#hair plucking was harder. it was both for the satisfaction of pulling hairs but also the sensation

[bombz-n-bluntz]

Still hilarious that I looked twice my age till I joined ow

[justice4canyonmoon]

An Evening Off

Summary: Both Y/n and Harry have a rare night off. Y/n has relaxing plans for how they should spend it.

Notes: Howdy! This is probably the last fic I’m going to post for the next two weeks; I have finals for college next week, and I have a fuck ton of work this week because professors love to give students everything at once 🙃 Anyway, I came up with the very fluffy concept because I crave emotional intimacy, so I hope you like it!!!!

Warnings: cursing ig. otherwise just a lot of fluff and taking a bath together 🥰

WC: 1.9k

Y/n was feeling lonely.

Her boring ass office job didn’t produce too many friends for her. While the people she worked with weren’t the absolute worst, they were just, well, bland. Their lives were cookie-cutter. The closest thing any of them had experienced to a true adventure was a trip to IKEA. Her two best friends, Maria and José, were across the country, since she had moved from one coast to another to live with her boyfriend. Sure, she could FaceTime them, but it just wasn’t the same. And after the call, she knew she’d just be more lonely than before.

Harry wasn’t an option either. He was working, far too hard for her liking. She understood, of course; it was album crunch time. He had to make all of the last minute decisions: finalizing the tracklist, photoshoots, and touch-ups on the chosen tracks in the studio. But she missed him. The only times she saw him anymore was right before bed, when he would stumble into the room sleepily and kiss her forehead before going right to sleep. So yeah, she was a bit lonely. And being alone on her day off wasn’t exactly the plans she wanted to have.

Luckily, the universe decided to answer her pleas. At around 1:00, after she had finished up a late shower, her phone buzzed with a text from her beloved.

H: Hi, baby! The only thing we have left on the agenda today is touching up a couple of the album tracks, so I should be home a bit earlier :D If you’d like, I can pick up some dinner on the way home.

She couldn’t help the huge grin that spread across her face. For the first time in ages, the two of them could finally have some time together! Maybe she could do something nice for him! He had been working so hard lately, he deserved it. And honestly, she did, too. An idea popped into her head, and she threw open the bathroom closet, taking a look through her bath supplies. She grinned triumphantly as she pulled out a citrus bath bomb, knowing that Harry enjoyed the calming scent of orange and lemon. A nice bath would not only help Harry destress, but it would also be the perfect cure to the loneliness that was settling in her heart. She quickly texted Harry a reply as she set the bath bomb aside.

Y/n: Sorry about the wait, babe, was just taking a shower. Forgot to this morning lol

He answered pretty much right away, making her smile.

H: It’s okay, baby! No need for apologies :)

Y/n: Okay! I’m excited to actually get to spend some time with you! I could really go for curry, if you’re up for Indian takeout.

H: Curry sounds good to me! I’ll probably be home between 6 or 7! I have to go now, but I can’t wait to see you :) I love you so much!!!!

Y/n: Can’t wait to see you, either, Har!!! I love you, too 💕💕

“Baby, ‘m home!”

Y/n looked at the clock. It was 7:30, a bit later than what Harry had said through text, but still much earlier than usual. She leapt up from the couch and sprinted to the front door, tackling Harry in a hug. He laughed loudly and wound his free arm around her waist, not fully able to hug her back because of the takeout bag in his arms.

“Let me put the food down so I can give y’ a proper hug.”

She let go with a small pout on her face, which Harry promptly kissed off while setting the bag down. He then wrapped her in a tight, two-armed embrace. She melted at the contact, resting her head on his chest and hugging him back just as tightly. He leaned down and kissed the top of her head, then rested his head on top of hers.

“Miss you, Har,” she said, her speech slightly muffled from talking into his t-shirt.

She could feel him frown against her hair, “I miss y’ too, Y/n. The album should be done by the end of the month, and then ‘m all yours until tour starts.”

“Good. I was gonna break into the studio and steal you back myself if you weren’t done soon.”

He chuckled, “I don’ think Jeff would like that very much.”

“Fuck Jeff! I need you back here,” she scoffed.

“I certainly hope y’ don’ want t’ fuck Jeff.”

She rolled her eyes, “You’re annoying.”

He grinned cheekily, “But yet y’ still here.”

“Lord only knows why,” Y/n grumbled, though there was a smile on her face.

They pulled away reluctantly, both realizing how hungry they were. The two chowed down on chicken curry and naan while chatting about their day. Y/n spent most of her day off watching The Great British Bake-Off and snuggling with Daiquiri, their black lab. Harry had been putting the finishing touches on three of the album songs (“I can’ wait to play them f’ y’, baby”), and ranted about the traffic coming home (“I would’ve gotten home 45 minutes earlier, but the freeway was ridiculously clogged up!”). It was domestic in a way that Y/n never thought she would have, and she loved every second of it.

When everything from dinner was cleaned up, Y/n figured now was as good a time as any to reveal her plans for the rest of their evening.

“Hey, Har,” she paused, then continued when she heard his hum of acknowledgment, “would you want to take a bath with me?”

He raised an eyebrow, “Is this a ploy t’ get me naked?”

“No,” Y/n said bashfully, “I just thought it would be nice to take a bath together. I found a citrus bath bomb at the back of the closet, and I thought it would be relaxing for us.”

Harry’s eyes softened and he smiled gently at her, “That sounds perfect, love. Y’ too sweet.”

The two made their way to the bathroom, hand in hand. Y/n plucked the bath bomb from the closet and laid it in the tub, turning on the warm water. The water became a pastel shade of yellow, reflecting the lemony scent of the bath bomb. As she was checking the temperature, a pair of tattooed arms wrapped around her waist, and a kiss was pressed to her cheek. The heat radiating off of his body led her to believe that Harry had already rid himself of his clothes. When she turned around, her suspicions were confirmed.

“You work fast,” she commented, making a humming sound when the temperature was to her satisfaction.

“A bit,” he confirmed, leaning over to turn off the nozzle “just wanna take a bath with y’, love. Speaking of, let’s get those pesky clothes off of y’, shall we?”

Y/n nodded and Harry reached forward, almost reverently lifting her (his) sweatshirt over her head. She shimmied out of her leggings and removed her undergarments. She stepped into the bath first, gesturing for him to follow. He obeyed, and sat between her legs, resting his head on her shoulder. The two sat in silence for a while, basking in each other’s company. Y/n couldn’t remember a time where she had felt this at peace. But she also knew that Harry had forgotten to shower that morning since he was nearly late to the studio, so she reached over and grabbed some soap and a washcloth. She looked down at him and giggled softly when she realized he was almost asleep

“Wake up, baby,” she crooned, “let me wash you.”

“‘M awake,” he muttered, “promise.”

“Sure you are, that’s why your eyes are closed,” Y/n teased.

He only hummed in response, making her giggle again. She kissed his forehead and began washing him gently. The soft circles she was rubbing into his skin with the washcloth were soothing, and a sleepy smile made its way onto his face.

“‘Y always take such good care of me. Dunno how I got s’ lucky.”

Y/n felt her face grow warm as she reached for the shampoo, “I think I’m the lucky one. You always take care of me, too.”

She began rubbing the shampoo into his silky locks. Breathy gasps fell from his lips as she tugged lightly as his hair, working the shampoo into his curls.

“Feels s’ good,” he murmured.

“Glad you’re feeling good, Har,” Y/n replied in a hushed tone.

She rinsed his hair and repeated the process with the conditioner. By the time she had finished, Harry had fully fallen asleep on her shoulder. She cooed softly at how adorable he looked. He was like an angel; his long lashes were speckled with little water drops, his wet hair stuck to his forehead in an oddly endearing way, and a small smile was spread across his lips. He looked so relaxed in a way that Y/n hadn’t seen in a while. The bath helped her feel more at ease too; the monotonous motions of washing Harry made the stress from her job melt away, and the loneliness that had plagued her earlier in the day was washed away by the warm water. But she knew she had to wake Harry. She wasn’t quite strong enough to carry all six feet of him back to their bedroom.

Y/n gently jostled his shoulder and whispered, “Harry. Need you to wake up, baby.”

He groaned softly, making her giggle softly once more. His eyes slowly blinked open to reveal his jade irises, and he stumbled his way out of the tub, making her laugh a little harder as she followed. Y/n got out two towels and dried them both off, knowing that Harry was much too tired to do it on his own. She took his hand and walked toward their bedroom.

When they reached the bedroom, Y/n guided Harry to sit on the bed while she picked out sweats for both of them to wear to sleep (she knew that Harry had a particular fondness for when she wore his clothes to bed, so she got out his clothes for both of them). Harry pliantly moved his limbs as she clothed him, and watched her with moony eyes as she pulled on her own sleepwear.

“Look s’ pretty in m’ clothes, love,” he complimented, relishing in the shy smile that appeared on her face.

“Thank you, Har. Let’s get you to bed, okay?” she replied.

Y/n turned off the light and joined Harry on the bed. He was already lying on his side, so she wound her arms around his waist, resting her head between his shoulder blades. Usually, he was the big spoon, but with the whole mood they had set all night, it just felt right for her to be the one cuddling him. Y/n barely heard Harry mumble a “g’night. Love you,” before his breathing evened out. She smiled and closed her eyes, reflecting on the day. Just spending one evening with her boyfriend made her feel right as rain, and the loneliness that had once threatened to overtake her was totally gone. Though she had been taking care of him that night, he was also taking care of her. And sure, they were both going back to work tomorrow, but in two weeks, Harry would be done with the album and would be all hers. When sleep finally overtook her, all she had were the most pleasant of dreams.

[therealvalkyrie]

What Could’ve Been Without the War

Pairing/setting: Jean Kirschtein x Female!Reader, modern!AU within the Walls, set after the War; canon divergent w/ modern tech

Summary: You and Jean embark on your weekly trip to the grocery store.

Word Count: 2.2k

Warnings: equal parts angst and fluff, idiots to idiots, mutual pining, unsatisfying ending (i’m so sorry)

AN: Surprise Jean! I hope you are all having a wonderful Friday evening and that I don’t ruin it too much with angst. This piece started out as a super fluffy drabble involving grocery store shenanigans and kinda....uh....got away from me. Ahem. It was also originally intended as a 157 follower cool prime number thank you! I think we’re up to 180-something now, but we can still count it. Big thanks yet again to the love of my life @ghostlightprincess for her edits and encouragements:) Please come let me know what you think in my DMs/askbox/comments!!  ~valkyrie

Jean opens on the third knock on his apartment door, already shrugging on a jacket. He greets you with a short “hi” and receives the kiss you plant on his cheek out of habit.

“You ready?” You’re practically bouncing on the balls of your feet, car keys jingling off of the magenta key ring looped around your finger. It’s cute, and he finds himself matching your enthusiasm with a grin of his own.

“Almost,” he replies, reaching back to his coat rack to grab a scarf. “Honestly, I still don’t understand why you’re always so excited for the grocery store.”

He looks back to catch you rolling your eyes. “I don’t understand why you’re not. A grocery store is a magical place, with all of the cheesecake and ice cream you could ever wish for!”

He chuckles and joins you in the hallway, leaning down to lock his door behind him. “Need I remind you that you’re lactose intolerant?”

“That’s what Lactaid is for, stupid. Come on!” He lets you pull him down the hall, your small gloved hand in his big one. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Croft!” you greet his elderly neighbor as you pass her open door, sticking your head in with a wide smile. “You need anything from the store? Jean and I are just on our way.”

Jean stands beside you awkwardly, avoiding eye contact with his shrewd neighbor. You haven’t let go of his hand and he can feel a blush working its way up his neck. 

“No, that’s alright, honey, I just went this morning.”

“Okay! Well, let us know if you think of anything!”

“Thank you, dear.”

“Have a good afternoon, ma’am,” Jean chips in as you wave. 

“You kids have fun.”

The next second, you’re pulling him away again and he misses the way Mrs. Croft chuckles knowingly and looks back to her knitting. 

—

“What’s next on the list?” Your voice drifts down the aisle back to him, and Jean pauses in pushing the cart to shuffle the papers in his hands. 

“Umm… AP flour, vanilla extract,” shuffle, shuffle, “brown sugar, olive oil, yeast.”

You hum in acknowledgment and he watches as you flit from shelf to shelf, gathering items in your arms. He pushes the cart up to join you.

You dump everything in haphazardly, and he sighs, leaning down to straighten it all out into categories.

“What’s next?” You’re already halfway down the rest of the aisle again, gazing up longingly at the Oreos on the top shelf.

God, she’s cute.

He joins you, reaches up to pluck a pack of Double Stuf off of the shelf, and wordlessly places it in your section of the cart, suppressing a smile of his own as you grin up at him.

“You sure know how to treat a girl right, Jean-bo.” You reach up to ruffle his mullet. 

“Don’t call me that,” he grumbles, ducking away and flushing red like a smitten schoolboy. “Next is the frozen aisle.”

—

“Was it the lasagna that she liked last time? Or the shepherd’s pie?”

“The lasagna.” He accepts three frozen dinners as you pass them over from where you’re leaning past the glass freezer door.

“Hey,” he looks up sharply at your soft call to see you staring down the aisle like you’ve seen a ghost, hand still holding the glass door open. He follows your gaze and sees him just as you say, “It’s Erwin.”

It’s not, but Jean’s heart twists all the same at the resemblance the stranger carries. Same neatly parted blonde hair, broad shoulders. But he’s shorter, still has both arms. And he’s alive. 

“It’s not, sweetheart,” he murmurs, reaching to wrap an arm around your shoulders.

“It is, look he—” you insist until the man turns and instead of the Commander’s piercing blue gaze you’re met with brown eyes that flick between you and Jean in confusion. “Oh.” Your face falls and you allow the door to close, turning into Jean’s side.

“You alright?” He tilts his head to catch your expression. It’s pure pain, mouth twitching into a frown and eyes unfocused. Your hand comes up to grip the bottom of his jacket, and after a second he can see you physically force your face back to neutral. 

“Fine,” you nod. He knows you’re faking, that it’s a survival tactic, so he lets it go for now, only steps back to let you in between his body and the cart. 

“Up you go,” he prompts you to step up, feet on the bottom shelf and hands clutching the bar. He starts to push as you ride, walking first then running down the aisle until you finally throw your head back and laugh genuinely. 

He misses the exasperated look an employee gives him as the pair of you whizz past, too preoccupied with your smile.

—

“What do you need three dozen eggs for, anyway?” you ask incredulously, nevertheless opening each carton to inspect before handing them over. 

“They’re a good source of protein,” he defends. “Plus, you always end up running out and coming to me to complain. Ran me dry last time.”

Another playful eye roll. “It’s only ‘cause I messed up my brownies! And I needed them to entice the landlord to finally fix my heater.”

“Your heater’s been broken?”

“Well, it’s not anymore. Espresso brownies work wonders, I’ll have you know.”

You’re trying to brush it off as you normally do when he worries, but the thought of you shivering and blue-lipped keeps him pushing. “How long did you not have heat for? It’s February!”

“Not the point, Jean-bo!” You poke at his cheek and twirl away towards the cheese. 

“It definitely is the point. Come to me next time and I’ll fix it.”

“And lose my deposit?” You scoff, reaching for mozzarella. “Fat chance.”

“Freeze, then.”

You grin back at him. “Why d’you think I came over so much last weekend?”

“Is that all I am to you? A hot water bottle in your time of need?” He feigns hurt, but some pride swells in his chest that he kept you warm, after all. 

“And a cute one, at that. Think fast!”

His hand flashes up to catch the mozzarella you toss deftly. 

“You wound me.”

“Eh, builds character. What’s next?”

Shuffle, shuffle. “Wine and flowers.”

—

Jean watches as you bounce in the driver’s seat, hands almost dainty on the wheel, leaning forward to stare resolutely out the windshield at the darkening road. You’re singing along to some song he doesn’t know that’s playing from the stereo.

It’s so familiar, this Saturday evening ritual with you, and it wraps Jean up like the softest blanket. He knows why you’re always so excited about grocery shopping, and it’s not the cheesecake — it’s the way this routine has centered itself in both your lives. He feels it too, the semblance of normalcy, of domesticity, that you’ve cobbled together with him in between hard weeks and harder nights.

You navigate the bends and odd intersections of his old suburban neighborhood with ease, having driven to his house maybe thousands of times since you were teens. The elementary school passes, then the vet clinic, until finally, your old black sedan pulls into his mom’s driveway alongside her silver minivan.

You shift to neutral and yank on the parking brake habitually, then turn off the car and settle back into your seat.

You’re both quiet for a moment: you staring out the window lost in thought, Jean checking the time on his phone.

“Jean?”

“Hm?”

“Do you ever regret enlisting so young?” This catches his attention, turning sharply to look at your contemplative profile.

“Never. It was the right thing to do.” He’s resolute in this conviction, always. The War had seemed to be at its worst when you’d joined up, driven by the promise of Wall Maria’s reclamation and impassioned by your comrades’ fury. It had been the only choice, in his view.

“I do, sometimes,” you admit quietly, eyes downcast to where your fingers twist in your lap. “Maybe then my head wouldn’t be so messed up,” you laugh dryly and tap your temple, then shoot him a sideways glance. “And maybe—” you cut yourself off.

“Maybe what?”

“Never mind.” You’re out of the car so fast Jean almost questions if you moved at all. It reminds him of your natural grace on the ODM gear, how you’d whoop and holler as you hurtled past him among the trees during training. He wonders for a moment when your agility turned from a source of joy to an escape mechanism, then stops himself. He knows exactly when that happened.

—

The grocery store tulips thankfully survived their ordeal in the trunk of your car, bright against Ma Kirschtein’s tile kitchen backsplash as you arrange them in her favorite vase. After a minute of fussing, you take a step back, give a nod of satisfaction, and scoop up the trimmed stems off the counter. The rest of the groceries are already put away, organized so she can reach them without trouble.

It’s as you’re stepping on the trash can pedal to open its lid that the voices from the living room catch your ear. You pause, smiling as mother and son converse.

“Have you been eating enough, Jean-bo? You look so skinny….”

“Ma, I—”

“What am I saying, of course you haven’t. You’d waste away to nothing if you were left to your own devices. I’m so glad that darling girl is there to look after you.”

“Ma, she’s not my keeper—”

“When are you two getting married, again? I could’ve sworn I wrote it down in my book, but I looked the other day and couldn’t find the date anywhere.” She sounds serious. Confused, even, not a hint of teasing in her tone. Must be an off day. A symptom of her early-onset dementia.

“Ma, we’re not even together.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’ve been together since high school.” She’s so convinced, so sure, and you squeeze your eyes tight against the reality that you and Jean have only ever been friends. In the adolescent insecurity of high school, in the intensity of military training, in the fucking heat of battle, all you’ve ever shared is friendship.

“Ma, I don’t think… I don’t even think she—” He pauses and your ears strain in the silence to catch his last quiet phrase. “She doesn’t think of me that way.”

You just know, you can tell, he only says it like that to ease her confusion. It’s the opposite, really, he doesn’t think of you that way. Before you can hear more sideways rejection, you toss the flower stems and make a beeline for the bathroom.

—

“What was that movie you were telling me to watch, again?” You ask around a mouthful of spaghetti with sauce fresh from the jar, covering your mouth with one hand.

The pair of you are eating shoulder-to-shoulder on the floor of your apartment two floors above Jean’s. It’s got the decidedly better view out your picture window, complete with the perfect Eastern perspective of the river that cuts through Trost and its famous bridges. It’s this, the third leg of your traditional Saturday evenings together, that makes you feel the most warm.

Jean has the manners to chew and swallow before replying. “Once Upon a Time in Hollywood? Connie, Sasha, and I went to see it when they visited last month—”

Your snicker cuts him off and he raises his eyebrows as you roll your eyes and take a sip of wine. “The feet movie? Sasha said it was pretentious.”

