#onedayk - Friday, Feb 5, 2016
theme: random strain powers

Note: NSFW. Masturbation. I'm deeply sorry. Part of the blame for this one goes to Maru, though.


"Goddamn blues!" The strain swore as Fushimi swung his sword, just managing to avoid the surge of blue aura. "Fuck you!"

"No thanks," Fushimi muttered, vaguely irritated with the unexpected combat. It was tiresome to be rounding up strains and rehabilitating them, but he wasn't sure if having one of the random ones who still had powers fight back was any better. He clicked his tongue, keeping a cautious distance as the man darted to the side, and quickly cut off that line of escape with another burst of blue aura, herding his target into the only route left to him - down the narrow alley to the left.

The strain landed in a crouch, glaring back at Fushimi with hateful resentment as he positioned himself at the head of the alley. Here it was - backed into a corner, this guy would no doubt attempt to make use of what power he happened to have left. Backup was probably already on the way in case Fushimi happened to need it, which was possible considering the weakened state of his own powers, but if he could take this one alone it would save him some headaches.

This is just giving me more paperwork to do. Fushimi clicked his tongue, gazing steadily at his opponent as he sheathed his sword, deliberately letting a pair of his daggers drop into his palms instead. "It's too early in the day for this," he muttered, and then raised his voice slightly. "You'd save us a lot of time and energy by giving up already."

Predictably, the man smirked back at him, and Fushimi internally sighed, readying himself. "Hah! You'll regret this, blue, just... wait!"

The lunge came as expected, and Fushimi dodged, letting his knives fly to drive the strain back into the corner, but the man changed course instead and dove for him, unexpectedly fast. Even as he evaded the second attack, fingers grazed his elbow, and the world abruptly seemed to drop out from under his feet.


The strain's ability was -

Fushimi's awareness jarred back abruptly, his head reeling with momentary disorientation, but he barely had time to make note of that. Hot, urgent pleasure spiked in his lower body - a semi-familiar but unusually intense rush of sensation and that telltale tension in his crotch that marked impending orgasm. He was gripping his own dick, fingers still moving involuntarily, and it was hard and slick, pre-cum leaking from the head, as if he'd been at this for a while.


Even around the confusion, his body seemed to want to move on instinct, too close to climax to process Fushimi's shock. Rational thought was firmly shunted off to the side, and without thinking, he fisted the shaft and stroked it firmly, eyes squeezing shut and a half-gasping moan tearing its way out of his throat. It didn't even sound like him, a thought he was barely aware of as heat and urgency clouded his brain and he began to work himself over furiously. It only took a few frenzied strokes and then his body tipped over the edge, shaking and overwhelmed as pleasure wracked through him and he spilled all over his hand, the unexpected climax catching his already splintered mind off-guard.

It was only in the aftermath, as his body cooled and the shivering stopped, that he began to notice everything else that was wrong about this situation.

He was sitting on something soft, legs loosely splayed in front of him with his underwear tugged down to his knees, and back against a wall. There was the feeling of loose fabric draped over his chest and stomach but with his arms and shoulders curiously free. The air was still and sweltering, and the only sound was his own labored breathing.

Where am I?

More importantly, why was he thrust - metaphorically - into the middle of such an embarrassing act? Fushimi clicked his tongue. What an irritating power to get hit with. He slid his eyes open slowly - warily - to take in his surroundings. His vision was surprisingly clear, considering he couldn't feel the weight of his glasses on his nose.

The room he was sitting in was unfamiliar, but it looked like somebody's bedroom in some cheap apartment. The futon he was sitting on took up almost the entire floor space, which didn't particularly matter, because the only other thing in the room seemed to be the laundry basket in the corner and the haphazardly folded clothing beside it.

More importantly, though, was the hand held up loosely in front of him. A hand that didn't look like his, holding a picture.

A picture of him, in fact.

... What.

His gaze darted down to his body - shorter than expected, clad in a black tank top and red boxer shorts. The hand still loosely holding his softening cock was familiar but definitely not his, the skin a shade or so darker and the fingers smaller.

Now that he was at it, that probably wasn't his dick, either.

Fushimi brought up both hands, the left one grasping the picture and the right coated in sticky white fluid, and regarded them flatly. The familiar watch on the left wrist clicked everything into place all at once, and he abruptly remembered the power of the strain he'd been attempting to subdue.

Switching bodies with the person most important to you, huh?

Which meant... the person whose bed he was currently sitting on and whose come was all over his hand was...

A tremor was starting in this borrowed body; Fushimi resisted the urge to look down again, though his memory was sure to keep him informed of exactly what Misaki's dick looked like from this angle. He wasn't entirely sure if he wanted that visual in his head. It was likely to lead to some kind of repeat performance once he was back in his own body, but he didn't think it would be helpful to focus on that right at the moment.

Taking stock of the exact situation...

First, he was in Misaki's body, which was conveniently alone in his apartment (thankfully).

Second, he'd arrived in mid jerkoff, which was... irritating (and also arousing in a way he didn't want to consider - it was a struggle to force his brain off the topic of how Misaki's dick had felt in his hand and the way the sensations running through Misaki's body had been subtly different from when he did this to himself - among various other things that would likely all be haunting him later).

