“Been so long since I could kiss you for real,” he mumbled as they parted, fingers twined in her hair with one hand while the other held her close, a lithely muscled bar of iron that would not yield to distance.
Panting into his open mouth, she breathed, “Show me more. Ken, please. Show me more.”
Lips meeting, teeth nipping, Momo let the ghost sensations meld with the real ones; the way he sucked her tongue into his mouth was divine, his breathless whimper familiar as a friend, how he broke the kiss only to attack her neck had happened before, at least dozens of times in the past that she couldn't recall.
Fangs dragged over her sensitive skin, she wanted him to bite down, her pussy was dripping at the thought. Then he mouthed along the edge of her shirt collar, questioningly tugging at the hem. Gentle enough that she knew he was asking if she needed to stop.
Holy fuck, no. No, she needed him to keep going.
Momo grabbed the bottom of her tee and pulled it quickly over her head.
A sharp inhale cut between them and Ken's eyes fixed intently upon her bra; it was nothing special, and she was almost concerned that it was unsexy. But her heart recognized the glossy sheen of his gaze, the slow creep of his hands along her mostly bare back, plucking at the clasp of the undergarment knowingly.
Right, they'd done this many times. And based on how he'd moved closer so the hot gusts of air that burst from his mouth to her upper chest, on the way his jaw hung open, tongue flicking over impatient lips…
The boy that loved her didn't care about the trappings, only what was hidden beneath.
Feeling the cautious pinch of his strong fingers at the band of her bra, Momo moaned encouragingly, her own digits coming up to swerve through his thick hair, over his tender ears. Ken whined (which was a sound she was happy to devote to memory once more) and undid the clasp easily, riveted as the fabric fell down her upper arms enough to reveal her breasts and already pebbled nipples.
Carefully, his large hands (fuck, they were so big, no wonder her past self ended up falling for him–) followed the straps to her elbows, pulling them down and away as she released his scalp. But only for a moment, as soon as the undergarment fell free of her body, Momo's fingers wended through his hair again, pulling him closer.
Momo might not know how this was all supposed to go, but her body did. Her body was aching with want, empty and desperate for him. Images of his face, above her and utterly besotted as his fingers plunged rapidly in and out of her cunt left her shaking with unspoken need.
At the same time that she almost recalled the hot press of his tongue to her nipple, she got to re-experience it in resplendent fullness. With her head tilted and her back arched, Momo clutched him to her breast and he sucked the small peak all the way into his mouth.
Holy shit!
Gods, Ken was good at that. She gasped and her hips rolled into his torso, positioned as he was between her thighs, which were clamped firmly around him so he couldn't leave–couldn’t fall out of her reality again.
She could keep him this time, really. Would-she would hold on with everything she had, all of her potential.
His fingertips sunk into her love handles, as if she were his home port and he was about to become unmoored. When one of his hands wandered, she mewled–he knew just what she liked, exactly how to twist and fiddle and squeeze her nipple and breast with confidence.
Momo could only take so much teasing, the emptiness that she knew he could fill was hollow and wet and so, so wanting.
Physically hauling him off of her tit, she drew him up to crash their lips together, teeth clicking noisily, the sharp bloom of copper in her mouth, an old sensation–she didn’t care. Needed the closeness, needed him, needed so much fucking—
“More,” Momo moaned into his intense and searching kiss, glimpses of past kisses, past collisions, jumbling with the now. Her boy had risen on his knees, his interest obvious as something hard and twitching pulsed against her (god, right there–so close!), only the layers of his borrowed sweatpants and her short shorts between them. Fantastically, she ground herself against that distracting lump, sucking the skin of his neck in between her teeth as he threw his head back to groan.
Lengthy artist’s fingers pinched her muffin top, held her in place as he rutted twice into her. Holy shit, why the fuck were they wearing clothes?
“Ken, please,” she panted into his collarbone, hands deftly following instinctive paths down his abs (seriously, where had he been hiding all that muscle?) to dip past the elastic waistband of his sweats and boxers, boldly grasping his bouncing hardness with gentle, somehow experienced fingers.
The boy choked and bucked into the circle of her fingers, whimpers clawing out of his chest until he caught her wrist and eased attentive fingers away from his weeping cock. “N-no,” he struggled for breath, for sense between her thighs, “Wouldn’t be right. F-fuck!”