“Really? I thought she was too preoccupied with the fact that the theater sold chili fries to pay attention.” He teases back, twirling more pasta onto his fork.

“I’m telling her you said that,” you warn with a jab of your own fork in his direction.

“Snitch.”

“Hey!”

He ducks to avoid your swat to the back of his head, grinning at your pout. “No, but seriously, apart from the feet it’s a good movie.”

“Hmm. I’ll consider putting it on the roster for next week.”

You take a moment to relish the comfortable silence, looking out at the city lights as you chew thoughtfully. His thigh is heavy and warm against yours under the thick knitted blanket his mom gave you last Yule. Your belly is warm and full, your shoulders relaxed in the company of your closest friend, your lungs breathing easily.

Jean says your name quietly and you turn to see him staring pensively down at the plate in his lap. “About what you asked earlier… in the car?”

You nod, eyes wide and mouth serious.

“Sometimes… I do regret it.” He grits the words out through his teeth, like it’s difficult to force the truth into the world. “Not because I regret what we did in the War. But because sometimes I wonder,” his eyes cut to yours for a split second, “I wonder what could’ve been. Without the War.”

You don’t say anything, don’t say you understand, because you know he knows. Instead, you loop your arm into his and lean your head against his shoulder. It takes a moment, a release of breath and the fall of his chest, but eventually he closes his eyes, turns his face into your hair, and allows himself to sink into the what could’ve been. Just for now.

[slashersins]

since it’s michael’s birthday today, how bout some birthday sex 😏

ya know what . okay . you’ll get your wish , but you’ll pay the price for it . michael is 63 today , so 63 year old michael is the michael who’s about to get his bones jumped . ( also i don’t like the fact that old man myers is balding bc he looks like loomis and that is not fun , so he’s just gonna have short messy grey hair , okay ? okay . he can keep the little scruffy beard though . ) now let’s get down and filthy with an old man . ( that sounded gross ,  but i am keeping it . )

since it’s michael’s birthday today, how bout some birthday sex 😏

the smell of cake is what woke him . the sound of light clatter filling silence of the house . the clock by the bed read four am . it was early . especially for you . he could just go back to sleep , wait until the sun peaked through the windows for him to fully wake , but the sweet scent of chocolate and sugar only grew the longer he stayed motionless staring at the door . even in his old age , michael could not resist the scent of baked goods . his sweet tooth screaming at him the same way his blood lust did . 

he didn’t bother with his mask . right now it wasn’t important . what was happening in the oven was . it didn’t take him long to make it to the kitchen , watching with mild interest , wanting to know what you’d made . wanting to know why . you’d tell him , you wouldn’t have a choice . but for now , the man stood there . silent and observant as you bustled around the kitchen , making a mess of flour and eggs and sugar . he could compare your messiness in the kitchen to his own when he had a more than excitable kill . 

it seemed you’d noticed the warpath left behind , the confectionery destruction . and you started to clean up . michael stayed still , like a statue . hidden in plain sight , unseen by you and yet so close . after the few years you’d spent together , your awareness of your surroundings didn’t seem to improve . was both an annoyance and amusement for the man . but right now was one of the times he was annoyed . especially when you took the mixing bowl and spoon , coated in thick batter , and carried it to the sink . 

not a moment later michael was behind you , one hand wrapped deadly tight around the wrist holding the bowl , the other plucking the spoon up an out of it to bring it to his lips . all done while pressed against you , leaning over you , trapping you between him and the sink . his intention was to devour the sweet prebaked batter . 

he ignored your squeak of shock at his appearance , too busy with the task at hand . but he did hear your laughter . the way you shook your head and called him a greedy old man . he didn’t care at the moment . the only thing that mattered was this cake batter finding a new home in his stomach . he only paused in his mission when he felt your lips against the stubble on his jaw . 

“ happy birthday , michael . ” ah . so that is what it was . he’d stopped keeping track years and years ago . it never really mattered much to him anyway . but part of his old , cold heart seemed to warm from your little offering of sweets made just for him . 

“ i’ll make all your favorites today . you’re my grumpy old boogeyman , and you deserve it . ” michael wanted to roll his eyes , but it’d be too much effort . so he settled for dropping the now lick cleaned spoon into the sink , taking the bowl from your hand and starting to scrap up what he could with thick fingers . his full focus seemed to be on ‘ cleaning ’ the bowl as he stood a bit away now , cradling it to his chest for better access . 

you flushed as you watched him . ever serious in concentration . devouring and sucking and licking on his fingers . you had to look away , to embarrassed by your own thoughts to do anything more than the dishes . michael seemed to notice . his gaze tearing a hole straight into your core . he knew . eating like this , all fingers and mouth and tongue , it did something too you . something just as delicious as a well baked cake . and he loved letting you hang there and suffer in silence . with a pop of his finger out of his mouth and a near , finger scrubbed , clean bowl , michael dropped the bowl into the sink , waitng for you to glance up and catch his eye . 

what you saw there was unmistakable . a hunger . a deep gnawing hunger . not for blood . not for the sweet treat currently baking in the over . it was something more dangerous . it was a hunger directed at you . a hunger michael came to know as lust . something that gave him the same sensation that gliding knife into the chest of some screaming victim gave him . so similar and yet so different . both ending with such satisfaction . and seeing how you had reacted to just the simplest of actions of him being close , he knew you felt it too . 

you nearly buckle under his stare . the intensity of it . you’re not sure what michael wants . if he’ll leave you hanging like this , or go through with some needy desire . it’s always a mystery with michael . and god if that mystery doesn’t keep you wrapped up in suspense . it’s hard to maintain eye contact , each time you look back at the older man he seems to be staring harder . you can’t take it , and bite your lip , looking anywhere but his eyes . 

“ you - you have some uh , some batter on your cheek . here , i’ll - ” it’s a bold move , but it also helps you understand what michael’s attentions are . if he lets you touch him , then he might be in the mood to do more . if he grabs you or pulls away , you might have crossed a line and that never ends well . surprisingly , michael only tilts his head downward so you can better reach . eyes boring holes into your soul as you gently wipe the brownie mix away with your thumb . 

you make another surprised yelp when his strong fingers grip your wrist , refusing to let go and unmovable . you open your mouth to apologize only for it to die on your lips when the older man pops your thumb into his mouth and licks the mix off .

he doesn’t release your hand , instead choosing to keep it in place between the two of you as he walks you back towards the sink . there is still plenty of thick , sticky brownie mix in the bowl , and michael has just discovered it tastes better when it’s mixed the salt of your skin . 

you have little choice , not that you were ever good at resisting michael , as he takes a knife and cuts through your shirt , ruining the fabric before stabbing the knife harshly into the cabinet by your head . his free fingers move to scoop the sweet mix from the bowl , painting your neck and collarbones with it . you want to squirm and snap and tell him to stop . it’s sticky and gross and now you need a shower , but then his mouth is on you . the roughness of his beard tickling your skin . 

the mouths at you . licking and spreading the mess around before sucking harshly , hard enough to leave marks as his teeth dig into you , making sure to clean you . you can’t stop the moan that leaves you , the way your legs start to shake and thighs rub together . your free hand fists into his shirt , holding onto him as you pant at the roughness of it all . 

“ mi - michael ! s - stop , we - we - i know it’s your birthday but maybe - ” there’s no arguing with him as michael forces a knee between his thighs . he may be older , but he wants , and it’s obvious how much he wants when he rocks his hips so hard into you that you make a pained noise when the counter cuts into your hip at the force of it . the feeling of him , hard and hot through his thin pajama bottoms making you whine . “ okay . okay . i’ll - yes . michael , just - ”

there’s no waiting when he swiftly turns you around , the fact he is still so strong after so many years making your head spin in a delightful way . the knife is pulled from the cabinet , leaving a splintered gash in the wood .  you feel the cold metal of the blade against your thigh . slowly and practiced as he pushes it under your shorts and then tugs , cutting through fabric and leaving you bare before him . the knife if returned to it’s previous place , michael pressing in to rub his thigh against your bare sex . 

you can’t help but moan , leaning forward as you wrap your arms around michael’s neck , fingers buried in his short grey hair . you haven’t gotten permission to move , but your hips rock on their own . and it seems that michael is fine with it , staying still and forcing you to do all the work , making you work yourself up into a needy mewling mess on his thigh .

but michael is needy , and starved , and enough is enough . he wants you . and you were right . it is his birthday . so why not take what he wants . you already said he deserves it , didn’t you ? 

fingers still wet with saliva and sticky , michael pressed against your entrance . you panted and squirmed in his hold , you wanted him to press inside , to stretch you open before ramming himself inside of you , but he wouldn’t move . he only gave you a blank look . he wanted you to fuck yourself on those his fingers . he wanted you to show him just how eager you were to please him . and god , if that didn’t make you moan as you rocked your hips , trying to sink down and take what you could .

it’s hard to keep rocking , and michael keeps so still , only his even breathing keeping you company as he watched you come undone . it’s your plea , michael’s name falling from your lips so sweetly , so needy , that has the older man pulling away only to get out his length and line his tip up . he doesn’t wait , as soon as he brushes against you he’s shoving in . fast and harsh , only to stop and savor the way your walls spasm at the sudden intrusion . at how your eyes scrunch up and your mouth opens into a silent scream . 

he stays still inside of you , and you think this might have been the nicest michael has ever been as you adjust to him . but that thought flies out the window when he pulls nearly all the way out only to swiftly thrust back in . there’s no holding back . it’s his birthday after all . and he wants to ruin you . he wants to thank you for the treat currently baking in the oven , this is the only way he can truly show you . 

his hands grip your hips harshly , nails digging into the soft flesh there . his mouth goes back to attacking your neck and shoulder , leaving near bloody marks in their wake . he’s panting , gritting his teeth to keep back the growls that threaten to spill out . the way you squeeze around him , the sobbed out moans that leave your lips and fill the air , the way you cling and whimper michael’s name like he was some deity you were praying to - all of it had him fucking you harder , faster .

you don’t last long . the stretch of michael and his break neck pace has you pushed over the edge faster than you’d hoped , but that predatory gaze in his eyes was just too much when mixed with his animalistic rutting . you can only cling to him , vision foggy and eyes watering as he keeps using you like a glorified cock sleeve . and finally , after michael has pushed you into a second overstimulated orgasm , he cums . 

he hovers over you , his chest heaving shoulder’s tense as he looks down at you . soon his hands leave your hips and he backs away , only to look at the oven and then back at you . you’re not sure what he is trying to tell you , too busy trying to stand up on legs made of jelly and a sweet soreness between your thighs . but then the timer goes off . 

you want to laugh , but doing so might upset michael , or worse might make you fall on the floor and laugh more , and you don’t want to burn your boogeyman’s cake . somehow you wobble over , taking the cake out and setting it on the table . you know michael doesn’t give a shit about frosting , and he doesn’t have the patience to let the treat cool . but you do have time to stick the birthday candles on .

you steal a kiss , going to sit in a chair when michael pulls you into your lap as you pass by . you smile at him , leaning in a kissing his bearded cheek when he takes his first bite . “ happy 63rd birthday , mr boogeyman . ”

[isis-astarte-diana]

strings to pull

Prompt: @thefourthdoctorsscarf​ wanted psychic link sex, with 49: “You’re going to come untouched, do you understand?”

Warnings: NSFW. Mind control, I guess. Is squirting a warning? Anyway, there’s a bit of that. It’s all very soft and enthusiastically consensual, just... for a change.

Word Count: 1564

NB: Yeah, I threw in some soft!domme!Missy and a needlessly painful psychic link, because... because I can, and you can’t stop me. also because this is very targeted

With your face buried in the crook of Missy’s neck, every breath is laced with her perfume. She cups the back of your head, her fingernails carving slow spirals under your hair, easing you through the final aftershocks of pain while they pulse through your temples. Her other hand works across your back, tracing the curves of shoulder blade and spine.

“Feeling better?” The question comes with a soft kiss to the side of your head and you nod against her shoulder, relaxing your death grip on her blouse. With gentle pressure at your nape she coaxes you back from your hiding place. Her fingers are cool and deft, stroking the hair away from your forehead, following the line of your jaw until they can curl beneath your chin and tilt your face to hers. One side of her mouth quirks upwards. “No more pain?”

The newly formed telepathic link throbs faintly behind your eyes, not quite a headache, not quite a high. You can feel Missy unfurling at the base of your skull.  She trickles down your spine, a wave of warm affection lapping at you from within even as her thumb sweeps the tears from your cheek. You smile back at her, a little dazed, and echo, “no more pain.”

“Good.” She presses her lips to your forehead, the tip of your nose, the damp skin of your cheek, leaving sticky pink marks behind her. The first kiss to your mouth is gentle. The second is less so, her tongue ticklish on your bottom lip. The third comes deep enough to steal a gasp from your throat, and she swallows it eagerly, her satisfaction pooling hot and fluid in your abdomen. You shift in her lap and breathe in the hum of her laughter.

My lovely girl.

Felt, more than heard, the words seem to come through the nape of your neck, a low reverberation that makes you shiver. She continues to run her fingers along the length of your spine, her nails etching red lines into your skin for her to tease later. It stings, just a bit. You’d quite like her to do it harder.

No sooner has the thought crossed your mind than your right shoulder comes alive with scalding pain. Five narrow stripes of heat appear in the wake of Missy’s hooked fingers and thumb, and you jerk in her arms, breaking the kiss with a cry. She smirks.

“Hard enough for you?” She arches a brow, but her fingertips stroke over the raised scratches, blunting the sting into a tingling warmth. You flush with embarrassment.

“I forget, sometimes,” you admit, relaxing under her touch. “That you can hear me like this.”

“Oh, poppet.” There’s a bright glimmer of mischief in her eyes, and her smile broadens, revealing teeth sharp enough to match it. She nuzzles at your nose. “I can do so much more than hear you.”

A sudden jolt of sensation through your breast takes you by surprise. You start, gasping, and Missy titters. Her arms tighten around you as the feeling comes again, stronger now, a spark of abrupt pleasure like the blunt edge of a thumbnail flicking across your nipple. It’s nothing particularly alarming, save for the fact that your bra remains fastened and both of her hands are still behind your back.

“Was that-?” The question dies in your throat, fading into a whimper when both nipples, this time, throb with twitching sensitivity. “Is that you?”

“Is what me?” She flutters her lashes and it happens again. Your breath hitches, hips rocking of their own accord, your grip tightening once more on the cotton of her blouse. Another flicker, and you whine indignantly. “Oh! That.” She pouts, all false modesty. “Well, yes, I have to admit, that was me.”

“How?” Again, and your voice comes as an awed and breathless laugh. “How are you doing that?”

Missy grins. She traces one of the scratches on your back with her fingernail, reigniting the burn there until you twitch away. “Really rather well, if I do say so myself.”

The next phantom touch rips a cry from your chest with such violence that your jaw falls slack. Whatever she’s doing, her focus is shifting; no longer limiting herself to teasing your breasts, you feel this pulse of sensation as acutely as if she’d run her finger through the seam of your labia to tap directly on your clitoris. Undone by the shock, you turn your face away, breathing hard.

“Ah, ah,” Missy chides, and turns your head back with a firm hand under your chin. Her face is bright with impish amusement. “Look at mummy.”

The words alone are powerful, but they come punctuated by another beat of pleasure, and you mewl pitifully. Once more, you roll your hips, seeking out friction from her thighs underneath you, finding very little. You’re throbbing, now, with desperation so deep that you’ve repositioned yourself before you even notice it. One arm is slung around her shoulders for support, freeing up your other hand to slip through the space between your bodies and make tangible the feelings she has you slave to.

In fact, you don’t realise you’re doing this until Missy catches your stray hand in hers.

“None of that,” she says, playfully, but you recognise a reprimand when you’re given one. She laces her fingers through yours. “You’re going to come untouched, dear.”

Another pulse, and your thighs twitch with the force of it, and your answering whine threatens to bring frustrated tears. You squeeze her hand, harder than strictly necessary, and fix her with pleading eyes. “I don’t know if I can,” you confess, voice trembling. She tuts.

“Yes, you can.” As if to prove her point, she plucks at your nerves again, pleasure thrumming in your breasts and your clitoris and clenching like a fist in your abdomen. She leans in to nip at the edge of your quivering jaw, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Let me show off, hmm? Just a wee bit.”

You might have answered, but the feeling comes twice more in quick succession, first stealing your breath and then making your whole body stiffen in her arms. The effortless building of an orgasm at the base of your spine is familiar enough; as is the way she resumes her careful irritation of the scratch marks on your back, teasing hot and cold pain from them. The only thing foreign to you is being pushed higher without her mouth or hand to rut against, leaving you riding the vacant space between her thighs and yours. You find yourself glad of the grounding hand in your own, squeezing rhythmically whenever another rush of sensation drags you under.

“I can feel you getting closer,” Missy whispers, her mouth close enough at your ear to make you shiver. “Shall we make it a good one, my dear?”

Before you have time to wonder what she means, the next wave hits you, deeper and sharper than the ones before. You twist in her embrace, yelping, caught off guard by the intensity. In the absence of touch you can feel the pulse of blood through your clitoris, the staccato twitch of muscle in your cunt. Every breath is a strained whimper.

“You’re shaking,” she observes, and scrapes a sore spot on your shoulder with her fingernail. Hanging over the edge by a thread like this, the sting sends light bursting behind your eyes. She hushes your cry. “Such a pretty thing. I could keep you like this for hours.”

“No!” It’s louder and harsher than you mean it to be, tears biting in your eyes at the thought. “Don’t, don’t, please, just-” 

Missy laughs, but she squeezes your hand gently. “Perhaps another time, hmm? For now,” and she pulls back a little, enough that she can meet your eyes. Her lips curl into something between snarl and simper. “I want to see you come apart.”

She bares her teeth; the thread snaps; you shatter like so much glass.

The climax comes deep, right in your brainstem, a shock to every nerve. Your voice breaks on a sobbing squeal. Your fingers lock vice-tight around hers, muscle bound on clenching muscle, the pulsing pressure of your orgasm untethered to any physical touch. Something bursts in the very depths of you. Your thighs are flooded, heat soaking through your underwear, no doubt staining the dark wool of Missy’s skirt. She coos with pleasure and presses a kiss to the corner of your panting mouth.

“Good girl,” she praises. Her fingertips soothe the inflamed ridges on your shoulder, and she stretches out languidly in the back of your mind, echoing again, good girl. You curl tighter into her chest. “Didn’t you make a lovely mess for me?”

Your face flushes at the words, and you shudder through another aftershock. The wet fabric of your knickers is cooling rapidly in the air. “I didn’t mean to,” you whisper into her blouse.

Missy hums. She guides your hand down between your legs, pressing your palm to the drenched cotton. You’re still sensitive, though not as raw as you would be if she’d touched you, and the pressure makes you twitch.

“I meant to.” She draws a fingernail over the material, teasing your flesh with it. “Let’s get you out of these wet things, and see if you can do it again.”

