"Another fucking email about some dumb shit" Kyoto muttered, pressing his forehead against the cold glass of his cubicle partition. Outside, rain streaked the skyscraper windows, blurring the city into gray smears. His spreadsheet glowed with endless rows of numbers that meant nothing, paid for a life that tasted like stale coffee and fluorescent lights. Thirty-two years old, and the highlight of his week was debating whether to microwave leftover pizza or order cheap Chinese again tonight.
His phone buzzed against the cheap laminate desk. A text lit up the screen: Hey stranger. Still owe me that taco date 😉. Kyoto's thumb hovered over the keyboard. It was Bianca—the one with hips that could start wars and a temper that actually had. Last month, she'd thrown a vodka tonic in his face at the bar because he'd glanced at the bartender's tattoo. But damn, that ass looked unreal in those tight jeans she wore.
He typed fast, grinning: Tacos? Thought you were craving something...spicier. My place. 8pm. Bring the hot sauce ;). The reply came instantly: Only if you're the main course, Kyoto. He chuckled. Classic Bianca. Unhinged, but the sex was like getting struck by lightning—terrifying and electric. He'd probably find his couch cushions rearranged again or his shower curtain missing. Worth it.
Outside, the rain thickened, turning the office windows into liquid mirrors reflecting the fluorescent hellscape. Kyoto leaned back, stretching until his spine cracked. Numbers blurred on his monitor. Fuck quarterly reports. Fuck spreadsheets. Tonight, he'd bury himself in something warm and wild, forget the beige walls and the boss's nasally voice. Bianca's nails would leave crescent moons on his back, her laugh sharp as broken glass. Crazy? Absolutely. But in this gray, ticking-clock life, crazy felt like color.
The sharp click of heels sliced through the office drone. Ms. Elara Vance stood beside his cubicle, arms crossed. Her pencil skirt hugged nonexistent hips, and her button-up strained—not over curves, but over collarbones sharp enough to cut glass. Kyoto's gaze flicked up. Thin wire-framed glasses perched on a nose wrinkled in disapproval. Her lips, pale pink and perpetually pursed, moved like she was chewing on lemon rinds. "Kyoto." Her voice was ice scraped thin. "The Henderson account. It's a disaster." She slapped a file onto his desk. Papers fluttered like dying birds. "You'll fix it. Tomorrow. Double shift."
Kyoto's grin didn't reach his eyes. "Double shift? Elara, sweetheart, I've got plans." He let his stare drift deliberately slow—down her flat chest, the fabric smooth as an ironing board, then back up to her furious eyes. "Important plans."
Elara's knuckles whitened where she gripped the cubicle wall. A flush crept up her neck, clashing with her frost-blonde hair. "Your plans," she hissed, leaning in so close he smelled her bitter coffee breath, "can rot. Finish this, or pack your desk." She spun away, heels stabbing the carpet. Kyoto watched her go, the sharp angles of her shoulders rigid. Flat as those damned papers, yeah. But something about the way her anger vibrated under all that starch… dangerous. Like a razor wrapped in silk.
He glanced at his phone. Bianca's latest text glowed: Can't wait to ruin you. Kyoto thumbed a reply, already tasting cheap tequila and regret. Tomorrow, he'd drown in spreadsheets. Tonight? He'd let that ass swallow him whole.
A shadow fell across his keyboard. Soft perfume—vanilla and something floral—drifted over the stale office air. Kyoto didn't look up. He knew that scent. Mariko from Accounting. Her voice was a hesitant murmur, like wind through rice paper. "Heading out, Kyoto. Have a good night."
Kyoto grunted, eyes still glued to his screen. Mariko lingered, shifting her weight. He caught the swell of her chest in his peripheral vision—those ridiculous, pillow-sized tits straining against a sensible beige cardigan. Christ, they looked like they could suffocate a man. Shame she was all whispers and downcast eyes. Kyoto preferred his women like his whiskey: loud and liable to burn his throat on the way down. He flicked a dismissive hand. "Yeah. Later."
She flinched, cheeks flushing pink, and scurried away. Kyoto watched her reflection warp in the rain-streaked window—the exaggerated sway of her hips, the frantic click of kitten heels. Maybe someday, when he was bored enough. Those tits deserved better than trembling hands and apologies. He'd pin her against a copy machine, make her scream. But not tonight. Tonight was for hurricanes.
Kyoto slammed his laptop shut. The Henderson file glared at him like a tombstone. Elara's spidery handwriting crawled across the cover page: UNACCEPTABLE. He shoved it into his drawer, the metal screeching. Outside, neon signs bled through the downpour—a wet, electric smear of pinks and greens. Kyoto grabbed his jacket, the leather creaking. He pictured Bianca waiting: barefoot in his doorway, hip cocked, eyes already dark with promises of chaos. He'd let her carve him open. Anything to feel something besides this fluorescent numbness.
