(Random guy's POV)
From the dim, flickering fluorescent lights of the adult manga section, I moved like a shadow between the towering shelves. The air smelled of old paper, plastic wrap, and something faintly chemical—probably the ink or the laminate on the covers. My heart hammered every time I heard footsteps in the next aisle; I kept my head low, hoodie up, pretending to browse "mainstream" titles while my eyes scanned for that one specific bundle.
I'd been searching for almost a full hour. My calves ached from crouching, my fingers were dusty from sliding spines aside, and my phone battery was down to six percent from using the flashlight in the darker corners. Then—finally—there it was, tucked behind a stack of lesser-known anthologies: "Fuming Futas on My Bed – Complete Collector's Bundle (Vol. 1–3)". The cover art alone made my throat tighten. I snatched it, paid in cash at the self-checkout so the clerk wouldn't look at my face, and practically jogged out of the store with the plastic bag crinkling against my thigh.
The walk home felt endless. Every red light, every slow pedestrian, every honking auto-rickshaw grated on my nerves. When I finally slammed my room door shut and turned the key twice, the click of the lock sounded like salvation. I dumped the bundle on the bed, tore the shrink-wrap with shaking fingers, and the familiar glossy covers spilled out. Volume 1 stared up at me—muscular thighs, flushed skin tones, that signature angry vein art-style I'd jerked off to in low-res scans for years.
I didn't bother taking off my shoes. I just dropped my pants to my ankles, sat on the edge of the mattress, and opened the first page. Left hand flipping, right hand already wrapped tight. The panels were better than I remembered: sweat beads drawn with surgical precision, dialogue balloons bursting with profanity-laced dirty talk, every thrust line exaggerated to the point of absurdity. My breathing turned ragged within minutes. The room filled with the wet, rhythmic sound of skin on skin and the occasional creak of the bedframe.
An hour passed in a haze. Page after page. Orgasm after orgasm. By the seventh time I was shaking, thighs trembling, lower stomach cramping from the relentless clenching. Semen had dried in sticky streaks across my knuckles and the inside of my wrist. Volume 1 lay open on the last spread—two full-page splashes of climactic excess. I was spent, euphoric, disgusting, and still stupidly horny.
I reached for the moisturizer bottle on the nightstand. Empty. Not even a sad little droplet left when I squeezed. A groan escaped me. Pants yanked back up (no underwear—too much hassle), shoes slipped on, and I shuffled out into the humid evening air toward the 24/7 convenience store two streets away. The fluorescent sign buzzed like dying insects. Inside, the AC was set too cold; goosebumps rose on my arms as I grabbed five family-size bottles of the cheapest moisturizer and five giant boxes of tissues. The cashier didn't even blink. I paid, stuffed everything into two straining plastic bags, and hurried home before anyone could recognize me.
Back in the room. Door locked. Bags dumped. I didn't even change—just collapsed face-down on the sheets that already smelled like me and fell into a heavy, dreamless sleep.
Morning came too soon. Alarm off, eyes crusty, morning wood painful. Routine pulled me upward anyway. I grabbed the binoculars from the drawer, climbed the rusty ladder to the rooftop, and crouched behind the water tank. Thirty minutes of perfect timing: my neighbor—the tall one with the unmistakable silhouette—stepped into her open-air bathroom. Steam rose, water glistened on skin that definitely wasn't entirely feminine in the ways most people expected. I adjusted focus, held my breath, memorized every movement like it was scripture
Downstairs again. Coffee skipped. Pants down. Volume 2 open. The gooning resumed—slower this time, savoring. Panels blurred together; my wrist burned. Eventually exhaustion won. I passed out mid-page, book still tented over my crotch.
Next day, same ritual. Rooftop vigil. Thirty minutes of stolen glances. Back down. Volume 3 selected. I cracked it open eagerly—
—and froze.
Rom-com. Bright pastel tones. Blushing schoolgirls. Sparkly eyes. Speech bubbles full of "kyaa~" and "baka!". Not a single bulge, not a drop of sweat that wasn't from PE class embarrassment. The genre I hated most in the entire world.
Rage surged. I hurled the book with all my strength. It sailed out the open window in a perfect arc, pages fluttering like wounded birds.
A dull, meaty thud echoed from the street below.
leaned out. A guy lay face-down on the asphalt, arms splayed, unmoving. A black cat sat on his shoulder—had been sitting there—now crouched low, fur bristling. Blood was already pooling under the stranger's cheek. The book lay beside him, spine cracked open to a chaste confession scene.
Panic clawed up my throat. I stumbled downstairs, barefoot, heart in my mouth. When I reached him he wasn't breathing. No pulse. Nothing. Just glassy eyes staring at cracked concrete.
The cat yowled—a sound like tearing metal—and launched itself at my face. Claws raked my cheek; I screamed, grabbed it by the scruff, and in blind terror flung it toward the road.
A truck roared past at that exact second. Tires screeched too late. Another wet crunch. The cat's body tumbled, limp, into the gutter.
For a heartbeat the world was silent except for my own hyperventilating.
Then everything tilted, colors inverted, gravity reversed. A blinding white light swallowed the street, the blood, the manga, the dead man, the dead cat, and me.
We were gone.