[slashersins-abandoned]

happy birthday

the smell of cake is what woke him . the sound of light clatter filling silence of the house . the clock by the bed read four am . it was early . especially for you . he could just go back to sleep , wait until the sun peaked through the windows for him to fully wake , but the sweet scent of chocolate and sugar only grew the longer he stayed motionless staring at the door . even in his old age , michael could not resist the scent of baked goods . his sweet tooth screaming at him the same way his blood lust did .

he didn’t bother with his mask . right now it wasn’t important . what was happening in the oven was . it didn’t take him long to make it to the kitchen , watching with mild interest , wanting to know what you’d made . wanting to know why . you’d tell him , you wouldn’t have a choice . but for now , the man stood there . silent and observant as you bustled around the kitchen , making a mess of flour and eggs and sugar . he could compare your messiness in the kitchen to his own when he had a more than excitable kill .

it seemed you’d noticed the warpath left behind , the confectionery destruction . and you started to clean up . michael stayed still , like a statue . hidden in plain sight , unseen by you and yet so close . after the few years you’d spent together , your awareness of your surroundings didn’t seem to improve . was both an annoyance and amusement for the man . but right now was one of the times he was annoyed . especially when you took the mixing bowl and spoon , coated in thick batter , and carried it to the sink .

not a moment later michael was behind you , one hand wrapped deadly tight around the wrist holding the bowl , the other plucking the spoon up an out of it to bring it to his lips . all done while pressed against you , leaning over you , trapping you between him and the sink . his intention was to devour the sweet prebaked batter .

he ignored your squeak of shock at his appearance , too busy with the task at hand . but he did hear your laughter . the way you shook your head and called him a greedy old man . he didn’t care at the moment . the only thing that mattered was this cake batter finding a new home in his stomach . he only paused in his mission when he felt your lips against the stubble on his jaw .

“ happy birthday , michael . ” ah . so that is what it was . he’d stopped keeping track years and years ago . it never really mattered much to him anyway . but part of his old , cold heart seemed to warm from your little offering of sweets made just for him .

“ i’ll make all your favorites today . you’re my grumpy old boogeyman , and you deserve it . ” michael wanted to roll his eyes , but it’d be too much effort . so he settled for dropping the now lick cleaned spoon into the sink , taking the bowl from your hand and starting to scrap up what he could with thick fingers . his full focus seemed to be on ‘ cleaning ’ the bowl as he stood a bit away now , cradling it to his chest for better access .

you flushed as you watched him . ever serious in concentration . devouring and sucking and licking on his fingers . you had to look away , to embarrassed by your own thoughts to do anything more than the dishes . michael seemed to notice . his gaze tearing a hole straight into your core . he knew . eating like this , all fingers and mouth and tongue , it did something too you . something just as delicious as a well baked cake . and he loved letting you hang there and suffer in silence . with a pop of his finger out of his mouth and a near , finger scrubbed , clean bowl , michael dropped the bowl into the sink , waitng for you to glance up and catch his eye .

what you saw there was unmistakable . a hunger . a deep gnawing hunger . not for blood . not for the sweet treat currently baking in the over . it was something more dangerous . it was a hunger directed at you . a hunger michael came to know as lust . something that gave him the same sensation that gliding knife into the chest of some screaming victim gave him . so similar and yet so different . both ending with such satisfaction . and seeing how you had reacted to just the simplest of actions of him being close , he knew you felt it too .

you nearly buckle under his stare . the intensity of it . you’re not sure what michael wants . if he’ll leave you hanging like this , or go through with some needy desire . it’s always a mystery with michael . and god if that mystery doesn’t keep you wrapped up in suspense . it’s hard to maintain eye contact , each time you look back at the older man he seems to be staring harder . you can’t take it , and bite your lip , looking anywhere but his eyes .

“ you - you have some uh , some batter on your cheek . here , i’ll - ” it’s a bold move , but it also helps you understand what michael’s attentions are . if he lets you touch him , then he might be in the mood to do more . if he grabs you or pulls away , you might have crossed a line and that never ends well . surprisingly , michael only tilts his head downward so you can better reach . eyes boring holes into your soul as you gently wipe the brownie mix away with your thumb .

you make another surprised yelp when his strong fingers grip your wrist , refusing to let go and unmovable . you open your mouth to apologize only for it to die on your lips when the older man pops your thumb into his mouth and licks the mix off .

he doesn’t release your hand , instead choosing to keep it in place between the two of you as he walks you back towards the sink . there is still plenty of thick , sticky brownie mix in the bowl , and michael has just discovered it tastes better when it’s mixed the salt of your skin .

you have little choice , not that you were ever good at resisting michael , as he takes a knife and cuts through your shirt , ruining the fabric before stabbing the knife harshly into the cabinet by your head . his free fingers move to scoop the sweet mix from the bowl , painting your neck and collarbones with it . you want to squirm and snap and tell him to stop . it’s sticky and gross and now you need a shower , but then his mouth is on you . the roughness of his beard tickling your skin .

the mouths at you . licking and spreading the mess around before sucking harshly , hard enough to leave marks as his teeth dig into you , making sure to clean you . you can’t stop the moan that leaves you , the way your legs start to shake and thighs rub together . your free hand fists into his shirt , holding onto him as you pant at the roughness of it all .

“ mi - michael ! s - stop , we - we - i know it’s your birthday but maybe - ” there’s no arguing with him as michael forces a knee between his thighs . he may be older , but he wants , and it’s obvious how much he wants when he rocks his hips so hard into you that you make a pained noise when the counter cuts into your hip at the force of it . the feeling of him , hard and hot through his thin pajama bottoms making you whine . “ okay . okay . i’ll - yes . michael , just - ”

there’s no waiting when he swiftly turns you around , the fact he is still so strong after so many years making your head spin in a delightful way . the knife is pulled from the cabinet , leaving a splintered gash in the wood .  you feel the cold metal of the blade against your thigh . slowly and practiced as he pushes it under your shorts and then tugs , cutting through fabric and leaving you bare before him . the knife if returned to it’s previous place , michael pressing in to rub his thigh against your bare sex .

you can’t help but moan , leaning forward as you wrap your arms around michael’s neck , fingers buried in his short grey hair . you haven’t gotten permission to move , but your hips rock on their own . and it seems that michael is fine with it , staying still and forcing you to do all the work , making you work yourself up into a needy mewling mess on his thigh .

but michael is needy , and starved , and enough is enough . he wants you . and you were right . it is his birthday . so why not take what he wants . you already said he deserves it , didn’t you ?

fingers still wet with saliva and sticky , michael pressed against your entrance . you panted and squirmed in his hold , you wanted him to press inside , to stretch you open before ramming himself inside of you , but he wouldn’t move . he only gave you a blank look . he wanted you to fuck yourself on those his fingers . he wanted you to show him just how eager you were to please him . and god , if that didn’t make you moan as you rocked your hips , trying to sink down and take what you could .

it’s hard to keep rocking , and michael keeps so still , only his even breathing keeping you company as he watched you come undone . it’s your plea , michael’s name falling from your lips so sweetly , so needy , that has the older man pulling away only to get out his length and line his tip up . he doesn’t wait , as soon as he brushes against you he’s shoving in . fast and harsh , only to stop and savor the way your walls spasm at the sudden intrusion . at how your eyes scrunch up and your mouth opens into a silent scream .

he stays still inside of you , and you think this might have been the nicest michael has ever been as you adjust to him . but that thought flies out the window when he pulls nearly all the way out only to swiftly thrust back in . there’s no holding back . it’s his birthday after all . and he wants to ruin you . he wants to thank you for the treat currently baking in the oven , this is the only way he can truly show you .

his hands grip your hips harshly , nails digging into the soft flesh there . his mouth goes back to attacking your neck and shoulder , leaving near bloody marks in their wake . he’s panting , gritting his teeth to keep back the growls that threaten to spill out . the way you squeeze around him , the sobbed out moans that leave your lips and fill the air , the way you cling and whimper michael’s name like he was some deity you were praying to - all of it had him fucking you harder , faster .

you don’t last long . the stretch of michael and his break neck pace has you pushed over the edge faster than you’d hoped , but that predatory gaze in his eyes was just too much when mixed with his animalistic rutting . you can only cling to him , vision foggy and eyes watering as he keeps using you like a glorified cock sleeve . and finally , after michael has pushed you into a second overstimulated orgasm , he cums .

he hovers over you , his chest heaving shoulder’s tense as he looks down at you . soon his hands leave your hips and he backs away , only to look at the oven and then back at you . you’re not sure what he is trying to tell you , too busy trying to stand up on legs made of jelly and a sweet soreness between your thighs . but then the timer goes off .

you want to laugh , but doing so might upset michael , or worse might make you fall on the floor and laugh more , and you don’t want to burn your boogeyman’s cake . somehow you wobble over , taking the cake out and setting it on the table . you know michael doesn’t give a shit about frosting , and he doesn’t have the patience to let the treat cool . but you do have time to stick the birthday candles on .

you steal a kiss , going to sit in a chair when michael pulls you into your lap as you pass by . you smile at him , leaning in a kissing his bearded cheek when he takes his first bite . “ happy 63rd birthday , mr boogeyman . ”

[immortalonus]

Where You Belong: Chapter One.

So in case you guys were wondering where I vanished off to, the answer is mostly work. This chapter also took way, way more brain power than I really intended, so I didn't really have the energy to post much else.

I could probably edit this more, but I swear if I spend one more hour editing this I will go insane, so here it is, chapter one of my first multi-chapter fic in, *checks calendar,* four years!?

Jeez, time really does fly, doesn't it?

Read on AO3

If I were Where I Would be, Then I Would be Where I Am not. But where I am, There I must be. And where I would be, I cannot.

-American Folk Poem.

________________________________________________________

As soon as Valerie had flown out of sight of Plasmius’ portal, she made a point to dump everything he had given her for the trip.

First, the communication devices. She had no desire to talk to anyone, much less the creepy, lying, traitorous ghost-thing masquerading as Vlad Masters. She gave the DALVco edition headset her best fast ball, taking no small satisfaction in watching it break piece by piece as it clattered against the frames of one floating door after another before finally vanishing into the mists below.

If Plasmius wanted to talk to her, he could crawl out of his portal and find her himself. Which he wasn’t going to do, because he had a cover to maintain. After all, what kind of delicate, elderly gentleman would throw himself into a dimension of rarified death? Not Mister Masters, oh no.

Especially not when he had a willing pawn to do it for him.

The more surreptitious listening devices went next. Fat, disgusting, bloated insects they were, bugs in function as much as form.And they were everywhere.

She found them wedged between her armor joints, the soles of her boots, in the crevices of her guns, and, after putting her systems through an intensive self-diagnostic, her hair.

When had he touched her hair?

She made a point to crush them all. Either plucking off the parasites directly, or, in the case of those lodged beneath her suit, pulling them into her storage unit and spitting them back out again into the open atmosphere where they could be destroyed.

She removed everything else Plasmius had given her immediately after: Several days worth of food, a large pop up tent, a sleeping bag, a map, several spare weapons, a well thumbed biography on Vince Lombardi and more spewed out of her storage units like a sickness, purged in gouts down to the waiting abyss.

Any thing he'd handled, all his supplies, every “present” he'd ever bestowed, she made a point to dump them all.

But God, when had he touched her hair?

Once she was finished, it felt almost like a victory. With no material proof of her obligations, it was easy to imagine she was already free.

She would finish this mission on her own. No outside aid, no puppet-masters, no regrets.

------------------------------------------

/Sorrysorry-soverysorry!/

“Shut up!”Valerie had regrets.

/sorrysorrysorry/

So many regrets.

“I said shut up, you stupid bug!”

She emphasized her point by kicking the target of her ire right in the soft parts of its creepy, eye studded thorax.

This was stupid, she was stupid, but more than anything, she was pissed.

Valerie took a few steps closer to her target, gait slightly uneven for the lack of both her usual boots. While she wasn't going to die anytime soon, as the black leather that fit snug as skin across her body, the true barrier against the toxic atmosphere of the Zone, remained fully intact, it didn't stop her from being mad about it.

The bug, which had finally stopped gibbering in that vile, hissing tongue that had become more and more common the deeper she ventured into the pea-soup hellscape otherwise known as the ghost zone, took the opportunity to cower against the calciferous outgrowth that had halted its pitiful attempt at flight from Valerie's relentless pursuit.

She had hunted ghosts stronger and faster than this every day back in Amity, and could not help the faint sensation of disgust that came over her at the sight of a figure so unexpectedly pathetic. Did she appear so weak that this creature, along with the half a dozen or so of its less successful, but no less kleptomaniacally inclined ilk see fit to prey upon her? Did she seem so low indeed, that even the meanest, most beggarly of the Zone's inhabitants should see her as some object to pilfer and mock?

It was the work of a moment to summon her laser cubes, pulling them from the pocket dimension from which they resided to slide noiselessly over to the insect lying prone before her. With a thought, they flew forward, two each to press down on the thing's chitinous skull, heightening the artificial glow of her suit as she did for that extra sense of intimidation.

It was an ability she'd never had the need for back on earth, only to find herself putting it to use with unhappy frequency not a day after she'd set off on her journey.

Everything in the realm of the dead glowed, and the capacity to put off and manipulate one's own aura was a hallmark of the creatures that 'lived' within it. Those that didn't stood out strangely, casting shadows upon themselves and the world in a way that made them an obvious anomaly in the otherwise antumbral reaches of the Zone.

While Valerie didn't enjoy wasting her resources on glowing like she was her very own spook, she also hated wasting time, which advertising her humanity to every ghost that glanced her way very much did; a lesson that she'd learned after fending off an entire assault squad of ghost police, who had chased her for ages while screaming about her criminal possession of so many 'real world objects' within their territory.

That it also made sure any enemies never anticipated her ability to phase through objects came in handy from time to time as well, such as when a would-be thief, for example, tried to duck into a thicket in an effort to snarl its pursuer.

As expected, the bug shuddered in response to the cold touch of the barrel against its skin, curling into itself as it looked up into the dark panel of her faceplate.

Valerie leaned down, pinning it between herself, her guns, and the stony trunk of what, on this particular island, seemed to serve as some kind of tree.

/Alright, Manbug, one more time./ Her voice crackled and popped through her translators, adding even more intimidation to a tone already modulated down to something lower and crueler than her natural snarl. /Where. Did you. Put. My Stuff. /

The insect whimpered a little harder, oozing something suspiciously close to snot from the hole above its writhing mouthparts. It remained otherwise silent, however, as it shook.

Valerie pulled back her leg and kicked it again.

The imitation flesh buckled beneath her toes, causing the creature to squeal, a nonverbal expression of pain peaking just beyond her range of hearing as it flickered invisible, writhing in a hopeless gambit to escape the weapons still clamped against its head.

Funny how ghosts kept so many features they really shouldn't need anymore. Like joints, for example. Was it a subconscious matter, or some kind of deliberate choice, Just one more means to mock the living, their very forms a cruel parody of everything they once had been?

She silenced the voice which whispered how she should know by now, that it wasn't that easy. There were more important things to focus on.

/P-please./

The bug focused its myriad gaze on the huntress' visor, all six limbs twisted over themselves, wrapped tight over its oozing midsection.

/In error, Milor- Milord. Your place, held, not neutral. Shall honor, please. /

It was leaking from the eyes too, now, viscous fluid pouring from its dozens of eyes, wetting it bodily, puddling down onto the dark purple earth, adding to the halo of scattered goods and tchotchkes that had spilled out from the overstuffed bags that it had clung to for dear life even as they toppled, overbalanced from a too-fast turn, dragging the creature headfirst into ruin.

/Mer- mercy./

This wasn't fair. This miserable thing, begging in the dirt like it hadn't gotten anything more than what it deserved.

Valerie grimaced, rubbing the heel of her palm against her faceplate. Phantom's visage, not long past, looked up to her from the depths of her memory, face just as desperate, just as indisputably, distressingly genuine as when she'd first seen it.

“Valerie, You don't want to do this.”

“Like I have a choice, spook.” She muttered.

She took a deep breath, sucking in the same recycled exhalation she'd been breathing for nearly a week now, and took a moment to actually think her situation through.

She wasn't lost. She had no idea where she was, but she wasn't lost: That would imply a level of helplessness she could not bring herself to admit. What little food and water she had brought with her had been eaten a while back, reducing her to scavenge among the portal droppage scattered through those areas not patrolled by mad policemen, hoping she could find something sufficiently sealed against ectoplasmic encroachment to remain edible.

She reconsidered her captive, still trembling on the ground. A ghost zone native, utterly at her mercy, and, by the looks of things, a serial hoarder of goods.

/You want mercy? Fine. But you do what I say, exactly as I say it, M'kay?/

While the guns pinning its head in place were something of an obstacle, the bug did manage a spasmodic sort of jerking motion, forebody pushed back and forth with desperate, eager haste.

/(Enthusiasm,) (enthusiasm,) assent! Lord, generous, gratitude, respect./

“Good, now-”She held out one hand, palm expectant.

/Give 'em back./

It responded slowly, still slobbering at the maw, all eyes fixed on the huntress as it unwound its uppermost limbs, which reached up towards those tattered bundles still clustered fungiform over its heaving thorax, rifling between twine-like bindings for what seemed an age.

Patience had never been a skill of Valerie's, and she found herself torn between wanting the moment to last forever and wishing go faster instead, tightening her mental grip over her laser cubes, fingering the internal triggers in anticipation of some sudden, traitorous motion on the part of her captive.

Ghosts were deceptive, dangerous creatures, except, of course, when they weren't.

Without any ability to tell the difference, she could do nothing but pace at the bars of her patience, waiting for the moment to act.

Finally, a claw submerged itself into one of the parcels, pulling out one boot, and, just beside it, a single leather fold.

This was it. Valerie snatched the wallet from its pincers. The boot was replaceable, her construct engines could make another now, if she wanted to waste the resources for it, but her wallet-She flipped open the small leather parcel, noted immediately that the contents were not any state remotely akin to how she had left them.

/Milord?/

The bug was still subtly trying to wriggle its way out from under her guns. Her systems noted, then deleted, increased energy expenditure from her laser cubes as they were forced to adjust to its motions.

Useless data. A ghost of so low a caliber could never hope to escape so easily.

Debit card-broken, bent until the plastic whitened from an excess of pressure; Dollar bills balled together and crammed into a single pocket, still damp with a kind of ectoplasm that looked disquietingly similar to the slobber still dripping from the mouthparts of the bug before her; Plastic wrappers, spare coins, a concert flyer for a band she'd always wanted to see.

/Ah, Milord? Pardon, Excuse?/

All of it. This vile, twisted excuse for an insect had messed with all of it. It had played with her most important cards and documents like they were toys, then shoved them back in with utter disregard for any sense of their value once it was done.

/Goods, returned, trust?/

Dread crept into her heart as she reached into the backmost pocket of her billfold, the place where she kept the picture of her.

/more goods? Information? Information on goods? Release, please?/

It was shoved in the very bottom of the wallet, balled into the crease where the two halves of leather were joined into one. She pulled it out, fingers shaking only slightly as they smoothed it back into a more flattened form.

The Red Huntress had no face, and never had Valerie been more grateful for that absence than in that moment, when she beheld the true extent of the damage done to Polaroid before her.

Soft white creases were everywhere, shattering the image into isolated fragments of its former self. It had been torn, too, at the edges, a grip too hard, twisting too far, integrity compromised as a result.

The worst of the damage by far, however, were a series of punctures, scattered at random through the center of the photograph, small to medium perforations forming little absences where there had once been trees and grass, where there had been a woman's face. A hole sat primly above her dark neck, arched back into nothing, a yawning gap where once there had been laughter.

The Huntress turned her blank visage back to her captive, who froze in the act of trying to pry her weapons out of position. Cowardly, but expected. Trusting a ghost was a fools game she had no intent on playing.

/Ah, haha, (nervous) (nervous,) (respect.)/ The target pulled its claws back up against itself, fiddling with the tips as it looked up to her absent regard.

/...Milord?/

The Red Huntress had no face, could betray no emotion, could reveal none of the cold black welter that rushed up through the depths of her breast and pressed against her throat. An impassive machine, possessed of a will stripped free of feeling.

No sliver of her intent showed through, no shudder passed from her shaking fingers to her gauntleted hands, not even the psychic senses of a ghost could hope to detect the lava that boiled up from her guts, pressing against her skin in an sheet of living fire even as the pits of her stomach chilled to ice.

The bug was still looking up at her, eyes all expectant, when she commanded her one of her guns to fire.

