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dethoratsPrompt: Massage Oil
Pairing: Nathan + Pickles/Murderface
Murderface ground his teeth in frustration as Nathan moaned again, a deep, sensual sound that settled in his gut and fermented, stewing just as he was. “Hurry it up already, scheezy.”
Nathan’s response was another groan as he brushed at the spittle that had landed on his arm. As for the cause of Nathan’s pleasure, he just grinned, kept on working. “Some things jest can’t be rushed. You’ll getcher turn.”
Jealous eyes watched as the drummer’s hands worked their magic, palms gliding easily through the massage oil that glistened on the singer’s back. Nathan, eyes closed, was practically purring, a low rumble coming from his tired throat. Pickles, wearing just jeans and freckles, straddled the front man’s hips as he coaxed kinks and knots free. The image they presented, combined with the noises from Nathan and his own eagerness to feel those fingers touching his skin, was creating a situation uncomfortably like when Skwisgaar and the aforementioned drummer chose to eat corndogs and bananas for dinner. Murderface clenched the suddenly-too-low-and-revealing folds of his towel and wished he’d chosen to wait in his shorts, no matter how nasty they’d have felt after his shower. He was almost tempted to flee, but the promise of a Pickles backrub after a show was too precious to be passed up.
Nathan reluctantly cracked an eyelid as he listened to the sudden agitated pacing and muttering; opened both all the way to drink in the noticeable bulge beneath Murderface’s towel. The grin on his face was wide and hungry, feral, as he shifted soothed muscles to glance back at his drummer. Pickles had a wicked gleam in his when Nathan caught his eyes and he nodded slightly to the raised eyebrow. Wiping his palms on the terrycloth draped over Nathan’s hips – and copping a feel while he was at it – the drummer carefully stood. “Yer turn, Murderface.”
“Finally!” And pretending that he wasn’t flushing or walking funny, the bassist settled easily into the newly-vacant space. Warm oil pooled in the small of his back and then nimble fingers spread it, digging in and easing the sore spots. Murderface sighed in relief and went limp, eyes closing as he drank up sensation through his skin. He didn’t even notice the way he pressed occasionally into the couch, rubbing his dick lightly against the pleasant friction of his towel.
He certainly did notice, though, when Pickles splashed more oil onto the small of his back, dragged a finger through slickness and caught it on his towel and didn’t stop. As his mouth opened, to protest or ask for more he couldn’t - wouldn’t - say, Nathan stepped forward, leered, and dropped his towel. The gentle fingers on his cheeks, both sets, made him grumble in mock irritation and find purchase for his knees. “Scho long ash I get my maschage, ascholes.”
Nathan nodded, pressing heated flesh against the bassist’s lips, and Pickles murmured his agreement as his slick fingers slid even lower, “With a guaranteed happy endin’.”
Title: Labor's Fruit
Rating: G
Pairing: None (or NaVi if you want)
Word Count: 300
Prompt: Rain
On the day she mastered the formation of rain clouds, Nami had to excuse herself. She brushed past the old men who had become her teachers, Haredas alone not complaining as she roughly made her way through them and headed for the door. She ran when she was free, the cloud turf strong and springy beneath her feet and nothing at all like the treacherous footing of sand. She ran until her lungs burned and her body cried out for air, ran until she could no longer see the houses and laboratories of Weatheria, just wispy trees and clouds and sky. Nami wanted to see the sea, to catch a glimpse of the ocean so far below, but the island was bigger than she’d thought and she could run no further.
Trembling fingers touched her Clima-Tact, traced over new modifications that hadn’t been wrought by sniper’s hands. It took her a few moments of concentration, of sensing the right levels of pressure and moisture and air current, before the small dark cloud coalesced above her head. With a little more effort, a touch of cold, a puff of breeze, it would darken even further, produce a scattering of raindrops. It was all so easy, now that she understood, now that she knew how. And no dance powder, no illicit tool, was necessary.
Nami slowly sank to her knees, Clima-Tact slipping from her grip and the cloud she had made gradually dissipating without her attention to keep it primed. Her fingers sought the soft skin of her forearm, traced over a mark that was there even though she couldn’t see it. The sky, as she deflated further and stretched out on her back, was a very particular shade of blue. This was all for Luffy, her training, but also...just in case.
