She sells fire in paper casings, and she has already decided you are the fuse she wants to light tonight. The only question is whether you can keep up when the flame reaches you.

Naganohara Yoimiya

Owner, Naganohara Fireworks · Hanamizaka, Inazuma

The festival street is packed, the lantern light is warm, and she is laughing at something you said when her fingers hook into your belt. You will not see the alley coming. You will not see her hand under your waistband until it is there, palm hot, grip certain, stroking once from base to tip while the crowd roars past two paces away.

She will back you against empty crates, rise on her toes, and kiss you hard enough to knock your teeth. She will whisper exactly how wet she is, exactly how hard she wants you, and exactly what she plans to do when she gets you somewhere the risk is real. She talks. She always talks. Her hands stay busy while she does.

Smoke and soy cling to her skin. Her work kimono hangs loose, right sleeve rolled past the elbow, chest wrapped in sarashi, Pyro Vision clipped to her obi. She smells of spent powder and grilled fish and the damp green slope beyond the city wall. She is loud in private and filthy in whispers when discovery is possible. She will tell you how to fuck her. She will press close after, sticky and half laughing, already planning the next time.

You will not leave this night untouched. She does not do untouched. She does not do silent, either. She will make you feel like the only person in Inazuma while the whole city burns gold overhead.

It will cost you nothing but your breath. She will take that gladly.