A bright streak of energy shot through the top of its head, hard pink flash cutting through a wave of green.

It squealed, jerked all six limbs towards the missing portion of its skull in a hopeless effort to stop the thick chunks of ectoplasm from slopping down the side of its face. Valerie brought her foot down at the same moment, crushing its forelimbs down into the dust. Forelimbs tipped with little claws, just large enough to fit the holes in a certain photograph.

/Why!? Ancients, why, why!?/

Why?

“Why the hell not?” she snarled, “Ain't that how it works here?”

If a different ghost wanted to rob her blind every time she tried to sleep, they could. If Valerie wanted to chase down the one that finally succeeded, she could. There were no laws here, there were no rules, there weren't even morals. There was nothing to stop anyone from doing anything, so why should she be the one to hold herself back?

She lifted her foot off its claws, then swung it once again into its thorax, only just crusted over from where she had kicked it before.

It squealed, just like she imagined another ghost would, red eyes wide and frightened, vampiric teeth shattered against her fist, choking as she wrapped her fingers around his blue, blue, skin.

He deserved this, it deserved this, she was in the right. She had been tricked, mislead, mistaken maybe, but she wasn't wrong, she was in the right.

And if there was some dark curl of satisfaction there, a self righteous flame alighted just where she'd been coldest in that moment of hate, then that was proof, wasn't it? Of just how right she was.

She bent down to her target, which had started drooling all over again, ground speckled green and wet as it heaved against itself. It was disgusting enough that she would have shot it in the mouth instead of the head, but she still needed information, which meant it still needed to talk.

It's upper set of antenna had survived the cranial blast, making for an easy handhold as she yanked its drooping head up to face her once again. At the same time, she sent her guns down to its chest, where its energy levels peaked their highest.

Ghosts, much like the cockroaches they resembled, could survive well enough without a head, but none, not one could ever hope to make it without their precious ghostly core.

“Listen up spook.” She hissed. /Here's how this is gonna work. You lie, I shoot. You run, I shoot. Got it?/Its head twitched up and down, the smallest possible motion of assent.

/Good./

This was what it took, when it came to ghosts. Cooperation proceeded pain, loyalty from the threat of it, and mercy not at all.

/We'll start with the questions./

She allowed her guns to charge power, deadly, scintillating hum filling the air with the sound of her malintent.

/I like what I hear, maybe I let you keep talking./

Author's note: If Sam is more pride than wrath, then Val is more wrath than pride, IMO. I've done my best to write her accordingly

[arrows-and-illusions]

Observations

The Hunter hadn’t meant to spy. Truthfully she hadn’t. But as she passed by the Engineers workshop, hearing hushed voices when she was fairly certain everyone else was asleep. Or if not, doing something that didn’t sound so secretive. It piqued her curiosity. And after all, curiosity may have killed the cat, but the satisfaction of what it found did bring it back.

She shuffled up to the slightly open workshop door, peering inside. Watching the engineer and a pair of rather strange figures that certainly didn’t belong to their teammates.

“You sure you won’t change you mind, Conagher? They’re willin’ to add another zero to the pay.” The larger of the two men said. It was dark with only a lantern on to illuminate the trio inside, and he wore a lot of rather expensive looking gear that obscured his exact build, but she didn’t doubt he’d be a decent match to their own large Russian. Though her money would go to her fellow, if for some reason he and this fellow ever came to blows. “Just as sure as last time.” The Engineer replied, his voice warm, but she sensed a sort of annoyance. “You two have a good night now, y’hear.”

The Hunter ducked away from the opening as the men took a step back, pressing herself against the wall of the hallway, but being seen by the strangers wasn’t something she needed to worry over. The sound of a pair of heavy footsteps moving away, and then the sound of the larger door to the outside opening and shutting.

She peeked back through the door for a moment to make sure they were gone before she placed a hand on the edge of the door, pushing it open with a gentle creek that had the texan inside jumping. “Ooh, having scandalous late night meetings, are we, Dell? I thought only Spy did that.” She teased, trotting up to his work bench. “Who were those guys? They sounded like they were trying to buy you.” “How much exactly did you hear?” He questioned. “Not much. Just something about an extra zero being added to a paycheck and you doing that southern thing were you shoo people away but make it seem polite.” She replied with a soft laugh. “I’m assuming they were trying to either buy something from you, or wrangle you in to working for them. Am I right?” “Well, I suppose I won’t lie that you are.” He said, resting an arm on the table of the workbench. “No shit? How come?” She asked. “And aside from the whole non-compete thing in our contracts, how come you turned em down? Not paying high enough? Work too shitty to be worth it?” “Well actually, no, those fellas are willing to pay a damn high price, and works pretty good too. Not a bad gig, actually. But I belong here.” “So not bad, but not as good as here, then.” She said with a nod. “No point in taking a downgrade.”

“Well, truth is,” He murmured, taking off his helmet, rubbing at his brow with the back of his hand. “Our team, well, we’re considered the bottom of the barrel. A… well a laughing stock among more… highly regarded groups.” “Oh. They’re better than us.” She murmured. “Somehow, I’m not surprised at all.” She said, giving a small shrug at the flicker of confusion on his face. “Though that does make me more confused about you turning them down and not moving up the ladder.” “Really now?”

“Oh yeah,” She replied, moving to lean her hip against the workbench. “Think about it. Scout? His stamina and speed is top notch, but, he’s from a professional standpoint, just some kid from Boston who probably couldn’t fall in line with any real authority to save his life. He’s good, but not someone who would do good being with professionals. Solider is pretty self explanitory, I think.” She chuckled with a small, fond shake of her head as she pulled herself up to sit on the edge of the workbench. “Pyro? He lets us give him commands. He’s terrifying, even to people like you or me who are fond of him. Demo is brilliant with his bombs- his skills are second to none, but he drinks. His alcoholism is a crutch and other people wouldn’t be willing to deal with that. Now Heavy, he could be elite, if he was on another team. But he trusts very little, and the secrets he has would be harder to manage. Sniper too, but he wouldn’t want the structure. The being bossed around. He was his own team before all of us. Medic… he’s truly a genius with his work and the things he creates. But he’s unhinged and unpredictable. He cares for his friends, but he also uses them for his purposes without a second thought.” She fiddled with a dark red curl, strands of hair twisting around her finger. “Spy is a bit trickier to figure out why he stays…. Though I suppose that has something to do with scout, doesn’t it. Hard to turn a blind eye to your own blood being in danger, isn’t it.” She murmured, feet swinging idly.

“You know about that, huh?” More of a statement than a question. A small tip of her head in answer. “Mmhm. And for myself, well, I can’t see shit without these.” She said, plucking at her glasses. “And I’m just some hick woman from the middle of nowhere. Too sentimental. Too soft tot be valuable to a professional team. I don’t do kids, and I don’t like making orphans if I can help it. Don’t like innocents getting caught up in things. Hearts to big to be elite, I guess.”

“You’ve put quite a lot of thought into this, it seems.” He said, leaning up agaisnt the bench beside her. “Its just facts.” She shrugged, “We all have things that would make us good parts of a fancier team. And we all have things that would make us liabilities in a more professional setting.” “I suppose you have a point there.” He murmured, setting his helmet on the bench beside her.

“Except maybe you.”

The words are quiet, but they catch the Engineers attention. Questioning eyes turned to her. “You’re a genius, and you come from this line of work. It’s in your blood. You have the brains and the connections. Spy? Sniper? Sure, they both have connections of some sort or another. They’re both assassins in their own rights. They have to for their work. But you have the real connections, don’t you. You could have your pick of teams or partners. Tonight just proved it. But you stay with us. The group with too many missing marbles and too many screws loose.” She said, brown eyes warm, but firm as she explained her reasoning. “I won’t pry why.” She said softly, giving his shoulder a light pat. “But I hope it’s cause you like it here with us.” With that, she slid off the desk, boots thumping softly on the hard wood floor. “It’s pretty late. I won’t keep you up any later. Make sure you get some rest tonight too, Dell. Okay?”

[runpogorun]

Why the hell not?

This is my @daredevilexchange​ pinch hit gift for @context-is-for-kingpins​! To fill the prompt “Only those who will go to far can possibly find out how far one can go” - T.S. Eliot. It also fills the ‘Damages’ square on my @daredevilbingo card.

It follows on from my other gift, Desolation, although the two works can be read individually. Enjoy!

Read it on tumblr, or on AO3 (https://archiveofourown.org/works/22139266)

***

Jessica wakes with her face pressed against the mattress. She opens her eyes and swipes her hair back from her face, the room sliding into hazy focus. There’s bright light scything in through the curtains and across her bare floorboards, making her squint.

“Morning.”

Jess frowns, then rolls onto her back, the sheet twisting in her legs and impeding her progress, and she has to fight against it. Matt is lying on his back, hands clasped behind his head, eyes open and focused on some unseen middle distance. The light probably isn’t bothering him, the asshole.

“Oh. It’s you.”

Matt snorts a laugh and turns his head to her. “Wow. Am I that forgettable?” 

Jess shoves him away, half-heartedly, and flails her arm over the side of the bed. Her hand knocks the neck of a bottle, and it falls on its side with a hollow clunk, then spins slowly across the floorboards and under the bed. She groans, and disentagles herself from the sheet then stands up and crosses to the door.

She glances back to Matt, who has turned his face back to the ceiling. He’s obviously still listening to her as she leaves the room to raid her desk drawer. Prize found, she pads back to the bedroom to see Matt’s now closed his eyes. 

Jess drops down on the bed, jostling Matt, who grunts in protest. She leans up against the wall and taps the bottle against Matt’s shoulder, but he shakes his head.

She shrugs and unscrews the cap to take a swig of bourbon, then wipes the back of her hand across her mouth.

“You know, I saw Nelson a few months back. He looked like someone had killed his cat.” She takes another mouthful of the good (bad, very bad) stuff. “Or his best friend.”

“Fuck it.” He opens his eyes, sits up next to her and swipes the bottle. “Are we talking?” He drinks, and grimaces. 

“So did you go off to find Jesus, or something?” Matt cocks his head and pauses, considering, long enough that Jessica feels an urgent need to backpedal. “No, forget I asked.” She reclaims the bottle.

“Any time you want to meet him,” he says with a slow smile, “Let me know.”

“Fuck you.”

“Sure, if you want.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“I don’t think it’s sunk in, yet.”

They’re quiet for a few minutes, Jess watching dust motes dancing lazily through the air. Matt’s listening. He’s always listening, but he doesn’t tell her what he hears. 

Eventually, he takes a deep breath and says, “I didn’t really plan anything, I was just surviving. Wasn’t thinking far ahead.” He holds out his hand for the bottle, which is emptying quickly.

“You were a dick.”

“I know. But I was…” He’s looking more glazed than usual, lost in his head and sliding a thumb around the edge of the label on the bottle. 

“Trying to be a hero?”

That startles a laugh out of him, and brings him back to her. “I’m no hero.” His face becomes serious again. “It was more about doing what I could, when I had the chance.”

“You almost went too far, once.”

He shrugs. “I survived. And you don’t know until you try.”

“From what I hear, that fucked you up.”

He turns to her sharply, brows drawn. “What do you mean? You been looking me up? Again?”

“Once I heard a rumour you weren’t dead, I had to be sure.” She waves a hand, dismissively, then plucks the bottle from him. “Don’t worry, Hornhead, I respected your privacy.”

She looks at Matt, still scowling, the way the light brings out amber in the stubble along his jaw, and feels a twist low in her gut. She should get curtains. Then he half-smiles, as though he knows she’s looking, and it strikes her that he’s as naked as she is. 

Why the hell not. 

Jess takes another gulp of the burning liquor then pulls her feet in and rises onto her knees, lifting one leg and turning so she’s straddling Matt’s legs. There’s a flash of mild surprise across his face, then he reaches for the bottle. While he has a drink, she reaches down and gently squeezes his cock through the sheet, massaging and coaxing it to attention. He jumps slightly, then leans back, the bottle in a slack hand. She swipes the bourbon again and drains the bottle before setting it on the nightstand. Then she frees Matt’s cock from the sheet, shuffles forward and presses the now-firm tip to her clit. Matt grunts in encouragement and cups her ass in his hands.

Jess leans forward with one hand on the wall above his head, the other seeking tingles of slippery warmth as she masturbates with his cock. Matt’s hands roam over her body, up and down her sides, cupping her breasts then squeezing at her hips. She slides him down, his tip just parting her labia and slipping in slightly, and he groans, his head lolling back and exposing the whiteness of his neck. She leans in and licks his neck as she strokes her hand downwards and gives his balls a squeeze, noting with satisfaction the twitch it produces.

“Jess.”

“You still wanna fuck me?”

“Yes,” he pants. “God, yes.”

“How about I fuck you.”

“Yes, please.”

She plays with him, with herself, some more, until she’s filling up with warmth. She’s close, so close. All it will take is…

Matt has magically produced a condom, from fuck knows where, and is holding it between two fingers. Jess snags it from him, rips it open and slides it on. Then she guides his cock, takes him deep inside her with one stroke and they both gasp. She leans down and he lifts his face to hers, meeting her part way, hungry for her and kissing her firmly, roughly. He cups her face in both hands as she ruts against him, fucking him hard. She pants harder, chasing the cresting wave until she groans and there’s an explosion of pleasure, rippling through her as she surges again and again. Matt comes straight away, as though he’s been waiting for her, bucking and moaning in relief, and pulling a hilarous sex face. Jess collapses against his chest and they pant together as Matt strokes one hand down her back.

He laughs. “What brought that on?”

“Do I need a reason?”

He shakes his head. “No.”

She lifts her head to look at him again, a sheen of sweat on his brow. It’s not like she ever knew him that well, but she’s never hated him as much as she made out. Now, in the daylight, she can see what she couldn’t by night, the sparse greys at his temples, the deeper creases around his eyes. Whatever happened to him, whatever he doesn’t want to talk about, it’s not her problem but she can see it’s changed him. Why should she care, anyway.

Matt’s stomach rumbles loudly, and they both laugh. “Got any food?” he asks.

“Do I look like someone who eats my five-plus a day?” He doesn’t reply, just cocks a questioning eyebrow and she sighs and rolls off him, sprawled on the bed.

“So, Jessica…” he begins, then stops.

“Don’t you talk for a living?”

He scrubs a hand over his face, and begins again. “I can’t drink this much on an empty stomach. So, is going to get food with me something you’d like to do, or would you rather I fuck off?”

She considers the question. All her instincts say no, that they’re both too fucked up to spend time safely together, that they’ll tear each other apart on their ragged edges. But maybe… Maybe the gains justify the damages.

“Yeah, why the fuck not?”

And Matt smiles, slow and sweet.

[dorotheian]

@ariaste

#good omens #nesting #wingfic #preening #erogenous zone: wings #escalated quickly #angels ‘making an effort’ #dubiously explicit???

Aziraphale preened—no, not in the sense that he basked in compliments. Though he did quite like giving and receiving compliments, that he couldn’t deny. No, at this moment he was running his fingers through the feathers of his wings with zenlike concentration, looking for any that snagged or were out of place, and plucking the ones that were nearly loose already, until his wings gleamed and the feathers rippled in patterns of perfection. The soothing activity tended to drive out any thoughts that might yet be lingering in his head.

It had taken long enough to become aware that the urge to preen intensified whenever he was around Crowley. He wanted to look presentable for Crowley, of course, but that didn’t fully explain it. Neither did nervousness. Crowley didn’t make Aziraphale nervous, though he certainly could have that effect on other people. It was true that Crowley sometimes gave him butterflies in his stomach, but he also gave him stomach flops, stomach drops, and stomach clenches... Life became very visceral around Crowley, mostly because Crowley had a talent for worming his way into tight spots that no mortal would escape alive, but Aziraphale had no fear of him. Only, when he dared to admit it, for him, sometimes, but it was rarely warranted.

On this afternoon they had eaten a substantial lunch at one of Aziraphale’s favorite cozy retreats that specialized in home-cooking. Aziraphale had started the preening procedure before he was supposed to meet Crowley, but he ran out of time to stall and prepare, and had been forced to stuff the erstwhile white feathers in his pockets or tuck them in his hair or the folds of his clothes. It probably made him look ridiculous, and he felt very flustered, but Crowley had seemed to like it. All he’d said was, “Had a nice molt?” and Aziraphale blushed and stammered “of course” though it was nothing of the kind. It wasn’t even the right season for it, but had Aziraphale told him that? No.

He wondered what he could say in a few years when he next noticed Crowley was about to shed his skin. It was an itchy process that, in human form, made his skin pinken and peel as if he was recovering from a large sunburn, and made Crowley even more tetchy and adorable until it all came off and his skin suddenly became lucent and baby-soft to the touch. On second thought...it probably wouldn’t be a good idea to draw his attention to it... Crowley could be sensitive.

Now Crowley was napping beneath an apple tree to sleep off the heavy meal, and Aziraphale was going mad over the state of his wings, which should have been perfectly, thoroughly groomed already, and hoped against hope that Crowley wouldn’t wake up until he finished. Aziraphale hated being watched. Grooming was personal, and this was getting...this was getting... absurd. Why couldn’t he stop?

When he came back to himself he shook his wings briskly to be sure that the ritual was well and truly finished. He didn’t quite trust the vague, smug sense of satisfaction he felt... the madness was just waiting to pounce on him again. Aziraphale sighed.

There ended up being an alarmingly large pile of feathers beside him and Crowley, who was just lying there on the cold hard ground. Aziraphale felt a wave of indignation. That had to be uncomfortable. He walked around him restlessly. If only he could prop him up without waking him. Well—for that matter, how much could he do without waking him?

Aziraphale pulled out a handful of feathers from his pocket, shrugged to himself, and got to work. He tucked them under Crowley’s head, and edged them inwards all around his body. He had already made quite a foot-wide halo around him when Crowley stirred. Aziraphale froze, feeling as if he had been caught at something deeply forbidden, and fought the urge to run or explode back into the heavens. He hovered.

Crowley picked up a white feather between his fingers and squinted at it. “Errr...what’s this?” He patted the ground around him—soft—and sat up, looking confused. “A nest? Aziraphale?”

The world went soundless and quiet, except for the sound of Aziraphale’s heart beating powerfully in his ears. He dropped the remaining feathers in his hand where he stood, turned his back to Crowley, and drew his wings as tightly in as he could.

Crowley turned his head and said softly, “Angel?”

Aziraphale sat abruptly and wrapped his arms around his thighs, letting his legs cover his face.

A tentative hand touched his back. “Angel? All you all right?”

No, it was not all right. He did not know what he had been doing, only that it was important to him and his heart would break if Crowley rejected it.

The hand drew small circles on Aziraphale’s back, right between the shoulderblades and the point between his wings. Crowley touched with only the soft tips of his fingers. Slowly, Aziraphale let himself relax and he laughed at himself under his breath.

“If you’re done twisting yourself into knots,” Crowley said, his voice affectionate and sounding oddly far away, as if he had been dreaming of this for a long time, “would you let me...touch your wings?”

Aziraphale let them unfold at his request. Crowley picked through them at first rather clinically, rather like a vet, maybe, or someone leafing through pages of books, until he felt familiar and he found the right spot. He put his palm to the spot, underneath the feathers, and Aziraphale’s whole body sagged and tilted to the side. Crowley snatched his hand back hastily and cocked his head. “Perhaps, ah, would you rather lie down, instead? I’ve been napping like an inanimate lump here afternoon; you should make yourself comfortable.”

Aziraphale nodded and lay face down with his hands lightly set on the ground in front of him. Crowley straddled his back, and Aziraphale was suffused by a wave of pleasure. “Just let me know if it’s too much, if you want me to stop, or if you need more pointed pressure,” said Crowley. “I’ve never groomed anyone else’s wings before.”

Aziraphale made a tiny inadvertent groan.