Third, this meant that Misaki was in his body, which was either a disaster or extremely bad luck for that strain, depending on how the situation played out. He could probably expect to get some kind of furious, panicked phone call any second, now that he thought about it.

Finally... that was unmistakeably a picture of himself in his borrowed body's left hand, which led to some obvious implications.

Fushimi stared at the image for a long moment, disbelief and something like bewilderment sweeping through him as he allowed that fact to sink in. Even his notoriously cynical mind couldn't come up with an alternate explanation, but it felt unreal. He finally lowered his hands, still a little dazed and distracted, noticing the box of tissue beside him for the first time. After taking a moment to clean his right hand, he pushed himself shakily to his feet, pulling Misaki's boxers up and deliberately avoiding looking at his crotch.

He didn't know how to deal with this realization, which meant it was going to have to wait.

His body - Misaki's body - felt tingly, corresponding directly to the confusing emotions that Fushimi was attempting to suppress. Or maybe it was an extended reaction to the earlier orgasm. Somehow, this body felt more sensitive than his; he was disturbingly aware of his own skin as fabric and fingers brushed over it. He had an unexpectedly strong and sudden urge to touch more places - experiment a bit, maybe find some of Misaki's soft spots - and ruthlessly pushed it down, clenching his teeth as he made his way towards the door.

How long is this supposed to last for, anyway?

The PDA on his wrist buzzed as he made his way into the main part of the apartment, and Fushimi clicked his tongue, taking note of his surroundings - his bare and notably poor surroundings - just enough to find the door leading into the washroom before accepting the expected call coming from his own PDA. "I hope you managed to take out that strain."

Misaki's voice sounded notably different from this perspective; it was distracting.

"Huh? This is Saruhiko, right?" Even without the fact that he was hearing his own voice from the outside, the amount of passionate urgency in the tone would have marked it as completely unfamiliar. "What the hell were you doing, fighting that kind of strain this early in the morning? D'you know how annoying that was?"

Don't talk to me about annoying... Fushimi frowned to himself, pushing into the tiny washroom and studying his reflection in the mirror with a kind of offhand fascination. "You didn't let him escape, did you?"

Misaki's frowning face stared back at him, lines of irritation and frustration around his eyes and in the set of his lips. His hair was disheveled, as if he'd only just woken up, and his face was flushed. It was kind of an appealing look, if Fushimi felt like admitting it. Which he didn't.

The face in the mirror stared back at him with wary eyes, flush deepening, and he mentally cursed himself.

I don't need this right now.

A sharp 'ch' came through the line in response to his earlier statement. "Of course I didn't, but that's not the point! Don't make me clean up your messes, jerk!"

Fushimi clicked his tongue again, watching the image in front of him scowl as his lips curved down and trying to ignore the surreal edge to this entire business. "What kind of mess do you think I had to deal with on your end, huh?"

There was a swift, audible intake of breath over the line. That, and the significant moment of silence that followed, spoke volumes.

"You forgot about that, huh?" Fushimi drawled out, falling into a mocking rhythm by default.

"Sh-shut up!" The edge of panic in that voice was obvious. Hopefully none of his co-workers were listening in. "It's not like I knew this was gonna happen! It's normal to do that - that kind of thing in your own home! Anyway, this is your fault in the first place!"

The dual meaning of that accusation struck him as suddenly and irrationally funny. My fault that we're in this awkward situation or my fault you were jerking off in the first place? Fushimi let that small bubble of laughter escape him, caught between disbelief and something close to hysteria.

This whole thing was just ridiculous, honestly.

"What's so funny?" Misaki demanded, sounding extremely put out.

"Nothing." Fushimi drew out the word, raising his gaze to watch Misaki smirk at him in the mirror and feeling morbidly fascinated with the disconnect that came with it. "That picture, though..."

There was a second of confused silence, and then an abrupt, loud, "AH!" came through the line - followed up almost immediately by a jumbled string of incoherent stuttering.

Somehow, that brought a real smile to his lips, and the sight of it reflected back on Misaki's face caused his heart to clench almost painfully. Fushimi swallowed, considering that tiny edge of discomfort and the obvious meaning behind it. He couldn't help it in the end, it seemed, but that was fine. Even in the middle of confusion and crippling uncertainty, the solid, unchanging reality of Misaki's importance in his life could still offer him some stability.

It's only fair. Fushimi shut his eyes, letting out a soft, almost resigned huff of breath. Since he's the one who causes these feelings in the first place.

"Shut up, idiot," he finally responded, not even minding the kind of exasperated fondness in the tone of Misaki's voice. "You're going to give my body a panic attack if you don't cut it out. Anyway, it's not like I mind."

"I'm not! I just - eh?" There was another brief, startled pause as Misaki evidently took the time to process the last statement. When he spoke again, there was a note of tentatively uncertainty in his - or rather, Fushimi's - voice. "W-wait. What did you just - ?"

It felt like too much of a push to come right out and say it. Fushimi settled for muttering, "Figure it out for yourself," and disconnected the call before he caught more than the beginning of a protest from the other side. At that point, his heart was already racing as if he was still fighting that strain, but he felt strangely exhilarated, and the smile that was already on his face widened just a bit more before he'd realized it.

Go ahead and chase after me again, Misaki.