Pairing: Nathan + Pickles/Murderface
Murderface ground his teeth in frustration as Nathan moaned again, a deep, sensual sound that settled in his gut and fermented, stewing just as he was. “Hurry it up already, scheezy.”
Nathan’s response was another groan as he brushed at the spittle that had landed on his arm. As for the cause of Nathan’s pleasure, he just grinned, kept on working. “Some things jest can’t be rushed. You’ll getcher turn.”
Jealous eyes watched as the drummer’s hands worked their magic, palms gliding easily through the massage oil that glistened on the singer’s back. Nathan, eyes closed, was practically purring, a low rumble coming from his tired throat. Pickles, wearing just jeans and freckles, straddled the front man’s hips as he coaxed kinks and knots free. The image they presented, combined with the noises from Nathan and his own eagerness to feel those fingers touching his skin, was creating a situation uncomfortably like when Skwisgaar and the aforementioned drummer chose to eat corndogs and bananas for dinner. Murderface clenched the suddenly-too-low-and-revealing folds of his towel and wished he’d chosen to wait in his shorts, no matter how nasty they’d have felt after his shower. He was almost tempted to flee, but the promise of a Pickles backrub after a show was too precious to be passed up.
Nathan reluctantly cracked an eyelid as he listened to the sudden agitated pacing and muttering; opened both all the way to drink in the noticeable bulge beneath Murderface’s towel. The grin on his face was wide and hungry, feral, as he shifted soothed muscles to glance back at his drummer. Pickles had a wicked gleam in his when Nathan caught his eyes and he nodded slightly to the raised eyebrow. Wiping his palms on the terrycloth draped over Nathan’s hips – and copping a feel while he was at it – the drummer carefully stood. “Yer turn, Murderface.”
“Finally!” And pretending that he wasn’t flushing or walking funny, the bassist settled easily into the newly-vacant space. Warm oil pooled in the small of his back and then nimble fingers spread it, digging in and easing the sore spots. Murderface sighed in relief and went limp, eyes closing as he drank up sensation through his skin. He didn’t even notice the way he pressed occasionally into the couch, rubbing his dick lightly against the pleasant friction of his towel.
He certainly did notice, though, when Pickles splashed more oil onto the small of his back, dragged a finger through slickness and caught it on his towel and didn’t stop. As his mouth opened, to protest or ask for more he couldn’t - wouldn’t - say, Nathan stepped forward, leered, and dropped his towel. The gentle fingers on his cheeks, both sets, made him grumble in mock irritation and find purchase for his knees. “Scho long ash I get my maschage, ascholes.”
Nathan nodded, pressing heated flesh against the bassist’s lips, and Pickles murmured his agreement as his slick fingers slid even lower, “With a guaranteed happy endin’.”
Title: Labor's Fruit
Rating: G
Pairing: None (or NaVi if you want)
Word Count: 300
Prompt: Rain
On the day she mastered the formation of rain clouds, Nami had to excuse herself. She brushed past the old men who had become her teachers, Haredas alone not complaining as she roughly made her way through them and headed for the door. She ran when she was free, the cloud turf strong and springy beneath her feet and nothing at all like the treacherous footing of sand. She ran until her lungs burned and her body cried out for air, ran until she could no longer see the houses and laboratories of Weatheria, just wispy trees and clouds and sky. Nami wanted to see the sea, to catch a glimpse of the ocean so far below, but the island was bigger than she’d thought and she could run no further.
Trembling fingers touched her Clima-Tact, traced over new modifications that hadn’t been wrought by sniper’s hands. It took her a few moments of concentration, of sensing the right levels of pressure and moisture and air current, before the small dark cloud coalesced above her head. With a little more effort, a touch of cold, a puff of breeze, it would darken even further, produce a scattering of raindrops. It was all so easy, now that she understood, now that she knew how. And no dance powder, no illicit tool, was necessary.
Nami slowly sank to her knees, Clima-Tact slipping from her grip and the cloud she had made gradually dissipating without her attention to keep it primed. Her fingers sought the soft skin of her forearm, traced over a mark that was there even though she couldn’t see it. The sky, as she deflated further and stretched out on her back, was a very particular shade of blue. This was all for Luffy, her training, but also...just in case.