“Yes, yes, of course I’ll get on with it. Angel.” Where Crowley stroked, Aziraphale leaned into the touch, the tips of his feathers quivering unsteadily.

“It shouldn’t feel this good,” Aziraphale whispered. “I’ve always taken care of—”

Crowley continued to knead Aziraphale’s upper wings and back, and said in a low, seductive voice, “That’s where you’re wrong.” Crowley must have felt provoked, because he pressed his lips possessively to the back of Aziraphale’s neck, and Aziraphale twisted and gasped, “No, don’t stop!”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Angel.” Crowley pressed a row of kisses into his neck and down his spine, and stroked beneath his primaries at the same time. Aziraphale’s wings heaved and flexed. “I didn’t realize how...dynamic...”

Aziraphale let out a little cry.

“...staying on top of you would be. Ahh, you’re very powerful.” Crowley’s snake tongue flicked out, touching the top of Aziraphale’s ear, and Aziraphale’s hips bucked. Crowley wriggled and rolled with the movement, pushed himself up again, and buried his fingers beneath the feathers, gripping the wings firmly, and rubbed with both thumbs.

“Harder,” Aziraphale gasped, grinding himself into the earth.

“I’m afraid I’m ssstretched to my limit already,” Crowley admitted, “There’s only ssssso much I can reacccch— but I’ll try.” He adjusted his position, and squeezed.

“Unh,” said Aziraphale, collapsing, and seized hold of the grass before he bucked again and his wings nearly threw Crowley when they caught him by surprise.

“Good,” said Crowley, panting. He manifested his own black wings, fighting to stay on top of him. Aziraphale threw himself to the side, briefly pinning Crowley, and flung himself back again, slithering so they were face-to-face.

Crowley gripped Aziraphale by the shoulders. “Are you sssure? At thiss rate we’ll really...”

Aziraphale pulled his face down for a deep kiss and tangled their legs together, wings thumping wildly against the ground, throwing up dust, turning the pure white of his wings a light sandy brown. “Shhh.”

“Ngkkkk,” said Crowley, squirming closer, and scented the air, flicking Aziraphale’s ear again. Arching, Aziraphale threw his head back. “All this trouble... just because you’re nessssting....”

“Is that what they....call it?” mumbled Aziraphale, letting his arms lie limp against the ground. “I had...no idea...”

Crowley nudged a knee between Aziraphale’s legs and grinned, showing his teeth. “I’m home to you. You’re home to me. You don’t....get out of thissss....sssssssso easssily....”

“You fucking rhymed,” Aziraphale choked, with unabashed delight, and blushed. “Oh, Crowley.”

Crowley thrummed his wings and hissed for good measure. “Sssshut up.”

“I love you,” said Aziraphale, and tightened his—her?—thighs around Crowley’s body. Aziraphale was making a special effort, and that signaled a change in intent, or desire…

Crowley’s wings clapped together and he shouted in surprise when Aziraphale flipped them over once more. “Ahh...more slowly?” Crowley said, from beneath Aziraphale, as he awkwardly straightened his wings against the ground.

“Yes,” said Aziraphale, beaming, and bent to kiss him. “Crowley, you are lovely.” She raked long curls askew, flinging them back from her face.

Crowley squirmed, more out of acute embarrassment at the compliment, and her attention, than the desire to get in a better position, though he did need that, too. “A-a-angel…”

“Yes?”

“Sssslower….” Crowley squirmed again.

Aziraphale flushed. “It’s the gender change, isn’t it? I-I-I got too into it, suddenly, and…”

Crowley shook his head, cutting her off with a finger against her lips. “Don’t! Don’t apologize.” Crowley lifted a hand to her breast, brushing his thumb across her nipple through her clothes, almost tenderly, and shook his head. “One thing at a time.” He felt pensive. “I need to think.”

“And I always said you were the fast one,” Aziraphale laughed, leaning closer, and Crowley brushed his other hand through her lengthening white hair.

“You want kids? Little angels? Is that it?”

“No! No, I don’t know what I want,” Aziraphale laughed. “Just you.”

No kids, then, if Aziraphale did not wish for them and open a womb. “A home, I think,” said Crowley, and kissed her.

“Yes, our home.” Aziraphale sat back, preening. “Where should it be?”

“Traditionally, amongst the stars,” said Crowley wryly. “Where this works better. Easier to concentrate on flying without gravity, or falling.”

Aziraphale laughed, bright and vibrant. “But it’s so much rougher and more rewarding here, contending with gravity! I had such fun!”

The struggle did seem to be part of the point. Crowley smiled. “Show me.”

Aziraphale did.

[god-fucking-dammit-mizutani]

Title: Stars Above You (WIP) Words: ~2800 Part: 1/2 Notes: So it’s the 20th anniversary since 8/1/1999 and I was besieged by the spirit of creativity to finish out at least the start of this fic to post in it’s honor because I didn’t get it in for Taishirou week like I meant to lmaoo it wraps up nicely enough, I think, as a piece, but I will be adding more to this in hopefully the near future and will add it to ao3 at that point, but also this project of mine started out like nine or more years ago and it is always mingling in the back of my mind, so it feels. Right, I guess. I hope it’s okay lol 

Summary: It’s a symbol -- a promise -- of a future together.

~*~

Just shortly before a nuclear missile landed in the Odaiba bay, Mrs. Yagami had boasted a full collection of constantly clattering wind chimes. Koushirou would sometimes spend days too cold to play outside lounging along the Yagami apartment floor with Taichi, tracing his eyes along their silhouettes through the drawn curtains like other children watched clouds. They made him think of galactic squid, imagined them phasing in through the balcony above to dangle their tentacles in the breeze. In his own way, Koushirou could understand why she kept them. 

Until the wind blew, and so with it, the tempers of every person in earshot. When they met a rather mysterious, very untimely end, only one person ever missed them.

Sora remembers them, too. 

Koushirou suspects so from the face she pulls at the sound of her spoon clinking against the crystal of her near-empty fountain glass. Koushirou feels his chest bubble with a bitter nostalgia to hear it. After that summer, the sound had only conjured in him the sense of fleeting time; a Pavlovian sickness that stains his tongue with the taste of Oolong.

The chiming sounds louder than it should through the midnight hours of the local diner. Across the room from them, the wait staff huddle over a table, prepping for the inevitable rush once the bars take their last call. The clatter of silverware and hushed conversations between them is the only consistent noise when conversations lull between him and Sora. 

Excepting, of course, every invariable swear wafting up from the floor of the entrance.

“Another goddamn spider,” Taichi's voice grumbles. Yamato's amused snort follows.

Sora gives a cursory look over her shoulder. Her grin when it rounds back on Koushirou feels, oddly, conspiratorial. Hands cupped under her chin, accented by the curve of her auburn bob, she looks absolutely storybook charming. 

“It's a good thing we're in love with those losers,” she tells him, grinning. Which, decidedly, is a very uncharming thing to say. Specifically for as far as her voice carries. 

Koushirou chokes on her presumptions, hiding the hiccup by grabbing for his neglected glass of water. It splashes on the table and parts of his shirt when he lifts it. The waitress had been heavy handed when she last came by to fill his still half unused glass. “Precisely who are you implying I'm--?” 

Sora beams at him. 

Over her shoulder, Koushirou catches Taichi's eyes just before the man resets his sights back on the rows of Gashapon machines, fingers curling in request until Yamato relinquishes yet another coin. Under the harsh, spherule pendant lamps, Koushirou reads the glint of something mirthful, impish in his gaze.

He is not the only one who sees it. The manager spends interminable periods of time by the register, tapping through papers and taking stock again and again. He wonders how often grown men buy children's trinkets as a rouse for robbery. Koushirou hides the curl of his amused smile under the curve of his fingers at the thought. Sora, not privvy to his internal thoughts, smiles with a similar amusement back at him.

Yamato makes his way back to the table first, alone save for the plastic capsules balanced dangerously against his chest. Sora scoots over in the booth to allow him to sit next to her, but Yamato only offers his bulbous collection to her with a shrug. 

“Accept these tokens as a gift of my affection, my love!” he proclaims, voice high and pious. The thought of Yamato, flaxen haired and pale skin atop a white steed feels poignant in Koushirou's mind. 

Sora eyes the mountain of multicolored plastic bubbles, amusement wrinkling her brow and lifting a side of her mouth until a single dimple emerges. “Be gone, sir,” she returns, whipping her head in the opposite direction. “Your measly trinkets bore me!” 

They both shriek when Yamato, instead, releases his hoard upon them, little plastic bubbles hopping about the table.

The restaurant stills around them.

"I sure hope you're going to pick those up," Sora stage whispers. She squashes her hands together, mouthing an apology to the employees until they turn back to their work.  

"Of course," Yamato snorts. "I wasn't raised in a barn." In a good faith effort, he leans down and grabs a few off the floor at his feet, catching them in empty glasses still scattering their table.

Koushirou flinches, mostly on instinct than from any pain, when a few stray capsules rain off the table and plop against his thighs. "Do you still think it's a positive attribute, Sora?"

She furrows her brows at him for a moment until she catches on, her lips quirking into a secretive, rueful little smile. "I meant it more for their sake," she clarifies.

“Do I want to know?” Yamato frowns at them. The fabric of his jeans squeak on the taut vinyl material when he slides in next to Sora finally. 

Sora smirks at him and very pointedly steals a fry from the neglected tray in front of him. “Nope.” She makes a show of biting down on half of it to Yamato's scandalized expression. 

“Rude,” he says. “Stealing a man's fries in front of him is low, Sora.” He picks several up and crunches down on them at once. Koushirou grimaces, wondering how cold the fries must have grown since they were first brought out.

“Should I have done it behind your back?” Sora giggles. She laughs harder when Yamato intercepts her fingers from taking any more, lacing his own through hers. 

Koushirou turns from the couple then, cheeks heating over the flirtatious display. There's a half empty basket of fries on the table beside his, and guiltily, he wonders how Taichi would react if Koushirou tested his theory on how cold the fries really taste. He pats the empty space on the bench next to him and frowns. 

The front end of the diner is quiet, vacant. When Koushirou glances around he notices the manager has snuck back into the kitchen, his salt and pepper hair visible over the counter window. The waitstaff have gone back to their work; when he meets the eye of their waitress he has to shake his head at her unspoken question if they need her. 

“Where's Taichi?” He asks when his survey of the restaurant yields no results. 

He turns back to see Sora pop her head up and away from Yamato's shoulder, eyes hawking the area for their fourth member. “Yeah, where did he go?”

Yamato sops up the remnants of Sora's shake with a swipe of his fries over the rim of her glass. “Getting ready,” he says. He pops his chocolate soaked fry into his mouth, grinning with satisfaction as Sora eyes him with mock disgust. 

“Ready for what, precisely?” Koushirou asks.

He sees it. The conspiratorial little glint of something sparking in Sora's eyes, lips crawling upward again. It catches in Yamato's expression when he meets her gaze, the two of them sharing a jubilous energy that Koushirou cannot fathom.

But Koushirou's patience barely wanes before the bathroom door slams open across the diner, catching the attention of their group and the adjacent wait staff. The manager rushes out from the kitchen to purvey the scene and they all stare at none other than Taichi, his hair slicked as far back as water alone will tame it down. 

"Here he comes," Yamato says, sounding like a host before his audience. "Taichi Yagami, rocking the drowned rat chic look. Super popular this year."

Koushirou snorts when Sora gives him a soft whap on the arm. He looks back down the long hallway at Taichi, who has taken to waving at every booth as he descends on the group. His pageantry is well rewarded with attention. Their waitress waves back when Taichi passes by their set up station. His shadow is long under the lights, falling across Koushirou where he come to stand before him. 

"Your hair--" Koushirou starts, instinctively starting up to his feet to let Taichi take back his place at the far end of their shared booth, but the rest of his sentence is swallowed by surprise when Taichi drops before him instead. 

One knee bent to the linoleum, he reaches into the pocket of his pea coat and Koushirou, rightfully, feels betrayed when Taichi lifts yet another capsule up to him.

"Koushirou Izumi," he says, timbre reminiscent of a Shakespearean actor. "Please accept this token as a symbol of my affection." 

"You line thief," Yamato accuses him, pointing a soggy fry at the culprit. Taichi crinkles his nose in the blonde's direction, and Koushirou feels vaguely proud that he has matured beyond sticking his tongue out.

Koushirou narrows his eyes at the offending bauble. “Is this what you squandered all that time for?” But he cannot stop his own lips from quirking up on their own as he plops back into the booth. It lets out a soft puff, like a resigned sigh, sounding off through a hole in the seat cushion that had been just barely tapped down to keep the stuffing inside. Tentatively, Koushirou plucks the bobble from his pronged grip. 

Taichi beams up at him, watches expectantly as Koushirou attempts to remove the pink little cap from the top. His expression is not dampered even when Koushirou's grip proves useless to separate the two pieces. 

"When I saw it," Taichi says, still grinning, "I knew I wanted to get it for you." 

Silverware clatters again. It's an orchestra lending itself to the affair, but the importance of it all falls flat on Koushirou who has lost in his bout of strength against the gashapon capsule. Koushirou’s own heart feels like it could be playing the drum, for the tempo in his chest is thunderous. He could blame the slide of his fingers on the plastic surface of the capsule case, but Koushirou knows this is only half the truth. 

Yamato reaches across the table, motioning for Koushirou to hand him the present instead. It does not yield immediately to him, and Yamato digs into his forgotten coat for keys. The grooves scrape along the plastic sphere, wedging underneath the lip of the lid. Next to him, Sora beams back at Koushirou when their eyes meet, her face soft and only vaguely apologetic. Eventually the edge gives way with a soft pop  and Taichi intercepts the return, holds it up on three fingers in front of Koushirou like an impromptu pedestal. Yamato’s keys have left their teeth marks indented into the side, white blemishes standing out starkly against the cloudy, gray clearness of the rest of it. He peers over the lip and frowns.

Inside the capsule’s plastic basket is a small, circular item and Koushirou knows that it is a joke, that there is no meaning beyond a simple laugh and a simple, logical connection that had spun the plan into action. But even if Koushirou knows, it is not logic that his heart works on. 

“Taichi,” Koushirou snorts. It sounds as hollow as Sora’s now cleaned out milkshake glass. He pulls the ring from it’s home, rolls it around between careful fingers to investigate it closer. A tiny, little ladybug of casted in resin and cheap paint sitting atop an even cheaper adjustable sphere. Beady, poorly drawn on eyes stare up at him. “Rings carry a connotation, you know?”

Which is, honestly, a joke, too. A bad joke, but one nonetheless. 

Taichi folds the capsule that had contained the ring back into his coat pocket and then beckons Koushirou to return the present. There is a small, petty part of Koushirou that almost refuses to relinquish it. It had, after all, been meant for him. I wanted to get it for you, Taichi had said, and that weight leaves him dizzy. 

When he does surrender it, Taichi puts up the palm of his other hand. 

“Take it,” Sora stage whispers across the table. It might as well be a scream, because the wait staff hear and turn to watch the spectacle again. Koushirou feels his face heating as he takes the proffered hand. 

“Taichi,” he grits out, quietly, but he stops from any admonishment when he meets Taichi’s eyes. That same glint of mirth is there, undiminished since Koushirou had first spotted it, shining with the road lights through the window to Koushirou’s back, but it feels like there’s more and it quiets his tongue. 

“Koushirou Izumi,” Taichi says again, puffing up his chest, back straight. Koushirou hears Yamato hiss as Sora delves out a quick apology. When he glances at them, she’s rubbing his hand with the one not currently holding Yamato’s, smiling sheepishly up at him. Koushirou looks back at Taichi and breathes in, tightly through the little spaces that the butterflies in his chest allow him. “You are my best friend. I’m under strict orders to mention that Yamato and Sora are runner ups.”

“Thank you,” Yamato says, pleased sounding. 

“Sora is clearly in second, though.”

“Fair,” Yamato decides. 

“Anyway,” Taichi says. This time his grin is definitely tinged in embarrassment, the reddening of his cheeks enough evidence. It’s endearing. “I hope that I’m yours?”

Koushirou nods along. He can feel his lips curling, but he isn’t quite sure that it comes off as a smile. He’s not really sure of anything. He could be dying and this time there are no windchimes to send him on his way.

“And I want to be your best friend forever,” Taichi adds in, slowly. “So what I’m going to ask, well, I hope that doesn’t change anything between us. Actually,” Taichi laughs, rubbing at the back of his head. “I hope it changes a lot. But in a good way,” he clarifies. Koushirou watches, not quite sure who the confirmations are supposed to be directed towards: himself or Koushirou. 

Taichi sucks in a deep breath, like he’s about to go cliff diving off a waterfall and Koushirou understands. “I really, really like you. I’ve been afraid for a super long time that if I acted on it or told you, that maybe I’d somehow chase you off. But it’s not fair to hide this from you.” His cheeks are a brilliant red now and his eyes moves further down Koushirou’s face, settling somewhere along his jawbone. Where their hands are connected feels warm and comfortable. Koushirou wouldn’t mind if he didn’t let go, ever. “And well, it feels like it would be a new adventure and we’ve got a great track record with those, you and me.”

“Taichi,” Sora whispers in an ushering tone. He looks astonished for a moment, as if he had forgotten where they were, that others were in the audience. Koushirou had. 

Taichi takes another long breath in and finally sets his grin up with more confidence when he asks Koushirou, “Whaddya say? Will you go out with me, Koushirou?”

Pinched still between Taichi’s fingers, the ladybug stares up at Koushirou expectantly. Something clinks in the background and for once, it does not feel bitter or terrifying, but it does seize his chest, reminds him of the clicking clock and everything that has laid stagnant in fear. 

“Most people would simply just ask for a date,” Koushirou manages to say. He breathes out. “But I suppose it was a display worthy of a yes.” He thinks he hears a round of applause, but Koushirou keeps his head down, doesn’t dare to look up. It is only partially from self-consciously, and mostly because Taichi’s smile is so efferesent, Koushirou thinks it could light all of Odaiba for the rest of their lives. He’s not sure his is any less exuberant.  

He pushes the ring up and onto Koushirou’s ring finger. Made for children with tinier hands, it barely passes the first knuckle before they have to tinker with the adjustable strap, but soon it settles to the base of his finger, rather nicely and hideously. “When have I ever been most people?” 

The manager waits for them at the register. His stern expression speaks to his lack of amusement experienced from their shenanigans, but Koushirou cannot even find a sense of shame this time. It feels like someone has replaced his heart with a spectacle of sparklers, a sky filled with fireworks. Taichi squeezes his hand, but he thinks that only makes it worse.

When they leave, for the last time, Yamato deposits a single capsule into the hand of every employee unfortunate to pass them. He makes sure to pat the manager on the shoulder on his way out, as if parting from a dear friend in a respectable manner. He bestows the man with a rubber bouncy ball. Koushirou knows this only because it follows Yamato out the door a beat later. Sora waits for him to finish, sitting on the cement stoop and blinking up at him slowly when he rushes down to meet their group.

He returns the look. "Gifts are polite," Yamato says, indignantly. His arms are still plenty full of toys, like the santa of rock stars.  "I told you I wasn't raised in a barn."

The rubber ball plummets down each step slowly, poking around Yamato's shoe and finally plopping into Sora's lap. She looks down at it, pressing her lips together. "Debatable."

[mz-hide]

Trick of Might - Chaper 7

Aka: a Dragon Ball Z slash fic.

Chapter 7

The calm before the storm.

