Dollhouse
niyol sani
the wasteland
NSFW

    On one level or another, every interaction was a transaction. Something given, something gained. Niyol preferred the more obvious variety, the kind where everyone involved knew exactly what was being traded and why. Tobacco for spices, meat for rice, goods changed hands and the deal was done. People who pretended to want nothing, they were the worst. What did they want in exchange for the friendship they offered? What would it cost him to accept what they gave?

    Even if he weren't Mai's older brother, even if he weren't the only other Sani, he thought he probably would have preferred whores.

    Whores were simple. He gave them what they wanted, and they gave him what he wanted. Physical intimacy without emotional requirements, admiration he didn't need to earn. He liked new whores, for the reason that he liked all new things, the intangible feeling of newness that came with the unfamiliar. And he liked expensive whores, because he liked expensive everything, a status symbol on his arm and in his bed.

    Still. They couldn't always be the newest, the nicest, if only for convenience's sake. There were no whorehouses in Dinétah; the nearest one outside the borders, they were far from the nicest. But they were adequate and he was willing to settle for that. Dolly's, it was called, and they called the girls dolls. His dolls – and he thought of them as his, the two he always paid for – they weren't quite perfect. Millie was actually a brunette, and she did something horribly wrong with her eyebrows, although he didn't know enough about eyebrows to say what. Emmy matched her hair to her lipstick, and badly, with too much of both.

    They were comfortable, anyway, like a ratty old sweater was comfortable. They knew what he liked, and they were willing to adjust if he was in a mood. They didn't complain when they didn't see him for a while, didn't complain if he spent extra to add a third.

    He was brushing Millie's hair, now, all down her back with a boar bristle brush he'd bought her just for this reason. Wasted on her, when her hair was fried all to hell and back, but it was the thought that counted. She was sitting in his lap, slotted neatly onto his cock, while Emmy gave long licks to the spot where their bodies met. The base of his cock to Millie's clit while she tried not to move and disrupt his brush. They were very good at this game by now, timing touches so she'd twitch and tighten in a rhythm without his having to move.

    When he was done playing with her hair, he wrapped his arms around Millie, let her take the brush from him so he could fondle her breasts. He didn't bother trying to touch Emmy's hair; his hands would wind up trapped. Probably literally filled with bees, that particular hive.

    "Let's do the… thing," he said, gesturing vaguely. It was all it took to get them moving, Emmy sitting upright and Millie pulling herself off of him. "Good girls," he said, though he was feeling too lazy to put much conviction in the praise. Emmy positioned herself against the headboard, spread her legs wide; Millie lowered herself, arched her back as she began driving her tongue between Emmy's legs.

    His cock was still slick, and Millie was far from a stranger, so it was no work at all to push the head into the tight ring of her ass. She made a muffled sound against Emmy's clit, but it was never quite as nice as the sound she'd made the first time he'd done it.

    That was the other nice thing about new whores. Harder to tell when they were lying.

    He ran his fingers through blonde hair, wrapped it around and pulled it tight so she'd tighten around him while he pushed deeper. More muffled sounds, but the feeling made Emmy gasp in her stead. It was nice, that way, that every time he rammed back into one girl her tongue would push into the other, fucking a woman with another woman. And whatever Emmy's flaws, her breasts were not one of them, big and bouncing things he was free to squeeze and tug as he pleased.

    His hands left Millie's hair so he could squeeze one of Emmy's breasts, push a thumb into her mouth that she sucked without his having to ask. She didn't need to be asked, either, to grab blonde hair and push her face harder into her cunt, like Millie didn't need to be asked to slide her fingers between her legs. A lovely little system they had, though it felt a little predictable.

    Their moans got louder, twitching hot and wet and tight around him and grinding their hips toward release he'd gladly take credit for, regardless of his own contribution. He murmured filth that sounded like sweet nothings, thing he'd never have said to a woman who could understand him, and they were always happy to assume he was saying what they wanted to hear. Deeper, harder, until his cock twitched inside her to fill her with his seed.