Shaking her head vigorously, the rising need and heat in her abdomen making her tense, almost irate as she was reduced to fucking begging, “Want you inside of me. Please, Ken. Show me how you touch me–need to know.”
Growling (at himself?), Takakura set his jaw and then opened his eyes, meeting her gaze with earthy determination and saying, “No. I want you so fucking much, Momo. It's been so long since... B–but you–shit, you don’t remember.”
Frustrated tears gathered behind disappointed eyelids, and she nearly shoved him back at the stinging rejection, but he held fast, moving to her ear instead.
“If I’m lucky enough to get the chance to have another first time with you,” he paused and nibbled the lobe of her ear, sighing at her moan, “Then I want to cherish it, Momo. I wanna make it perfect for you.”
Opening her mouth to argue, he cut her off again with another nip and continued, strained and rasping, “I can make you feel so good, babe. I won’t make love to you here–don’t have a c-condom, anyway,” stricken by lust and mad with greed, the girl nearly told him to fucking take her regardless, “Let me show you what you like. How you can use me to feel good? Let me taste you–fuuuckkk, I want you in my mouth.”
Nodding, her nose brushing his cheek as she practically nuzzled into him, Momo ground into his pulsing dick once more, for a few long, delicious moments, before he groaned and began dragging his teeth down her neck once again.
The slightest pressure, then a hickey. A wet, open-mouthed press of his chapped, kiss-swollen lips, followed by a sharp and possessive bite. Ken was the kind of boyfriend who liked to leave marks–but Momo got the feeling that she was no better on that front. She wanted to see him purple everywhere with the evidence of her affection.
If she thought that reaching her breasts would gentle that urge in him, Momo had never been more wrong. Leaving teeth indentations and mewls of agonized pleasure in the wake of his burning path down her body, Okarun proceeded to claim parts of her flesh, every few inches, another mark and another bone-rattling groan.
Why was she so into this? Fuck, she didn’t think she’d ever been so turned on in her life. Her new life, anyway. He knew exactly how much pressure to apply before it became too painful, when to soothe over the marks with his tongue, when to soften his touch and simply kiss her. Sparks were running up and down her spine, and she knew that he’d be making her cum before too much longer.
Strong fingers glided up the short legs of her pants, dipped around and under her sopping panties to stroke at her folds. His mouth lavished attention upon her puffy abdomen, and Momo was nearly insensate, hips rolling as she unconsciously pushed his head down further for more contact.
Inside, fuckfuck, she needed him inside one way or a-fucking-nother.
A chuckle rumbled, so deeply that she could feel it reverberate where he rested his head against her belly to look up adoringly at her. Devotion swam, plain and wonderful in his gaze, and she didn’t know how to hold all the feelings that lurked beneath the surface of her. Didn’t know what to do with them, only that they surely existed. And how did she ever misunderstand that when they had been in the same room, her eyes wandering to the space he took up, lonely and yearning?
Calloused fingers tugged at the waist of her bottoms from the goddamn inside, and they coasted so easily, so willingly down her long legs to the floor. Reverently, Ken slid his palms over her calves, teasingly around her kneecaps, and then firmly against the padding of her ample thighs. Holding her gaze, he stretched his hands wide (shitfuck, they covered the whole of her upper leg, and that was no small feat) and pushed into the plush, chubby tissue, spreading her before his open, panting mouth.
Momo had never seen a man look so hungry.
Yet he waited. Waiting on her once again.
“Yes,” she affirmed, scooting closer to his face, to the edge of her bed, desperate to relearn how he could make her feel, “Yes, gods, Ken.”
Pupils overtaking the freshly-tilled soil of his irises, the boy dove upon her sodden cunt with a fucking will.
Ohh! The first broad lick between her lips, hard and flat, dragging delightfully until it could swirl around her throbbing clit!
Godgod, fuck—he suckled the bundle of nerves so tenderly into his mouth, one hand inching down until he could-
!!!!
Fingers reached, two already, pumping within her pussy with no resistance at all. Momo was so fucking wet, and the sense memory of his bite upon her thighs, on her goddamn ass–she was being shoved to the edge of a cliff and dangled out over it by his strong, unrelenting grip.
So close, so friggin close!
More, just a little more—Ken!
Filthy sounds broke free of the curtain of noise between them (he was moaning with her, into her pussy), squelching and the slap of wet skin meeting filtered through her ear canals as Ken shoved his tongue inside her cunt beside two pistoning fingers.