Summary: An ancient enemy makes a sudden comeback into Goku’s life. Long-suppressed memories surface again and it’s no longer possible for the young saiyan to ignore them. Warnings: Dubious Consent, (because of drug use) Ships & Pairings: Bulma/Vegeta, Goku/Vegeta, Goku/Turles, Goku/Turles/Vegeta, Turles/Vegeta, Raditz/Turles, Nappa/Turles, Nappa/Raditz/Turles, Daiz/Turles Contains: Threesome - M/M/M, Group Sex, Polyamory, Aphrodisiacs, Secret Crush, Confessions, Enemies to Lovers, Love Triangles, Oral Sex, Blow Jobs, Anal Sex, Gay Sex, Biting, Scratching, Boners All Around, Feral Behavior, (just a tiny bit), Resolved Sexual Tension, Sexual Content

You can find the rest on my AO3 page (username: originalmonkeyhydes)

The Tree of Might was an enchanting enigma, one its ever consuming, demanding nature made it all the harder for him to study. No matter how long he’d been spreading its seeds across the galaxies, watching it feed on entire planets and then absorb their energy himself, through its fruits, it seemed as if its potential was bottomless. Its existence was an endless mystery, perpetually enfolding.   Ever since he’d found it on his path, Turles had lived just to prod its most hidden essence, in awe of its many secrets. After all the time he’d spend feeding of its power, stumbling upon something new like that was truly surprising. He had tried eating its sap before, but somehow it had never crossed his mind to do when it was in bloom. Had he regretted not having thought about it before, surrounded by its sweet scent and warmth, flared nostrils and delight filling his lungs with every greedy breath. He’d almost risked not making it out the experiment alive, so long he’d lingered on the doomed dwarf planet, delaying his departure as much as possible to indulge the pleasure of his latest discovery. He had to repeat the experiment as soon as luck allowed it. It wouldn’t have helped with his primary research but “for the hell of it” was a good enough excuse for his newly ticked interests. Luckily finding a planet that mediocre in size was an easier feat than finding one apt for the tree’s final stages. It didn’t take him long to figure out how to recreate the perfect conditions for the magic to happen and once he did, he would seek out all the perfect planetary candidates, order his crew to wait for him at the other side of the planet and retreat on his Tree to celebrate in solitude. There was nothing sweeter than reaping what he’d so lovingly sowed. It didn’t take him long before the idea of sharing his new discovery started to tickle his fancy. He’d just started wondering who to share it with when the answer come to him. Specifically, it came in the form of one of his crew members, following him to the Tree, too curious too see what their leader was up to to obey his orders. He’d waited to reach the thickest part of the Tree’s crown before acknowledging the observer’s presence. “Disobeying my direct orders, Daiz?”, he’d called out. The man behind him audibly flinched. “I know you’re there. Come out. Now.” His minion was wise enough to recognize a command when he heard one. “How-?” “You forget I’m a saiyan”, the pirate said, not deigning to turn to the intruder just yet, “I might not have a scouter on but I can still smell you.” “C-captain, I-“ “You were following me, were you not?” “It’s just that… For some time now you’ve been choosing odd planets to plant the Tree. This planet is not a good candidate for it to bear fruits. It’s highly likely that it won’t resist much longer before crumbling apart. And you come here alone, without armor and without a scouter and I-” “You were curious to see what I’ve been doing up here all this time. Correct?” “Well…” “Answer me. I asked you a question. Am I correct?” “Yes, Captain.” Turles took a long, dramatic breath, inhaling the scents around him and a dangerous smirk bent his lips. It was time. His eyes caught sight of a dark, wound-up bud. He reached out to grasp it. Thick, juicy petals unfolded in his grasp, releasing a gush of rich, crimson sap trickling down his elbow. He brought his arm to his face and licked the liquid off. His nostrils twitched in delight as a familiar heat started spreading through him. He could feel the other’s tension as he watched him, taste the apprehension that took hold of him, ignoring what was about to happen. And it was delightful. What luck indeed that it had been Daiz the one to follow him up there. He was going to make the best out of that situation and he knew just how to. “Curiosity kills, Daiz. Isn’t that how the saying goes?” “I didn’t mean to-“ “Hush. No need for apologies. After all it’s just normal that you would follow your gut. After all, I should know. I’ve followed mine across the universe in pursuit of answers. We’re not that different, you and I.” He let another pause of silence fall between them as he intently sucked his fingers clean, feeling his suit grow tighter around him.  Only then did he turn his head to look at him. The sight of deep, blue eyes blown wide with apprehension was a welcome one. The other’s mouth was pulled into a tense, thin line, his body stiff and alert. Turles studied his underling carefully. There was no doubt he had gotten wind of the heavy fragrance stagnating in the air, he wouldn’t have needed a saiyan’s keen sense of smell to detect that. To his disappointment, however, it didn’t seem to have any particular or significant effect on him other than elicit curiosity. But there was an anticipation to him that spoke of something other than fear and wariness, something Turles had his fun willfully ignoring so far, watching it increase over time as if nurtured by his neglect. Daiz had always struck him as an ideal servant, needy for praise, eager to obey, qualities a saiyan like him would have normally found demanding. Turles found it an enjoyable sensitivity to frustrate and tease. He’d had his fun in delaying and denying the satisfaction of his attention, of his praise, knowing it would only make his man’s needs grow keener. His indifference had kindled a desperate, voracious devotion. He could see it clearly bubble to the surface now, plain and evident, ripe for the plucking.   The dark saiyan’s lips pursed into a knowing smirk, pleased by the way the smaller alien was looking at him. The Tree might not have affected him, but something else clearly was. “Tell me, Daiz…”, he finally spoke again, obsidian eyes growing dangerously intense, an airy flutter in his voice, “Our races look quite similar, don’t you think? The rest of my crew is fine and mighty, that’s for sure, but aesthetically speaking they’re an oddly assorted bunch. You and I, on the other hand… we always had a special connection.” He licked his lips and saw the other warrior shudder slightly, following the movement of his tongue. No doubt he’d caught a glimpse of his fangs. Daiz always seemed to enjoy the likes of them and Turles was far from oblivious to it. Just as he was far from oblivious to the alien’s subtle charm. Daiz was smaller than him, weaker, supple in interesting places and slender in others. The hue of his hair and irises, the asymmetrical pupils, the crisp, almost mineral scent of him… everything about him was entirely alien to Turles. And yet, entirely alluring in a lot of wrong, right ways. “Between you and me, I’ve always felt like the both of us would fit better together… if you catch my meaning…” “I think I do”, the other replied fervently. “I do know what you mean.” The captain found the way the youth was looking at him very much to his liking. “Very well, then, I guess you won’t mind me asking this of you”, Turles carried on, turning and standing in front of his crew member, the front edge of his pants tugged down and one hand shamelessly groping the base of his engorged sex. “How would I go about sticking this inside you?” The blue haired alien’s eyes blazed with eagerness, as he slowly crawled up to him and meekly got to his knees. “I would start from here”, Daiz murmured, disclosing his jaws. An elongated blue tongue stretched out of his mouth, sheepishly. Turles smirked. He put a hand on the back of his soldier’s head and took the advice, sliding home. He too found that was a damn good place to start.

Bulma had been so dumbfounded by Vegeta’s sudden interference she hadn’t recovered her wits in time to put some distance between herself and the ship. When the rockets went off, she was sent staggering backwards and lost her balance. She’d lowered the hand she’d shielded her eyes with and looked heavenwards, watching the fire trail scorching the terse, midnight sky. One last glimmer, probably occurred at the edge of Earth’s atmosphere, and the ship was out of sights. That unbelievable tool! She directed a ferocious glare at the sky that went sadly ignored. Not that it would have had any effect even if Vegeta had been able to see it. So, she directed her scowl towards the Namekian. The green alien had no trouble enduring the strong gusts of air from the ship’s departure, obviously. He also hadn’t moved a muscle to prevent her from falling backwards, butt down on her parent’s lawn. He stood tall and still, holding his precious, unconscious pupil in his arms, his disapproving gaze directed upwards where the ship had disappeared from view. Bulma let out an exasperated sigh and pushed herself back on her feet. She should have known better than to expect Piccolo to put her safety before Gohan’s. Her friend’s son was the only thing that could make the Namekian seem human. That devotion was almost moving. Too bad that, in any other department, he was just as infuriating as Goku and Vegeta. “Brutes and ingrates, all the men in my life”, the scientist mumbled, swatting grass off her clothes. “Mind explaining to me what was that all about?!” Piccolo didn’t budge, as if he hadn’t heard her at all. If the height difference hadn’t been so dramatic, she would have gladly yanked the Namekian by those long, green ears of his. “What did you do to Gohan?” That seemed to get through to him. The alien lowered his gaze on hers. He appeared tense. “I only knocked him unconscious.” “You say that like it isn’t a big deal!”, the woman exhaled, exasperated, bending down to examine the boy’s head. “If I hadn’t done it, he would have run after Vegeta and I couldn't have stopped him.” “I still fail to see how that would have been worse than letting Vegeta run after Goku on his own”, she huffed, “You could have least followed him. You seem to trust him as little as I do, after all.” “He insinuated that it would have been better not to follow along. Apparently, it’s saiyan business.” He grimaced as he said that. “Honestly…”, Bulma sighed, letting her eyes fall on the unconscious boy’s face. “Well… Vegeta’s gone and the only person who could go after him now is missing too. There’s only so much we can do at a time like this. We should take care of Gohan now. I can get a bed ready for him and get an ice pack or something-“ “Bulma, sweetie! What was that noise just now?” Her mother had stuck her head out of a window calling for her. “Nothing, Mom. Just Vegeta being Vegeta again. He took the ship for a spin. Got back to sleep!” “I would, but the noise woke the baby and he’s crying like a little demon!” “Just what I needed…”, Bulma groaned, running a hand across her face. “It took me a whole hour to put him to sleep earlier too…” “You seem to have your work cut out for you. I’ll take care of Gohan”, the Namekian declared, holding the youth against his ample chest. I wish Vegeta were half as considerate of his own son… “Chi Chi should be grateful you’re around”, she told him as he turned to leave. “You should remind her if she gives you trouble. She’s not going to be happy to find out her husband’s gone again and you knocked her precious boy out.” She could swear the alien had stiffened at those words. She had no time to confirm her sensation, however. In the blink on eye, the green-skinned warrior had flown off. Bulma was left alone with a crying infant and her own moping ruminations. “Here he goes again, blasting off into space without a “goodbye” or “thank you”… sometimes I wonder if he forgets I’m the mother of his own son”, she was mumbling, begrudgingly, as she rocked little baby Trunks back and forth to calm his crying down. “Your daddy is the universe’s biggest idiot”, she confessed her son, almost apologetically, as she offered him her breast to suckle on. “Sometimes I wonder what I ever saw in him…” If only she’d opened her eyes sooner, she could have tied the knot with Goku instead. Maybe she would have found herself cradling a sweet, dark-haired baby instead of a blue-haired one… The scientist shook her head. The late hour was starting to push silly thoughts on her. Goku had grown into a handsome man, there was no denying that, just as it was pointless denying she’d found herself fantasizing about her friend in that way multiple times. The thought was like a delicious, whimsical “what if” she entertained her fancy with from time to time, fully knowing it wasn’t anything she truly regretted. Goku was a total hunk, that was true, but he was also a clueless, careless boy she’d grown to cherish as a friend. And a good friend he had been. As a husband, on the other hand… she was certain Chi Chi would have had quite a lot to say on the matter. Not that I’m in any position to judge either of them, after all... Trunks finally fell asleep again. She carefully laid him down in his crib once more, turned the lights low and left the baby monitor on before leaving the nursery. She dragged herself back to her own room and let herself fall face down on the bed, wincing slightly once the smell of sex left on her sheets filled her nostrils. Ah, yes… that was the other reason she kept putting up with Vegeta’s nonsense. She grimaced. I’m such a weak woman… if I had a little more backbone I would just kick him out for good. But he’s a fine man, more than easy on the eye. And in bed… A sigh. She could feel air hitting her rear, cooling the wet smear of moisture she hadn’t had time to clean off her before having to get out and save the day. …in bed, he’s a treat I deserve to enjoy to my heart’s content. These idiots wouldn’t know what to do without me. I have all the right to indulge in something nice, for once. Vegeta is not all that bad, after all… Sure, he came to Earth to steal our Dragon Balls and is he the reason most of the gang died back then… But he’s come a long way since. If he would only stop running off after Goku all the time he could almost be reasonably likable. Saying that was wishful thinking on her part was extremely reductive. Vegeta getting over his obsession -because obsession it clearly was- for Goku was unlikely to happen. The other saiyan was the only true reason Vegeta had decided to stick around on Earth in the first place. In a way, she owed her lover to her friend, but at times it felt like Vegeta thought she owed him her friend, instead. She couldn’t clearly tell what the dynamic between those two was truly about. She always felt there was something more than rivalry, some sort of tacit undercurrent she wasn’t sure the two warriors understood either. She tiredly slipped the shoes from her feet and climbed into bed properly. I ought to give myself some credit too, she thought to herself with the slightest hint of self-satisfaction, as sleep crept up on her. I did my hardest to keep Vegeta falling into my bed all this time and it has always worked. That’s all my doing and it paid off big time. She fell asleep, listening to the dull throbbing of her well-used sex fading away into a remote corner of her consciousness.

“What a vulgar woman…” The Prince had found himself uttering those words more and more often during his time at Capsule Corp. It had started as a scoff, a reflex caused by the scientist’s shameless way of flirting with him, but it had eventually grown into a secret expression of endearment. It couldn’t have been otherwise, when the blue-haired woman gave him that hungry yet knowing look. That was the look that had him follow her into her bedroom for the first time. “Yes. And you love it”, her half-lidded eyes seemed to say as she pushed him backwards towards her bedroom. Vegeta let himself be swayed. The press of her warm body against his promised something very unambiguous. He could feel she was wearing nothing beneath her clothes. She had a red dress on with buttons all the way down to the hem. The first handful had already been strategically unbuttoned. The Prince easily imagined himself ripping them all open in one yank, sending them flying across the room. It would probably have infuriated her, if he had, and it was something he wasn’t willing to risk right there and then. The two of them did not always go along. They would get on each other’s nerves more often than not. She didn’t fully understand him, nor did he her. But they soon learned they could rub each other in the right way as much as they would in the wrong way. For such a weak creature, Bulma was ridiculously assertive. She was a frail human. He was  saiyan elite. He could have easily blown her away along with her entire planet. And yet he turned meek as a sheep at her every wish and whim. It hadn’t taken long for the woman to seduce him. Despite his initial reluctance, the Prince had turned out to be an all-too-willing victim. He let her push him down on her bed, her mouth raining hot kisses across his own, his jawline, neck and chest her her hands nimbly hooked at the edge of  his trousers, pulling them down his hips. Vegeta’s own hands went to the taunting, plunging neckline, unbuttoning further down, just enough for the woman’s generous chest to spill free from its cotton cage. As expected, she hadn’t worn anything underneath. Bulma gave him a sly grin as she slid down his body to kneel between his legs, glancing appreciatively downwards at his rapidly swelling erection. “Oh my, is this for me?”, she mused, cupping one of her cheeks with a pale hand with mock-bashfulness. “Depends. Are you gonna do anything about it?” “Depends. Am I going to get something in return?” “Why don’t you go ahead and find out?” Bulma lowered herself against his crotch, her bosom morbidly encasing his sex as her hands ran along his well-toned thighs. “Why don’t you ask nicely first?” Not chiefly to her surprising attractiveness, but rather to her confidence he attributed his downfall. He had always responded well to that. It was in his blood, after all. The woman might not have been a saiyan, but Vegeta could very easily imagine her as one. With his entire species wiped out from the face of the universe, she was the next best thing to an ideal mate. For the sake of his pride, however, he couldn’t fully show just how much he was willing to comply. He wasn’t sure he liked any of the possible implications his immediate compliance would have entailed. Nonetheless, he found it tough to appear annoyed when faced with that sort of display. “Are you trying to domesticate me like I’m some sort of pet?”, he growled, grimacing ever so slightly. “Only if you’d like me to”, she replied, coquettishly, “You’re fun to play with.” Then, he found his window. He leaned back on the mattress, on arm holding his torso up and the other draped across it. He knew his chest would have stood out that way and. By the look in the scientist’s eyes as she followed his movements, it had worked. “Then, by all means”, he encouraged, his voice sultry yet demanding, gazing at her from below half-lidded eyes, “play with me.” Her eyes narrowed slightly. He could tell she was disappointed for not having reduced him to ask for it the way she wanted him to. He could also tell the unexpected twist didn’t completely disagree with her. In fact, if her lips initially pursed into a pout, they disclosed for him soon enough. And not for rebuking. To his satisfaction, her hands were on him and her tongue soon followed, expertly coaxing him and moistening him up for what was to follow. The saiyan let his head fall backwards once she took him in her mouth. It didn’t take long before his breath started hitching. He sucked air in through his teeth, hissing, long-drawn out sighs hollowing his lungs as sweet suction enveloped him to the root. Her hands had been diligently repurposed, touching and teasing at his base and at his sack until he could feel his toes curl. If he hadn’t known any better, he could have sworn the woman had a cock of her own. She knew her way around one way better than she had any business knowing. His free hand instinctively went to reach for her but was swatted away before it could fist handfuls of blue locks like it wished. “No pulling”, she warned him, sternly, the shadow of a pleased grin bending her lips. “Hands where I can see them, buddy.” He settled for gripping the sheets instead, feeling his body tense up, fighting the urge to buck into that wonderful mouth. The interruption hadn’t thrown her off. She picked up her rhythm almost immediately, ripping guttural groans from her lover’s throat. The only thing that kept him for throwing his bead backwards was the mesmerizing sight she offered, flushed cheeks stuffed full with him and watery eyes gazing upwards to look for his. Whether it was watching him or knowing she was watched in turn what she liked, he hadn’t found out yet. It hadn’t taken him too long to find out that for him watching her was half the pleasure. And did she give him pleasure! But pride demanded his due too. Holding himself back was grueling. He could feel sweat started to bead on his skin. Waves of heat coursed through him in shivers. He felt like he was steaming from every pore. The velvety glide of her tongue along the underside of him, the tight hollowing of her cheeks and her accommodating throat… the bobbing of her head was far from from being relentless, but it was steady and committed. She knew exactly what she was doing; driving him insane. His sex throbbed eagerly. His fists clenched the sheets underneath him until he couldn’t hold back anymore. Only a fervent grunt warned her of his imminent release. The woman let him go just in time to avoid having her mouth filled with his seed. Spurts of warm spent hit her across the lips and underneath the chin, dripping sloppily on her voluptuous chest. For a moment, they stared at each other, wordlessly, both flushed and heaving. Bulma wiped her lip with her thumb, triumphantly, glancing down at his softening length. Vegeta, on his part, looked thoroughly appeased, glancing at the mess they’d made with approval written all over his face. “It’s nice to play nice, isn’t it?”, he taunted, smirking smugly down at her. He made a move to get on his feet and pull his pants back up but he was stopped in his tracks by her hand gently pressing him down to the bed. Vegeta frowned slightly watching the woman climb up his body like he was a tree. “What now?” “You’re not going anywhere yet, mister. We’re not done here.” “Oh?”, he quirked a brow, watching the scientist urgently settle over him, knees on either side of his face. She hitched her dress up. The scent of her arousal hit him, making his nostrils twitch. She wasn’t wearing anything under either. “Dig in, Princey”, she requested, imperiously, letting an eager grin bend her lips. “You make my lunch breaks worthwhile but I haven’t got all day.” “And here I thought you were just trying to be selfless there”, the saiyan commented, appearing unimpressed. “I was, wasn’t I?”, she retorted, bringing her hand down, spreading herself for him. “Be good now and maybe you can have seconds later. Nice to play nice, remember?” He gave her a sardonic smile. She shivered in anticipation. His hands went to her waist and pulled her down towards his grinning mouth. It wasn’t long before she was reduced to a disheveled, whimpering mess. She was fun to play with too.