    He rolled over when he was done, not bothering to check if either of them had finished as well. Flattering if they did, but he didn't actually care, not this time. They snuggled up to him, whether they had or they hadn't, sweaty and affectionate and smelling like cheap perfume. "Good girls," he muttered, half asleep.

    They weren't. But it wasn't their fault he'd only felt like paying for adequate.

☙A Wisteria and Violets AU❧

    Unlike many sad-sack self-loathing coffeeshop patrons, Ika Nui could not tell himself that the cute barista didn't know he existed. She almost certainly did. She recognized him, and so she knew very well that he came into her cafe every morning without fail and ordered whatever seasonal beverage had the most sugar in it. It was barely even coffee.

    They did not talk, which was Ika's fault, because he was not talkative. He spent his mornings irritable, felt slightly better after the cute barista told him to have a nice day, and then it was all downhill from there. Still, it would have been nice to be able to tell himself that she did not know he existed, because then he could pretend that things would be different if she did.

    He did not know exactly how many Maori with Ta Moko were in the United States – let alone in Atlanta, Georgia – but he was without question the only one who patronized the Galactic Grind. She would have had to be blind not to notice and remember the only guy in her shop that was two meters tall with black ink all over his face.

    On this particular morning, Ika did not actually have work. He wore a suit, anyway, because he didn't want it to be obvious that he was going out for coffee and then just going home. He would much rather leave his barista with the impression that he worked seven days a week with no casual Fridays.

    She wasn't always there. Maybe she just assumed their days off coincided. It wasn't weird. He definitely wasn't being weird.

    He was being weird.

    Her nametag said Nova, and there was no polite way to ask if that was her real name. It might have been. She looked like the sort of person whose parents would have named her Nova, blue-haired and freckled with ears full of metal. Nova was probably a name that made a lot more friends than Ika Nui.

    He loitered at a distance from the door to finish his cigarette, put it out against the bottom of his shoe and threw it out in an alley trash can. He could see through the window the distinctive blue that meant Nova was working, and he tried to ignore that it pleased him to see it. By the time he made it to the counter to order, there was already a mug waiting for him.

    This was unusual for a number of reasons. One of them was that he always brought his own cup, because... pollution. The environment. Et cetera, et cetera. But this was not one of their cardboard to-go cups, was instead a china mug that seemed like it was intended for employees.

    The other unusual thing was that he did not have a 'usual' for her to have made him. He hesitated.

    "I'm trying something new," she said, leaning against the counter across from him. He did not let his eyes go lower than the choker she was wearing, a brass pendant in the shape of an octopus in front of her throat. "I thought you could be my guinea pig." Her voice sounded like a dark shade of blue, like late twilight on a clear day.

    He looked down at the cup, pushing his glasses higher on his nose. It looked suspiciously like coffee, as opposed to a hot milkshake that had once seen a coffee bean. "What's in it?"

    "It's a secret," she said, pressing a finger to her lips. He wondered how she kept her metallic blue lipstick from coming off. "You're just going to have to trust me."

    His eyes flicked between her impish smile and the cup in front of them. There were no other customers waiting, and so he supposed it couldn't hurt. Probably. Setting his travel mug down, he picked up the cup with both hands and brought it tentatively to his mouth. He sipped. His eyebrows shot up.

    "This is good," he said, before realizing it was probably offensive to sound surprised. "What is it?"

    "Lavender mocha," she said, taking his travel mug. "You just drank flowers," she added, fluttering her eyelashes.

    He looked at the mug in his hands thoughtfully. "So if I had an allergy–"

    "What!" The pitch of her voice went high, bright and sort of yellow. Her eyes went as big as saucers, pale blue things almost colorless. "Do you–?"

    "No," he said, "I was just curious."

    "Oh my god." She put her hand over her heart, closed her eyes and bent at the waist to rest her forehead on the counter. "Oh my god. You scared me!"