The elevator doors slid shut, trapping him with the scent of cheap carpet cleaner and Mariko's fading vanilla. Kyoto leaned against the mirrored wall, watching his reflection smirk. Crazy bitches and spreadsheet hell.
Outside, rain needled his face as he crossed the slick parking lot. His beat-up Honda Civic waited under a flickering sodium lamp, looking as tired as he felt. He slid into the driver's seat, leather groaning under his weight. The engine coughed to life. Rain drummed the roof, thick and insistent. Kyoto gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white. Bianca. That ass. Like two perfect moons wrapped in denim, swaying with every step—a hypnotist's trick. He could already see her, straddling him later, those curves swallowing his cock whole while she laughed, wild and unhinged. Her nails digging into his shoulders, her teeth marking his throat. Worth every shattered picture frame.
His gaze drifted to the top floor of the office building. Elara's corner office glowed like a cold star. That tight-assed bitch with her razor-blade collarbones and poison-drip voice. Kyoto's jaw tightened. One day. One fucking day, he'd have her on her knees in that sterile office, those thin lips wrapped around him, begging. Not for mercy—for more. He knew how to break a woman like that. Slow. Relentless. Make her forget every clipped syllable until all she could scream was his name.
A horn blared behind him. Kyoto jerked the gearshift into drive, tires screeching on wet asphalt. Neon smeared across his windshield—liquor stores, pawn shops, the fluorescent glow of a 24-hour taco truck. Bianca's text burned in his mind: Can't wait to ruin you. Yeah. Ruin him. Drown him. Anything to feel the voltage of her chaos. He'd walk into work tomorrow smelling like her perfume and regret, Elara's disapproval be damned. The city blurred past, rain-lashed and indifferent. Tonight, he'd let the crazy swallow him whole.
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Headlights cut through the downpour, painting the dashboard in fleeting streaks of gold. Kyoto's fingers drummed the steering wheel to the thump of cheap hip-hop rattling his speakers. The rain drummed harder, like fists on the roof. At a red light, he stared at the distorted glow of a convenience store sign—a watery smear of neon green. His mind drifted, untethered from Bianca's hips and Elara's venom.
Back to sticky summer nights, sprawled on a basement couch that smelled like stale popcorn and dog. Two AM. The blue flicker of the TV painting shadows on the wall. Toonami's robotic voice promising adventure. Goku powering up, veins bulging, hair defying gravity. Kyoto's ten-year-old self vibrating with it—the raw, screaming yes of it all. He'd punch the air, whispering Kamehameha into the dark, imagining energy balls vaporizing math homework.
The light turned green. Kyoto accelerated, the Civic shuddering. Luffy. That rubber-limbed idiot grinning like the world was made of meat. Kyoto remembered betting his best friend Mikey five bucks Luffy would be Pirate King before they hit high school. Mikey'd laughed. "Dude, that show's gonna run forever." Kyoto hadn't believed him. Forever? Nothing lasted forever. Not summer vacation. Not his parents' marriage.
He flicked off the radio.
Silence, except for the rain's insistent hiss. One Piece was still fucking going. Luffy wasn't King yet. Probably never would be. Not in Kyoto's lifetime. The thought tasted sour, like old milk. What was the point of stretching forever if you never reached the damn finish line?
He pictured Goku's effortless swagger. Vegeta's scowling pride. Those guys didn't beg for scraps. They took. They fought gods. They got the girl—every girl. Bulma, Chi-Chi, Android 18… Kyoto snorted, swerving around a pothole. Yeah. He got girls too. Crazy ones. Ones who rearranged his furniture as performance art or tried to key his car because he smiled at a waitress. Not exactly princesses saving the universe.
He was no Super Saiyan. Just a spreadsheet jockey driving a shitbox Civic toward another night of beautiful, bruising madness. But for a heartbeat, under the sodium lights and the endless rain, Kyoto let himself want it—that impossible, cartoon blaze of glory. To be the one who laughed loudest, fought hardest, loved fiercest. The one who didn't just get the girl, but owned the whole damn sky.
A sudden flash of headlights blinded him—a truck roaring through the intersection, horn blaring. Kyoto slammed the brakes. The Civic fishtailed violently, tires screaming against the wet road. He wrestled the wheel, heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. The truck missed his bumper by inches, its red taillights vanishing into the downpour like angry eyes. Kyoto sat frozen, hands locked on the wheel, knuckles bone-white.
Rain lashed the windshield. The air inside the car felt thick, charged. Slowly, he unclenched his jaw. Crazy bitches. Spreadsheets. Near-death experiences. Just another Tuesday. He hit the gas again, pushing the Civic harder toward the promise of Bianca's chaos. The city swallowed him whole.