There was a mighty pulse rippling through the air that made the world shake, powerful enough to reach him even in the depth of sleep. Somehow, he felt like it was raining down on him. Goku found himself floating somewhere at edge of consciousness. The air around him felt heavy and muggy, sickeningly sweet balm filling his lungs. His body was encased in humid warmth, beading on his skin and hair. Unshakable lethargy clung to him mercilessly, making it his eyelids weight like boulders over his eyes when he tried to open them and see. Around him, just dense shade and the dim throbbing pulse of eerie, crimson fluorescence, ever present at the corners of his vision. Where once had been the heat of touch, the haunting brushing of skin against skin, now there was only the ghost of contact slowly cooling. Turles wasn’t there anymore. He was alone. And everything was still. But he could have sworn he’d felt something. Something familiar. He could feel it in his gut. He couldn’t tell how long he spent waiting, keeping himself from falling back into slumber, chasing the nagging suspicion he’d just felt something he should have known well as the beating of his own heart. Then, he felt it again. This time he felt the ground below shake with him and the air above shiver. It was an aura, one he knew well. Vegeta. He could sense him now. He could feel him. There was no mistaking this time around. His rival was near… Then, as quickly as it had flared up, the aura disappeared, leaving him alone with the doubt he’d been chasing an elusive dream of his clouded mind. Even so, he clung to the wake of his straining conscience. He tried relying on his ears next, but even those felt plugged by honey. It took him a whole to hear beyond the slow, rolling wave of his own breath. He heard a heavy rustling sound, like the sea crashing on a sandy shore when the wind had started to rise. He heard the faint sound of something dripping slowly, pooling on the ground around him, like humidity falling down in the mouth of a cave. Then, over the soft symphony, he caught a sound, like a distant echo. Voices, distant like they’d been speaking to him through the ground itself, but real nonetheless. Unmistakably so. Raising and falling at times, peaking somewhere between pleasure and rage. The warrior closed his eyes again, his ears straining to listen to those distant, mysterious sounds until he could recognize the familiar timber. Vegeta! The sound was faint enough to be the whisper of a dream but he found himself responding to it as if it had been flesh and bones, insinuating in his ears, dancing on his eardrums, sinking into him all the way to his core. And there is stayed, spinning his nerves like threads of silk. Vegeta… If it were a dream, it was all too indulgent, catering to his heart’s whims in that way. Even if it were a dream, this was one he was willing to indulge in. The warrior closed is eyes once more, letting darkness behind his eyelids conjure up images to match what his ears were hearing. His hands ran down his chest and stomach, reaching down where heat and blood had pooled. The dull, pulsing yearning of his loins was tickled and stirred, until his head swam. The air around him seemed to grow heavier, the fragrance stronger and sharper. Every touch, every pull washed through him like a warm, honeyed wave of delight. A swelling tide rose within him until he couldn’t take it anymore. Pleasure burst through him, flooding his senses. The tension in his spine and limbs dissipated as ecstasy washed over him, leaving a dim, enjoyable numbness in its wake. He didn’t have time to think about what had just occurred. He was too blissed out to, breath slowing down and delightful tingles in his gut. The heaviness of sleep was upon him, weighing down in his eyelids, his mind clouded with joyful contentment. Around him, sound softened and his mind too. His consciousness slipped all too easily back into slumber, like a baby falling asleep, sated and content, with a belly full of milk.

For a failed experiment, Daiz had been anything but a disappointment. Turles had to admit, even though finding that Ambrosia had no effect on the other alien had been a let down, the results had been extremely pleasant nonetheless. He had no idea Daiz could produce such sounds, like low, throaty hisses and wails. It sounded like Turles was forcefully knocking the breath out of his lungs with his every motion. Calling it gratifying would have been an understatement. The sight the smaller, paler body, bent in pleading offering before him, quaking and quivering with every one of his harsh, unforgiving thrusts was absolutely, maddeningly satisfying.   “C-captain… more…!”, the blue-haired alien was whining, hips shamelessly bucking backwards into his. “More- Ah!” He was cut off by a sharp blow on his rear, so hard it made his legs buckle. “I am your Captain” A dark hand fisted his hair harshly, yanking his head back against a snarling mouth. “You don’t give orders around here. I do. If you want something, beg for it.” Daiz appeared to have lost his ability to speak for an instant before he finally cried out eagerly, “More… please, Captain! Harder, please…!” A chuckle rumbled in Turles’ chest. “You’re a wanton slut, aren’t you?” Daiz’s head was pushed down and pinned to the ground, a large hand wound tightly in his hair, making his flexible back arch to its limits. His hands were shaking, curling and uncurling as he tried to hold on to something, anything. The dark saiyan was towering over him now, trapping him with his weight. Daiz wouldn’t have been able to get away from him even if he’d wanted to. And it was very clear the thought of leaving hadn’t even crossed his mind. The alien was glancing over his shoulder at him, his pupils blown wide open and glazed over with lust. His mouth was open, heaving and moaning like no tomorrow, drool trickling down his chin. He was completely out of it and loving every second. His wails grew higher and higher as he started moving again, slamming against him hard enough to properly pound him into the ground. Turles sucked air in through gritted teeth. It was a tight fit, made even tighter by other’s flesh clenching and throbbing about him. He was having the time of his life. “Daiz, you absolute freak…”, he hissed between thrusts, “You were wishing for this, weren’t you? You have been dreaming to have me inside you all this time!” “Yes… yes, Captain! Yes!”, the alien cried out louder and louder. One of his hands moved to reach in between his legs. The renegade caught sight of it and let go of his scalp to grin his wrists, lifting him up by his arms. “Don’t get distracted. This is what you wanted”, he growled, delivering a hard, emphatic thrust, “Now take it!” The alien’s whines were soon replaced by cries of encouragement once his Captain picked up his punishing pace once more. “Yes… YES!” He mounted him furiously, violently and Daiz came undone, just like that, without touching himself. And Turles was all too happy to turn him around and making him scream out for him again. He’d always had the feeling Daiz was a sucker for being kicked around. If only he’d known before just much of a sucker he was for being bent over and pounded like that he would have gotten him on his knees sooner. It was too bad Ambrosia had no effect on him. Since he was absolutely loosing his mind just from having Turles inside him, however, the dark saiyan couldn’t complain. Finding out his underling couldn’t wait to get underneath him was a sweet enough consolation price. He doubled him over, folded and twisted him in every possible position his sex-crazed brain could come up with. Any angle his mind would design for him, the other’s body would bend in. Maybe his enthusiasm got the best of him, maybe he did get too carried away, after all. Daiz burned out before he had the chance to fully sate his appetite. Turles felt the other’s body go suddenly lax and realized he’d passed out. “Is that all you got?”, he’d asked as he’d pulled away but got no answer. Daiz was sprawled before him, leaking his seed from both his thoroughly used holes. A welcome enough sight, as he took his own sex in the hand and painted his stomach white. I should have known. A lesser race couldn’t keep up with a saiyan, Turles considered, as he checked on the unconscious alien. He makes for a good toy. He should keep me well entertained while I go look for someone who could benefit from Ambrosia as much as me… He could feel an interesting idea tickling the back of his brain.

[mummapaintstheblues]

Dancing On The Ceiling

Hello lovelies! Hope you’re well. Here’s some smut!

Inspired by the beautiful and depraved souls of the nsfw family <3 

This is 4k of completely ridiculous indecency that nearly killed me, and it’s all filth. NSFW. An experiment in chakra control based kinkiness. My second attempt at smut! Enjoy!

The golden hour was fast approaching, that precious window of time during the middle of her busy shift where Sakura could spend sixty whole minutes sitting in blissful silence. Sometimes it was interrupted, which she considered an occupational hazard, but today she would be grateful for just a few seconds to herself.

It had been so much busier than usual, too many fledgling genin taking unnecessary risks, not enough staff. Sakura was used to postponing her breaks or even foregoing them altogether, but today she needed this.

Making a show of stretching her tired arms at the nurses station she turned toward the on call room.

“Alright, I’m on break guys. You know where to find me.”

There were nods all round as she raised a hand in a small wave. Halfway down the corridor she closed her eyes and sighed.

Finally, rest was within her grasp.

Though it seemed someone else also had a grasp on her.

A gloved hand snatched her wrist, yanking her backward before leading her toward the supply room. Sakura opened her mouth to argue but turned her head in time to see the back of a familiar mop of silver hair.

There was barely a second to think or mentally form the words to ask what he was planning. Pulling her in roughly through the door she finally got a glimpse of his face as she passed, the dark glint in his eye was recognizable enough. His next action confirmed her thinking.

Slamming the door shut with a fast jab, Kakashi rounded on her with speed that reminded her just how dangerous he could be. Releasing her hand, he used his to tug the mask down and under his chin. Sakura's mouth opened again to speak.

“What are you…”

The question was barely started before he'd muffled it. Lips meeting hers with a plundering fervor that she couldn't resist, as always. Their dalliances tended to play out like battles for the upper hand, an exciting and tempting game Sakura found herself caught up in once again.

Kakashi's towering figure began moving forward, pushing until her back hit a shelf of cleaning supplies. His hands on either side of her face capturing her lips preventing her from pulling away. Not that she would dream of it. Her own hands gripped at the front of his flak jacket, earning a grunt from him before a dominating tongue to forced its way into her mouth.

Sakura felt herself crumble and whimper, his hands drifting down to her hips, snaking into her lab coat. Eyes drifting shut, she pressed as many inches of her body against him that was physically possible.

Needing breath, her head was spinning before Kakashi reluctantly stopped the assault on her lips. Craning his neck down, resting his forehead against hers, he let out a long sigh of relief. His thumbs drawing circles on her hips sending pleasurable tingles to other parts of her body.

Both their chests were heaving.

“Miss me?”

He asked in a playful way that was instantly irritating. If her hands weren't so preoccupied in roaming his body as it pressed her into the shelf, she might've slapped him.

“You've got to be joking right? I saw you this morning…”

“Five minutes Sakura. I saw you for five measly minutes, after one whole week of not seeing you. And all I got to do was watch you get ready for work.” He whispered it huskily in her ear, his lips and nose forging a path down her neck, she tilted her head back to give him better access. “It’s been killing me all day”.

Fast becoming enraptured in the way Kakashi’s hands warmed her skin through her dress Sakura almost lost herself enough not to bite back. Damned if she was going to let him get the upper hand this early in the game.

“All day, really?” She couldn’t help the breathy way it sounded, with his tongue darting out in the sensitive areas behind her ear. “And what exactly has been killing you? You seem pretty alive to me.”

“For starters, these.” One of his hands trailed down, fingers just ghosting her curves before darting in between her legs. He pinched the sheer stockings she was wearing, pulling them back with a snap on her inner thigh. “You honestly can’t expect me to just watch you put these on and not find a way to fuck you.”

Kakashi kept his hand dangerously in between her thighs, caressing up and down again in a barely there dance that made her throb for something harder. Her own fingers emboldened in their search of his body, ducking beneath his shirt to trace the hard lines of his abdominal muscles. Down the tempting V line of his pelvis. He was practically growling in her ear at the touch.

Sakura's eyes rolled back into her head, starting to become impatient with his teasing. Maybe she had missed him a little. There was at least one surefire way to fast track his attentions.

“While I like the sound of that, Kakashi…” it was the most seductive she could deliberately say his name, “I only get an hour's break…”

It worked.

“I'm not finished yet.”

He interrupted her with an impatient gravely tone and a bruising hold of her hip. Kakashi even saw fit to nip at her ear just a little causing Sakura to jolt in surprise. She could feel his smirk before he captured her in another brief but searing kiss.

It seemed he was only interested in silencing her now, it became harder to form any coherent thought other than internally begging for his fingers to touch her where she needed it most.

“Then you decide to torture me further…” his hand ventured higher, her legs instantly parting to allow him. “You think I wouldn't notice?” Fingers began to coax and trace at her entrance through the stockings. “Not wearing panties is practically an invitation Sakura, and I can feel just how much you want it…”

The tenuous and languid strokes of her lips with his fingers caused a shuddering sigh to rattle her. The sheer fabric adding a delicious friction, but he was right, she could already feel her treacherous juices beginning to soak through the material. The throbbing of the bundle of nerves intensified as he avoided the area altogether, making an amused huff in her ear at her obvious frustration. His hot breath drifted over her collarbone as his head dropped. Sakura arched her back willing that wicked tongue of his to travel.

Unable to move her hips to grind against his hand, as he still pressed her into the shelf, she took in a shaky breath as the grip at her side shifted. Fingers roughly scraping her skin through her clothes as it wandered, when he reached her breast he began feverishly massaging and a moan drifted from her lips. But he wasn't finished.

“To top it off…” he paused to bite the tender flesh of her still covered but neglected breast. “This…” he shifted with skilled sleight of hand to pop the first button of the dress, “...is new.”

“You like it?”

Another growl. Another button popped.

“Just as long as I'm the one who gets to take if off you.”

Kakashi's lips now had an edge of impatience sucking the sensitive skin at the start of her mound. When he tore the rest of the buttons free to expose her lace covered brassiere, Sakura opened her mouth to make a noise of displeasure. Instead a mewling almost whine escaped as his fingers stole the opportunity to finally press rough circles on her clit.

Kakashi sucked harshly on her nipple through the flimsy material. Sakura found her hands retreating to grip into his hair. Not once did he let up on the tight and tortuous rubbing through her stockings. When his teeth came into play against her nipple Sakura jerked with a sharp gasp.

“Now what kind of medic wears underwear like this. I think you wore it on purpose to rile me up…” he pulled the cup of her bra aside with his teeth exposing the nub for his next line of assault.

Sakura could feel herself slipping, revelling in the intensity of his touch, bringing her closer and closer. Already her body was rippling for him, craving the way he could fill her, clenching for something cruelly just out of her reach. His hot breath and that sinful tongue of his just lapped at the pert nub and another moan threatened to escape. She remembered herself just in time to bite her bottom lip.

“I did wear it on purpose, I thought you, uh… liked my underwear”.

Kakashi made a stifled groan before exposing the other breast with more force than expected. The breathy words she had spoken in his ear sparked even more urgency from him.

“I like it.” He said darkly, flicking his tongue over her nipple before raising his head to hers. “I like it even better when it’s not in my way.”

With a crushing force their mouths met again, teeth clattering, a sharp pluck of her other nipple. Sakura began wantonly grinding into his hand feeling the high building within her about to burst. Her own hands began a frantic search for the hard bulge she desired most but a quick movement from Kakashi ceased their journey. Her breath was coming out in quick short gasps which stopped abruptly as his hand withdrew from her pulsating nub, his other drifting down from her breast to join the other between her legs. All the while tongues in a dizzying dance for the upper hand.

That was when she heard it. The loud tear. Her surprise was muffled.

Just before breaking the kiss Kakashi ran his fingers along her newly exposed entrance. Coating himself while continuing the circling of her clit with his thumb, a lone finger thrust into her and Sakura felt her muscles drawing him in.

“See.” He panted in her ear. “Much better.”

Kakashi added another finger for effect, Sakura moaned her satisfaction before he was swallowing the noise. The slick sound of him pumping his digits into her filling the room. As close as she had been to bliss and fulfillment moments ago now there was only blinding desperation to bring him over the edge with her. Kakashi's kisses hungrily devoured her neck, blatantly disregarding the hosiery as it tore even further with his ministrations.

Sakura finally managed to reach the tantalising bulge, finding him fully erect, she palmed its length through the fabric. Kakashi grunted in approval or impatience, returning his attention to her breasts. When her hand awkwardly tugged the zipper down and entered the dark confines of his pants Kakashi tried to throw her off by lifting one of her legs up. Hooking behind her knee and hitching the leg around his waist. The angle causing his fingers to hit deeper inside.

“Oh god…. Please Kakashi…”

The plea tumbled from her lips as her hand tried to grasp around his impressive hardness.

“Please?” He released her nipple with a pop and she groaned louder with a buck of her hips. “Please what, Sakura?”

It was hard to think, or concentrate, or even breathe with the way he was heavily pleasuring her aching bundles of nerves. He was everywhere, all over her body, pushing her closer to release. Through it all Sakura was vaguely aware that she had most definitely handed over control. If it didn't feel so damned good she might be angry about it.

“Please fuck me… Kakashi…”

She didn't even care that it sounded like a pathetic whine now.

“Not what I want to hear,” he added a third finger, “tell me what I want to hear Sakura.”

To stop herself from crying out she bit down on his shoulder. The mouthful of sweater softened the noise while stars began to form behind her eyes. The vice grip she had around his member tightened as she fervently tugged. But that self control of his was god like as ever, even with the tempting drops of precum aiding her movements. The leg wrapped around him began to twitch against her will, her muscles clenching down hard on his relentless fingers.

Sakura admitted defeat.

“I..unf… missed you so much.”

Kakashi let out a long breath as if he was relinquishing his composure.

“That’s my girl.”

Her walls and muscles clenched hard again as his fingers quickly pulled from her body. Their absence keenly felt with an almost painful rippling effect that left her shuddering. In an instant Kakashi had lifted her other leg, wrapping her fully around his waist, Sakura had to grip tightly at his shoulders to hold on. Giving up the treasure between his legs.

Colliding back into the shelf she met his dark gaze.

“Is this… what you missed hmm?” he pressed the head of his cock to her entrance, her body straddling his in all the right places, her eyes rolled back as he pushed inside. “You missed me filling you up, isn’t that right Sakura?”

Kakashi lingered, paused waiting on her answer.

“Yes, oh god...yes Kakashi…”

It was like something snapped in him with the last syllable of his name. Holding her up and against the shelf he began thrusting into her with a wild fervor. Her nails dug into skin through his clothing, his grip now on her hips turned harsh and bruising, lifting her up and slamming her down to meet his needy erection.

Sakura felt her walls already tightening, his breathing turned raspy in her ear until it suddenly felt like he’d stopped breathing altogether.

And that was when she heard it. The rolling and clank of the cleaner’s trolley as it hit the door to the supply room. Before she had even turned her head Kakashi was moving, whispering softly.

“Hold on tight…”

It was a stark contrast to the demanding tenor just a few minutes ago. Sakura couldn’t even bring herself to panic completely, still in a euphoric state of orgasm, and she trusted him entirely. At least for the moment anyway. She wrapped her legs tighter, buried her face in the juncture between his neck and shoulder, put her arms around him. In a matter of seconds Kakashi had thrown something, she didn’t see what, at the lightswitch, turning it off. The room was now spinning even in the pitch blackness, but it could have just been from his movement. When everything stopped moving her eyes still hadn’t adjusted to the darkness.

All she could tell, from where she sat still in Kakashi’s lap, with him still inside of her, was that he was also sitting. His back resting against something bulky, his legs straightened underneath her, one large hand still gripping her hip. When she heard the door creak open a small slither of light shone through and Sakura was immediately disorientated.

Just where in the hell…

Reality dawned on her. She leant back to look at his face in the dim light, feeling a dull throb of the member inside of her. An orderly humming something out of tune as they stocked the trolley, beneath them.

They were hiding on the freaking ceiling.

Kakashi’s back was against the air conditioning unit, his feet planted against the wall behind Sakura, holding them there with chakra alone. The look on his face was a mixture of pain and amusement in the shadows. She would’ve slapped him if it didn’t mean risking her precarious position.

The orderly left, not even needing the light on to find what they needed, and Sakura watched the door click shut with a sigh of relief.

“Are you completely insane?”

She could now see better, almost laughing at the way his hair was brushing the ceiling.

“Not completely, perhaps seventy percent, on a good day.”

This time she did wriggle a little to whack him playfully before putting one of her hands to the ceiling just above. Sending chakra to the palm for stability.