    "Sorry," he said, trying not to smile and taking another sip of the drink.

    "I would have died!"

    "Technically speaking, I would have died."

    "Oh my god," she said, standing back up and pressing her palms to her cheeks. "Don't say that! That's horrible, oh my god. I would never be able to flirt with anyone ever again."

    He choked on his mocha, glasses slipping lower. "Nn – what?"

    She blushed and looked rueful. "Obviously it didn't work, since you just accused me of attempted murder." She was shading into a royal purple.

    "At worst I accused you of criminal negligence."

    "That's not better!" she said, crossing her arms over her chest and half-turning her back towards him.

    "Someone on trial for attempted murder would disagree."

    "If I'd known I was going to be put on trial I wouldn't have even offered it to you!"

    "I think that's how most people feel about whatever they're put on trial for."

    "Do you do this to every girl who tries to buy you coffee," she asked, "or am I just really unlucky?"

    He looked down at his cup. "As of right now," he said, "you are the only woman to have ever attempted it. If that's. What this is."

    "It was what I was trying to do," she said, putting her hands on her hips. Even in her work apron, she was very... hourglass-shaped. While Ika was more yardstick-shaped. They were two entirely different units of measurement. He tried not to stare.

    "You're hitting on me?"

    "Oh my god, I get it, it was a bad idea," she said, tucking some hair behind her ear and turning pink as she stood at the cash register. "Just tell me what you actually want so I can get your drink and hide my shame." Her voice was consistently purple, now, and he missed the blue.

    The cute barista had been trying to flirt with him, and he had accused her of criminal negligence. After she made him a special drink. What the fuck was this morning.

    "Lunch," he said, setting down the lavender mocha.

    "What?"

    "What I actually want. Is. To take you out to lunch. Sometime. If. If you want." He adjusted his glasses nervously.

    She narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously, but she was fighting a smile. "Really? You're not going to put me on trial again?"

    He hesitated. "I cannot guarantee that," he admitted, and she laughed. "I'll try."

    "Hmm." She rang him up for a vanilla bean chai latte with almond milk and extra whip without asking first. "I'm free between eleven and one today," she suggested.

    "I can do that. Do. Be. Here. At eleven. If you want me to pick you up. To go... out."

    She grinned as she walked backward with his cup. "That is usually what a date entails, yes," she said, the color of the evening sky.

    Was that a yes? He thought that was a yes. He dug out his wallet as he watched her make his drink, dropped five dollars in the tip jar as much out of habit as anything.

    "On the house," she said as she handed him his mug. "See you here at eleven."


    Whatever else he might have said about Kheira, she was a very good gardener. The garden was probably the best part of his house. The house itself was 'cozy', which meant that everything was too small and it looked like it was designed by and for small children in the 1950s and had seen no maintenance since.

    It was not a nice house. But it was a lovely garden.

    "What's a good flower?" he asked, circling around to the koi pond immediately rather than bothering to go into the house first.

    "Depends on what you want it for," she said, currently elbow-deep in something vile that she was using on the roses. "Ask out the blue-hair chick?" Kheira's voice was a consistent dark green, and when it wasn't it meant something had gone horribly wrong somewhere.

    "Yes. Sort of. Kind of. She might have asked me out first. I'm not sure."

    Kheira cackled more than laughed. "Get her a venus fly-trap or something, she'd probably be into that."

    "That doesn't sound very romantic."

    "You want me to snip off some of these roses?" she asked.

    "You know how I feel about dead plants." He considered cut bouquets to be just about the opposite of romance, pretty but useless and doomed to wither and die. They were a chore, not a gift.

    She stood up and immediately tried to rub fertilizer on his suit, and he recoiled, taking long steps backwards that her shorter ones could not match. She laughed as she wiped them off on her jeans, instead. "So you want to bring her flowers, you want them to be alive, and you don't want them to be a chore. You know you can just buy silk flowers, right?"