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The rain hammered Kyoto's windshield as he pulled into his apartment complex, tires crunching over wet gravel. He killed the engine, the sudden silence thick with the drumming downpour. Leaning back, he closed his eyes. Crazy bitches. His personal hall of fame flickered behind his eyelids like a neon slideshow.
There was Bianca, obviously—that ass like a gravity well, pulling him into orbit every damn time. He remembered her bent over his kitchen counter last winter, snow falling outside, her jeans peeled halfway down those hypnotic curves while she cursed because he'd run out of Sriracha. Pure, volatile magic.
Then Lucia. Christ, Lucia. Skin like polished obsidian and a libido that activated like a landmine at the worst possible moments. Kyoto grinned, recalling her pressing him against a supply closet door during the company's annual audit, whispering filth while Elara's shrill voice echoed down the hall. He'd nearly ripped the door off its hinges scrambling out, his tie askew, Lucia's laughter trailing him like smoke.
And Anya. Long, ink-black hair thick as ship rope. Kyoto's favorite handlebars. He pictured her riding him reverse-cowboy on his lumpy sofa, that waterfall of hair spilling over her shoulders onto his thighs. He'd gripped fistfuls, guiding her rhythm like reins, her moans sharp and musical. She'd left strands tangled in his fingers for days—silky souvenirs of conquest.
Good times. Messy, electric, occasionally terrifying times. Kyoto chuckled, the sound rough in the quiet car. Better than staring at spreadsheets until his eyes bled. Better than Elara's pinched face and Mariko's trembling sighs. He needed the voltage, the raw scrape of feeling alive. Crazy kept the numbness at bay.
He shoved the car door open, rain instantly soaking his shoulders. His apartment building loomed,a squat, brick rectangle glowing dully under security lights. Third floor. Light on. Bianca was already here. Kyoto took the stairs two at a time, the damp leather of his jacket squeaking with each stride. He could almost smell her perfume cutting through the wet concrete and mildew, something spicy and expensive, out of place in this crumbling hallway.
At his door, he paused. Music pulsed faintly from within—some throbbing electronic beat Bianca loved. Kyoto fumbled for his keys, a slow smile spreading. Time to let the hurricane in.
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The door swung open. Bianca leaned against the hallway wall opposite, bathed in the sickly yellow glow of the apartment's overhead bulb. She wore nothing but Kyoto's oversized Nirvana t-shirt, the hem brushing mid-thigh. Her bare legs were endless, smooth and powerful. A lazy smirk played on her lips as she pushed damp, violet-tipped hair from her face. "Took you long enough, salaryman," she purred, her voice thick like honey laced with bourbon. "Thought you got lost counting paperclips."
Kyoto shrugged off his soaked jacket, tossing it onto a nearby chair. "Traffic. Rain. Elara being her usual charming self." He stepped closer, drawn to the heat radiating off her, the faint scent of her skin cutting through the damp apartment air – cinnamon and danger.
Bianca's eyes, dark and glittering, tracked his movement. She didn't move, didn't reach for him. Instead, she tilted her head, feigning innocence. "Poor baby," she cooed, a finger tracing a slow, idle circle on her own collarbone. "Had a rough day? Want to... unwind?" Her gaze flicked meaningfully towards the living room. The TV was already on, casting flickering blue light across the worn carpet. The unmistakable, grating whine of a reality show host pierced the air. "You are not the father!" someone shrieked from the speakers.
Kyoto groaned inwardly. Reality TV. Or worse, the overwrought soaps Bianca occasionally craved – all fake tears and convoluted betrayals. He hated them. Despised the artificial drama. But Bianca... Bianca only subjected him to this particular brand of torture when she was playing a very specific game. When she wanted to wind him up tight, make him beg for the chaos she promised. It was foreplay, her own twisted version.
He moved into her space, crowding her against the wall. The cheap fabric of his t-shirt strained against her curves beneath it. "Unwind?" he echoed, his voice dropping low, rough. He traced the line of her jaw with a knuckle, feeling the faint tremor beneath her skin. "Thought you were bringing the hot sauce, Bianca. Not... this." He jerked his chin towards the blaring TV.
A genuine laugh, sharp and bright, escaped her. She pressed a palm flat against his chest, stopping him from closing the final inch. Her eyes held a challenge, pure electric mischief. "Patience, Kyoto," she murmured, her breath warm against his lips. "Maybe I'm in the mood for something... slower tonight. Something dramatic." Her other hand slid down, fingertips brushing the hem of the t-shirt, teasing the bare skin of her thigh. "We could watch... see how this custody battle plays out? Looks juicy." Her smile widened, predatory. "Or maybe that new soap? The one with the amnesia and the evil twin?" She leaned in, her lips brushing his earlobe, her whisper a hot promise wrapped in velvet. "Unless... you can convince me otherwise?"