“More like ninety…”

“Ma, Sakura, just consider this an exercise in chakra control…”

Now he was kissing her, the chakra in her hand faltered just a little as she lost herself to the intensity of it. Heat was pooling where their bodies connected, Sakura’s tender muscles twitching around his member. Not as clouded by lust as before, that was when she noticed something very interesting. And enticing.

He couldn’t move.

She smirked into the kiss. Payback was a bitch.

Slowly Sakura summoned all of her kunoichi balance to place her other palm flat above her as well, both hands now holding her to the spot with chakra. Experimentally she rolled her hips and he groaned into her mouth.

Then she pulled herself up with her arms before dropping back down onto his length. It was something like a pull up exercise that wasn’t all that difficult.

Immediately her body was screaming to do it again, to keep crushing against him like that harder. And as much as she wanted those bolts of pleasure to coarse through her repeatedly she wasn’t entirely sure how much he could hold before they both fell to the ground.

It would be an interesting game, and now she was the one in control.

As if hearing her thoughts the universe saw fit to add another element to it. The door opened and shut quickly with a click and muffled laughter. Sakura broke the kiss to peer out from behind the air conditioning unit, there was no way she would be seen in the shadows. The new invaders seemed to be too preoccupied with each other to notice in any case.

The noisy sound of slurpy kisses and sweet moans reached her ears. Sakura realized Kakashi would definitely have heard it as well, she chanced a glance at his face to see his eyes widen imperceptibly. She could feel the twitch of his cock inside of her, it must be killing him not being able to move. Feeling briefly empathetic she continued a dull circular motion of her hips, relishing the way he bit his bottom lip.

“Take it off, quick…” a female voice urged.

“No time. Just turn around.” The male replied.

Sakura got a full view of the woman bending over slightly, holding onto an upper shelf with both hands, a man stood behind her. Without any more foreplay he was pulling her panties down and ramming himself in. There was a stifled cry of pleasure before it was followed by increasingly louder smacking sounds of wet flesh.

For a brief moment Sakura watched transfixed, unable or unwilling to look away, the rotating of her hips gained a bit more momentum. Those sparks of pleasure were building again, like a fire that could grow out of hand at any second. Kakashi’s hot breath in her ear was a reminder that she needed to concentrate, unless she wanted to fall and crash the party. Literally.

“Sakura, see something interesting?”

His whisper was downright salacious in her ear. Made worse by the increasingly hard jerks of the man's hips as he buried himself inside that woman. Whatever spot he’d hit made her moan louder than before.

“Maybe just a little. Want me to describe it?”

Sakura watched Kakashi close his eyes tightly with a sharp nod. The length inside her twitching even more despite her increased movements. It made her realize one more thing, he was really getting off on this. She began that steady motion of before, lifting herself up slightly before dropping down, leaning in to whisper in his ear. From this position there was a slim view of the rutting couple below.

“Well, she seems to be enjoying herself…”

“So I hear.”

His reply was through gritted teeth. Sakura couldn't believe how much she was savouring having him under her complete control.

“He's taking her from behind, up her skirt…” she deliberately crushed her hips up and down against his in quick succession and didn’t stop. “She’s just dropped her hand between her legs to play with herself.” An especially loud moan accompanied Sakura’s words, Kakashi’s breath became uneven. “He’s going so fast and hard, I think she’s going to come…”

More sounds of slick slapping, more grunts and moans. Sakura continued to watch them, her own movements increasing in pace and ferocity. Kakashi’s voice was utterly broken in her ear, his usual cool vanished.

“Do you… like… watching them fucking Sakura?”

She nearly groaned in reply, juices flowing from her and coating him, likely spilling to the floor below. It was almost lucky that there was clothing still on to soak up the moisture. As much as she wanted to give in to him, ride him unmercifully until she came again, this was her moment in control. Her game. And she was about to go in for the kill.

“Only because I get to fuck you while I watch.”

Using all her trained skill, Sakura tensed her muscles around him and was rewarded with an honest to god whimper. Kakashi had just whimpered. She thrust and rotated her hips with wild abandon relishing the feeling while she attempted to keep her wits about her. It seemed the other couple were nearing their grand finale, a swift hand reaching up to slap the woman’s ass as he pounded into her. Despite her resolve Sakura briefly closed her eyes, the sensory overload causing a ripple of pleasure. But she wasn’t done with him yet.

“And I like it...much better… when you fuck me hard like that… and spank me.”

Kakashi’s breathing was ragged and out of rhythm.

The groaning below them had also reached high volume.

“I’m… gonna...come in you…” The man moaned in between grunts, at this point the woman was beyond words as she too reached her limit.

“Kakashi...I want you to come in me… now…”

Sakura’s plea undid him. She jerked her hips relentlessly, beads of sweat dripping from his face, huffs of breath like he had just run a marathon. Her own orgasm reached her, with a force that made her eyes shut tight, the pounding of the blood in her ears drowning out the sound of the couple semi cleaning themselves and leaving in a rush.

She noted her chakra hadn’t faltered one bit, used to the constant channeling and filtering to different areas of the body.

But Kakashi looked ready to collapse. Every single one of his muscles was tense or shaking with strenuity, his head slumped forward onto her chest, breathing still laboured.

Then she started laughing. His head very slowly raised.

“What’s...so...funny?”

“I was just thinking how useless you’re going to be later when I get home. Next time can you wait just a bit longer?”

Now he was laughing but still short of breath.

“Next time… don’t tempt me...so much…”

Sakura rolled her eyes, pulled herself up completely and off him. Throwing herself to the floor with grace and ninja skill. When Kakashi basically dropped in an almost crumpled heap a second later the mirth returned to her features.

“Lucky we’re in a hospital. How about next time we find less strenuous exercises in chakra control?”

He attempted to slowly straighten himself, she aided him for a second.

“That sounds like a tempting challenge…”

He winked at her.

Sakura spent the rest of her day acutely aware of the various inconspicuous ceiling spaces in other parts of the hospital. And making excuses about how she’d accidentally ripped her stockings. She didn’t even mind that her break had been interrupted today.

[gratitudejoyandsorrow]

M-I-A-M-I (PART 2)

Prompt: Please read Part 1 first. Inspired by Daveed’s Instagram post that made the fandom go wild. Y/N and Daveed are in Miami, and things are about to get hot.

Pairing: Daveed Diggs x reader

Warnings: Smut. It’s porn, basically.

A/N: *smokes a cigarette* Shout out to @imaginebeinghamiltrash, @tempfixeliza, and the anons who made sure I wouldn’t abandon this story. Also, @tallish-hobbit  here ya go. Ready to sin? Lehggo.

 You were trembling.

 Even in the crowded elevator, you were focused on Daveed’s hand that was tightly squeezing your hip. No one else mattered when your sexy boyfriend was pressed against you from behind, his dick snuggled between your ass cheeks, a prominent reminder that you were going to get fucked very soon.

 You silently beg the elevator to move faster, feeling like it ascended in an extremely excruciating speed. You ignored the quizzical looks that were thrown your way when you pushed the ‘close door’ button right after a person left for their floor. Sure it was rude as hell, but you didn’t care.

 “Y/N,” Daveed laughs, grinning from ear to ear. He kisses your neck, right above your fluttering pulse, and the gentle brush of his beard against your sensitive skin caused goosebumps to rise on your arms.

 You wanted to feel that sensation everywhere – against the valley of your breasts, your stomach, between your thighs…

 You snap out of your thoughts when the elevator dinged, indicating that it reached the top floor. You and Daveed rush out of the elevator, leaving the remaining occupants behind. He guides you towards the room, and you couldn’t help but laugh when you saw that one of his hands was failing to cover up his very obvious hard-on.

 Your giggles were smothered by his lips the second that you were inside.

 Daveed pushes you against the door, his hands weaving around your hair to kiss you deeper, teeth clicking together from the force of his kiss. His knee parts your thighs and you groan, standing on your tippy toes and shifting your hips to feel the delicious friction on your sensitive flesh.

 He runs his tongue over your lower lip, his hands moving from your hair to your undulating hips to help you move. He sucks on your lower lip when you whimper, eyes screwed shut as you focus on the pressure on your clit. His tongue begins to imitate the motions of fucking, and you nearly lose it, the rolling motion of your hips becoming faster.

 With a shuddering breath, you come, waves of pleasure washing over your body. You kiss him fervently, your lips swollen from his affections.

 But the feeling of satisfaction was brief. You wanted more. Needed more.

 Determined, you push him away from you. Understanding what you wanted to do, Daveed lets you guide him to the bed. He sits, eyes gleaming, and you slide down to your knees. You help him out of his shorts and underwear and your eyes lock with his as you reach for his cock.

 “Baby,” he murmured as you kissed the tip of his dick. His hands find your hair again, brushing it behind your ear tenderly. He groans, hips lifting up from the bed when your tongue swirls around him. You run your tongue along his length then engulf him into your mouth, causing him to tighten his hold on your hair to control your movements.

 Daveed caresses your hollowed cheeks before gently pulling you off him. He grabs your chin, tilting your face up to press a heady kiss on your reddened lips. Wordlessly, he tugs you up to your feet and guides you to straddle him.

 “It’s not fair that I’m naked and you’re not,” he says, voice thick with lust, “so let’s fix it.”

 You tug your sports bra over your head, breasts feeling full and heavy from his stare. “Better?” you ask.

 You squeal and automatically wrap your legs around him when he flips you over. Daveed grins as he hovered over you, loose strands from his bun framing his face. “Much better,” he answers.

 You reach for him and he meets you halfway, lips pressing together in a languid kiss. With your mouths still sealed together, he unwraps your legs around him and trails his hands down your sides, seeking the waistband of your shorts. He pulls away from you and with baited breath, you watch him tug the material down your hips.

 Your panties came next.

 You were reeling with anticipation as his fingers stroked up and down your wet heat.

 “Damn,” he murmurs, “your pussy is so wet.”

 You bite back a moan, loving the dirty talk.

 His thumb circles your clit once. “Have I been neglecting you for too long, baby?”

 This time you couldn’t hold back the moan when his finger slides into you. You grip the sheets, breathing heavily as he finger-fucked you.

 He hums, adding another digit. “You want my cock bad, don’t you?”

 “Daveed,” you whine, desperate. You wanted more than his fingers.

 You needed him.

 “Don’t worry,” he coos, tasting his fingers coated in your juices, “I’ll take care of you.”

 You both groan when his cock slides against your pussy. You felt intoxicated when the spongy head of his cock brushes against your clit. “Daveed, I swear to God,” you pant, feeling light-headed. Every single fiber of your body was thrumming, ready for him to fill you up.

 “Maybe I’ll make you cum this way first,” he teases, slowly sliding his length along your pussy, lingering on your too sensitive clit at each pass.

 You wanted to scream. “No,” you command, “you fuck me right now.”

 His playful demeanor diminishes and he pulls your legs open wider. With one hand on your hips and the other on his cock, he sinks into you, inch by inch. You tense, his girth stretching you.

 “Breathe, baby,” he grunts, voice tight, then kisses your nose.

 He waits, thumbing your clit to ease your discomfort as you adjusted. He reaches for your hand, intertwining them together. “Are you okay?” he asks softly, stomach clenched tight from fighting his urge to move.

 After a moment you nod and shift your hips, gasping when it hit a sweet spot. Daveed doesn’t miss a beat and surges forward, your breasts bouncing from the sharp movement.  He sets a steady rhythm and you wrap your legs around his waist, his body grinding wonderfully against your clit. You blindly reach for him and kiss him, tongues rolling over each other.

 “Oh fuck,” you quiver, feeling like a coiled spring ready to be released.

 He starts pounding harder into you, loving how you were losing yourself. The sound of the bed squeaking and the headboard thumping against the wall in a steady rhythm were erotic to your ears.

 In the distant corner of your mind, you hear the banging against the wall.

 “I need to,” you gasp, losing your train of thought. You clutch at the sheets as your body began to tense, ready for the mind numbing orgasm that you knew was coming.

 His hands dig into your skin, hips rocking in a ruthless pace, and you sob, succumbing to your orgasm. Tears blur your vision, shockwaves of pleasure rippling through your body.

 Daveed clenches his jaw, relishing the feel of your pulsing pussy around his cock. He’s panting heavily, a bead of sweat running down his temple, fighting against his orgasm. The sight of you with glassy eyes and hair tangled mess was driving him wild.

 You let out a moan of disbelief when he slings your leg over his arm, starting a slow, rutting motion. “I can’t,” you keen, blood roaring in your ears, too sensitive.

 “You can,” Daveed growls, his thrusts reaching deep, then uses his other hand to pin your wrists flat on the bed. He leans forward, planting a kiss on your neck, and repeats himself. “You can.”

 Your breath hitches and you arch your back, trails of fire burning down your body to where you two joined. Daveed’s thrusts begin to get sloppy and your foggy mind barely registers his command to touch yourself. You obey, plucking your nipples, crying out with each of thrust of his hips.

 He loses his tempo, but each roll of his hips pushed you both closer and closer to oblivion. Sweat collects on his forehead, droplets falling on your skin every time he moves. He’s muttering words under his breath you couldn’t catch, but you didn’t care once his fingers reach down to circle your clit.

 You yell out, orgasm causing the Earth to stop spinning on its axis.  

 Daveed follows suit, groaning long and loud, and you burn the image of him frozen on top of you to memory. He slips out of you and rests his forehead against yours, still panting.

 The two of you sit in silence, eyes locked, basking in the glow of each other.

 Finally, he smiles and brushes his lips against yours. “Hi.”

 You smile, “Hi.”

 Another silence.

 “Finally,” you whisper, grinning.

 “You silly, impatient girl,” Daveed laughs, gently knocking his fingers against your skull to reprimand you, “let’s go and get cleaned up.”

 You give him a sheepish smile.

 “I can’t feel my legs.”

 He lets out a shout of triumph.

[photosandlyrics10]

Perfect Pieces

Broken Pieces (Beginning) Masterpost

Sometimes the people we least expect, are the ones that mean the most to us.

________________________________________________________________

It had been a few months since you had resigned from Tres Spades, attending the nearby University for classes.

It was around noon as you made your way to the nearby coffee shop. With your book bag slung over your shoulder, you had the rest of your textbooks in the crook of your shoulder. As you opened the door, you ordered an Americano and took a seat nearest to the window. You didn’t seem to notice a familiar figure take the seat across from you as you took a sip of your coffee.

“Nice to see you here pretty lady.”

Looking up from your textbook, your eyes widened at the man in front of you. Baba gave you a kind smile, it was different from the way he looked at others. There was something different about him, something different from his flirtatious behavior.

“Baba!” You exclaimed as he smiled warmly at you. He wore a brown apron over his white collared shirt, something similar to what the male baristas were wearing.

“You work here now?”

“It’s just a part-time job. It’s just something to get out of the house.”

Nodding your head in silence, you couldn’t help to look out the window. A small bird sat in a nest as its mother nudged it towards the edge. The small bird turned to look at its mother before walking towards the edge. The small bird opened its wings, soon taking off into the sky, only to have its mother watch it leave.

“They all gotta leave the nest at some point,” Baba said as you turned to him. His gaze was fixed upon the nest as you slightly muttered,

“Or their cage.”

Baba nodded his head as you took another sip of your coffee. You then proceeded in a small voice, the question that had been tugging at your heart.

“How is he?”

Baba’s voice shifted into a dark and serious tone. His facial expressions now resembling bitter resentment and anger.

“He’s gone on a binge, always drinking something powerful. Says he’s trying to drown away all of his worries. His business plans are plummeting since you left, the call girl keeps trying to call him, but he ignores her. He’s gone back to sleeping around with his groupies…”

Baba shakes his head in disgrace as he turns his gaze upon you. You looked down at your books. Should I feel resentment or satisfaction for his pain?

“One thing I can tell you,” You said as you paused. “If he truly wanted me back, he would have fought a lot harder. No excuses…I don’t know whether I should feel sheer pity or just scoff at him…”

You felt a warm sensation placed upon your hand as you looked up to see Baba smiling at you. It wasn’t his fake smile he put up, there was a bit of actual happiness within him.

“Y/N…I’ve been wanting to ask you this for a while.” He paused as you noticed a small blush appear on his face. “Um..there was this beautiful park that I wanted to take you, maybe have a picnic there too.”

You felt your face heat up as you smiled and looked away. I feel like I’m in Middle School again.

“Y/N?” Baba said softly as he gave you a nervous smile.

“How does Friday sound?”

Baba walked through the elevators, his coffee shop uniform gone, replaced by his infamous red suit.

“Hey, guys!” Baba walked out from the elevator as Mamoru dragged out a puff of smoke from his cigarette. Soryu barely glanced from his newspaper as Eisuke came staggering down the stairs. His suit was messed up while his hair was everywhere. One of his groupies clung onto him and stroked his chest.

“See Eisuke..”She purred at him as he pulled out his flask. “You need me! I know you want me to stay with you!” While he unscrewed the cap, Ota just looked at him with disgust.

“That can’t be good for him. He’s been drinking every day since Y/N left him, he’s never been the same.” The rest of the bidders agreed with the young blonde as Soryu soon replied,

“At least that call girl doesn’t come here anymore. Her voice was so annoying..” The bidders shuddered at the memory as a crash was heard from behind them. The staggering woman had tripped and hit her head against the table. Eisuke, who just stood there, he poured the rest of the contents of his flask on her and walked away. He turned to the rest of the bidders as he said, “Clean this up.”

Friday soon arrived as you stood in front of your closet, debating on what you would wear. Too many choices.You thought to yourself before pulling out a sun dress. Interesting… I wonder how this will turn out.

Meanwhile, a certain brown haired gentleman took one last look in the mirror. He wore a crisp navy blue button up shirt with beige stripes on the bottom of the collar while having black slacks and sleek black loafers. He grabbed the rest of the containers on the table and placed them into the picnic basket. The brown haired man smiled at himself, things were finally going to change.

As you opened the door, Baba stood right in front of you with a bouquet of red roses. You noticed how he began to stutter as you locked your door. You wore a beige colored summer dress that went to your knees with a cream colored cardigan. While wearing tights underneath, you had also had on pastel pink Adidas sneakers. You chuckled as Baba only grinned at you, holding his arm out to escort you to the elevator.

As Baba opened the door for you to get out, you were amazed by the view. The sun shone brightly as the mountains were easily visible from your view. Baba took your hand and led you towards a long lane of cherry blossoms, which lead to an arched bridge. As both of you made your way to the bridge as small pink petals blew into your hair.

“Hey,” He said, his brown eyes looking down into your hair. “There’s some petals in your hair.” You felt his warm fingers gently pluck the light pink petals out of your hair. His gaze turned to you as you felt your face turn pink. Taking your small hand and entwining it with his fingers, he gently pulled you alongside him.

Finally, both of you reached a large lake surrounded by cherry blossoms. The ground was covered with pink petals as both of you made your way the waterfront. The lake reflected the trees, as the reflection of pink remained in the water. Baba began to set up the blanket as you took pictures of the beautiful scenery, as well as a few of Baba. :)

As both of you ate the food Baba had prepared, you noticed how he made small glances in your direction. Smiling at the gesture, you watched as the sun began to set, while mini lanterns began to light up around you. You felt something warm caress your hand as you looked up to meet a pair of hazel orbs looks into yours.

“Y/N,” He said, his hand began to caress your face. “I’ll be your new knight in shining armor” His face began to inch towards yours, as you felt his lips gently brush upon yours. Blushing, you dipped your head to the side before leaning in again. Opening your mouth a little, Baba took the chance of forcing his tongue onto yours. You found your hands clinging onto his hair, moaning into his mouth. He gently sucked on your lip as you continued to moan in pleasure. The taste of his lips was addicting as both of you fell into a loving bliss.

________________________________________________________________

I did not mean to make the ending really weird towards the end…I was kinda unsure how to end it. 

Also, I’d like to thank @perfectlylmperfekt for the suggestion of bidder.