    "That's not the same."

    She grabbed a terracotta pot from a pile of them near the shed, and knelt down in a different flowerbed. In no time at all, she was handing him something small and blue. "African violet."

    "Shouldn't it be purple?"

    "It can be blue," she said with a shrug. "You wanna bring her a potted plant on your first date or whatever, that's probably the least shitty one."

    "Least shitty is not really a ringing endorsement."

    "How's about fuck you for an endorsement? You taking your little pot of shit-dirt to a fancy restaurant or what?"

    He hesitated. "It's just a casual lunch," he said.

    "Oooh, you should take her to the place," she said, "she looks like a hipster, she'd be totally into that shit."

    "She's not a – she might be a hipster. I don't know. Maybe she's already been there. I didn't ask where she wanted to go, fuck."

    "You didn't invite her out for coffee, did you?" Kheira asked with a cheshire grin.

    "I'm not that stupid," Ika said, brushing a thumb over one of the violet's petals.

    "Are you suuuure?" she asked, leaning forward with her hands on her hips. "Because right now it looks like you're gonna wear a fancy suit to take a hipster chick to an empanada truck, and you're bringing her a potted plant you dug outta your garden."

    "That's. When you put it like that, it sounds. Bad. I should–"

    "Nah, stick with it," she said, hitching her thumbs in her pockets. "If she doesn't like it she won't like you, no point dragging it out. Besides, maybe she's got a fetish for dudes in suits. Probably makes the job easier." Kheira waggled her eyebrows.

    "I don't think she has a fetish," he said, and he could feel his face turning hot.

    "You're kind of thinking about it now, though, right?"

    "Shut up."


    He was in the parking lot by 10:30. Compulsive earliness was a problem he had. He dealt with it by sitting on the hood of his car and chain-smoking.

    She probably didn't mind that he smoked. Surely she'd noticed by now that he reeked constantly of cigarettes. He was almost certainly going to get lung cancer in a decade or two, in a few years his teeth would be yellowed and rotting out of his head. She must have been willing to tolerate that, if she'd said yes to going anywhere with him.

    He shot upright when he saw her stepping outside the coffee shop, dropping his cigarette immediately and crushing it under his heel.

    "You're early," she said with a smile, sky blue, and he hoped she didn't know he'd already been here for twenty minutes. "Did you come here straight from work?"

    "Not... exactly."

    Her eyes fell on the violet as she shrugged her messenger bag higher on her shoulder. She paused. "Is that... for me?"

    He looked at the little pot in his hand. "It was. Blue. And it's supposed to be. Easy. Low maintenance. Not that you're, uh. I didn't want it to be. A chore."

    Gently, she took it from him, lacing her fingers with his in the process. He jammed his hands awkwardly back into his pockets. "It's beautiful," she said, turning it in her hands. "This is so sweet." She looked up at him and smiled, and his heart caught in his throat. "I know exactly where I'll put it."

    "Good," he said. "Good. I'm... I'm glad you like it. I'm really glad."

    "So where are we going for lunch?" she asked, still holding onto the violet.

    "I was thinking we could. If you don't mind. Empanadas? There's a food truck. Or we can go somewhere else. I don't mind."

    "Empanadas sound good," she said, and she looked so pleased to see him he thought he might burst.

    Metaphorically.

    He opened the passenger door to let her in, slid into the car beside her. He had to hurry to turn off the radio after the car started, because it was entirely too early in their acquaintance to confront his love of bluegrass murder ballads.

    "'Sexual Slavery in the Twenty-First Century'," Nova said, and he realized with some horror that she was reading the title of a book he had left on the floor of the car.

    "That's not – that isn't – that's for work," he said, but he was pretty sure that did not improve matters. "Not that kind of – I'm a lawyer. It's. About. Legal stuff."

    "So I don't have to worry about you making me your sex slave?" she teased.

    "No! God, no, never, I would never. Not that. I would tell you? I guess. Um."