Deliriously, Momo attempted to focus on his reaction. Her eyes kept shuttering closed, rolling in their sockets. It was difficult to draw herself out of the haze of god, keep going, but she finally managed it.
Ken’s eyes were slammed shut as he feasted upon her. Rapid gusts of breath escaped through his nose while he whimpered between thrusts of his thick digits inside her wet core. She noticed his arm moving oddly, quickly and rhythmically up and down, but where was his hand—?
Oh fuck. He was masturbating while eating her out.
Goddddd, that was so fucking hot. She wanted him to cum–wanted to feel it on her skin, wanted him to press it inside of her and unload, to coat her desperate pussy in his white, sticky spend until he had nothing left to give.
The squirming, smoldering pleasure that had been perched over the precipice of her orgasm slammed against her in waves. Stronger than a storm, Momo was dragged lovingly into the depths by his adoring hands and unyielding lips. Sensation wrapped around her in a pressure she couldn’t have prepared for, her chest felt like it was going to collapse in on her heartbeat as it galloped, wild and frenzied behind her ribs.
Words had erupted from her throat, garbled, completely unintelligible to Momo. Whatever it was, it caused him to renew his fervor, moving to suck hard at her stiffened clitoris and launching her into the center of another crest of incomprehension and warmth. There was a strangled, drawn out moan from beneath her as she pulled on the hair in her fists, and the boy shivered and jerked against her, but never stopped kissing and fingerfucking her.
Momo came back to herself gradually; the ropes that kept her body from floating out into the turquoise ocean were clutched tight by his firm and careful hands, and he was reeling her back to shore so gently. Letting her ride the smaller waves that lapped between them, he was there to gather up her flotsam and piece her back together again.
So, that was what love was like.
Someone waiting to hold you after you break, be it good or bad.
“You’re so… amazing, Momo-chan,” came the gravelly, utterly fucked out voice of Ken Takakura as she collapsed back to laze on the bed. Tugging tiredly on his hair, the boy who loved her took the offer and clambered up her body to flump onto the bed beside her, long arm reaching around to grab the tissue box on her nightstand.
As he wiped off his hand and cockhead (having clearly avoided most of the potential mess by cupping a palm over himself), Momo attempted to catch her breath. Her legs were boneless, arms reduced to jelly, but she still scooted closer and slung a leg over his naked hip after he threw the tissues into the little trash can with impressive aim. Must have slipped out of his sweats when she was lost to his actions.
Then his arms were around her, pulling her face into his hoodie as he ran his (clean) hand through her auburn tresses. Where she belonged.
The emotional release that came with her climax left little room between them for doubt, but it found Momo anyway.
“What… What if they never come back?” She whispered it into the fabric, willing him not to hear this stabbing fear, but wanting a response all the same.
Lips pressed softly into the crown of her head, and Ken assured her, “I’ll still be here.”
More tears, hopeful and relieved, pooled in her eyes and she murmured, “Promise?”
Another kiss landed in her hair, “I promise.”
It was enough. He could have stopped talking and fallen asleep with her, and those words would have been enough to get her through the uncertainty that lurked darkly in the corners of her confusion.
But when he kept speaking, the dam broke and Momo shook with the force of her gratitude, “I’ll be here. I’ll fall in love with you all over again, no matter who you are–we’ll figure it out together.”
“Thank you,” she sobbed, curled into a ball at his side, crushed by the embrace of his arms, until she could feel nothing but his love and affection.
Minutes passed like that, and when her breath evened to match his and her tears ceased, she was sure that he’d actually dozed off. Until he quietly asked, “Let me learn to love who you are now?”
Propping herself on one arm, Momo leaned up, her hair hiding their faces from view as she kissed him so tenderly, for what felt like hours.
“Yes, I will,” she swore, tilting his head into another kiss before asking, “Can you tell me how we met? How we fell in love?”
The softest smile slipped onto his face and he helped her reposition to lie over his heartbeat, the steady thump-thump-thump a soothing metronome and background to the timbre of his voice.
“I was reading a magazine, the best magazine in the world,” a giggle escaped Momo, knowing immediately that it would be the dorkiest, trashiest publication in Japan, “And some jerks were throwing paper at me. But then the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen stepped into the room…”