    "I don't think you're a rapist," she reassured him with a smile, setting the book back down.

    "Statistically speaking there's no real way to tell until–"

    "Ika." He stopped talking, because that was the first time she'd said his name outside the context of giving him his drink order. It sounded indigo. "Are you trying to explain the reasons why you might be a rapist?"

    "... not... no. I was. Speaking objectively." He was pretty sure he was warning her of his potential to be a rapist. Fuck.

    "I don't think rapists try to be objective about their potential to be rapists," she pointed out, and he couldn't look away from the road to confirm, but he thought she probably had that impish smile again.

    "I'm flattered that you trust me not to rape you," he said. "Or make you my sex slave." He turned into the old strip mall parking lot where the food truck made its stop during lunch hour, near an ongoing construction site.

    "Unless I ask nicely," she said in indigo again, and he processed her words on a delay as he parked.

    "Wait, what?" She giggled and hopped out of the car without answering. "Wait," he said, and his seatbelt took ten times as long as usual because he was distracted and flustered. "What?" he said again when he was out of the car, but she had already flounced away to order.


    "These are really good," Nova said, sitting on a bench with him with a paper plate in her lap.

    "I'm not sure the health department has ever even seen this thing," he said, "so I apologize in advance if you get food poisoning."

    Nova began to laugh hard enough that she had to cover her mouth, and he didn't know what to make of her amusement. "You're really not making this easy," she said in purple, "between telling me you could be a rapist and that you're going to make me sick."

    He blushed, fidgeting with his glasses. "I was. Trying to avoid general misconceptions. And I didn't want you to be unprepared. Although I've never gotten sick here before. I like people to have all the facts."

    "So give me some facts about you," she said, nudging him with her shoulder. "Aside from the fact that you're a lawyer who likes pumpkin spice machiattos and not raping people."

    "It's true," he said, "I don't like raping people." He took a sip from his bottle of root beer. "I, uh. That. Might cover it. I'm not very. Complicated. Or interesting."

    "I'm interested," she said. "What's your favorite color?"

    "Purple," he said. "Technically lavender, but that might seem... convenient."

    She grinned. "Mine's yellow," she said, which surprised him. "I just look better in blue." She winked, and he could feel himself turning red. He was not equipped to handle cute girls winking at him. "What's your sign?"

    "I have no idea," he said. "I don't believe in that kind of thing."

    "Hm. When's your birthday?"

    "December sixth."

    Nova pulled out her phone, and he didn't know why he felt relieved that she didn't know these things off the top of her head. "You're a Sagittarius!" she said. "You are a... fiery centaur archer."

    "I have no idea what that means."

    Nova scrolled through something on her phone. "Apparently it means you are jovial, good-humored, and optimistic."

    "I have found a flaw in this system."

    "You also value freedom, honesty, and intellect, but can sometimes be tactless," she added, not to be discouraged.

    "I'm not sure we needed an app for this."

    "Ooh! This says it will tell us how compatible we'll be based on our star signs." He wanted to object, but she was clearly enjoying herself, a very excited maroon. "What do you think it'll say? Do you think we're meant for each other?"

    "I find the idea of destiny philosophically and ethically objectionable," he said, which was not remotely romantic.

    "Even soulmates?"

    "I don't believe in souls," he said before he could stop himself, "and find the idea of one true love to be both depressing and limiting."

    She didn't seem to actually be listening to him, and he did not blame her. He wouldn't listen to himself if he didn't have to. The fact that anyone ever listened to him was a travesty. "Okay, so," she said, looking very serious as she entered information into her phone, "if we enter Libra and Sagittarius we get... oh, good. You'll be happy to know that the stars think we'll do fine."

    "I'm glad the stars approve," he said dryly.

    "We'll get along well because we're both so adventurous and fun–"

    "What."

    "–but according to this, I need to watch out, because I need a reliable partner and you're too independent."

    "I can see how that would be a problem," he said, and she grinned.

    "I also need to make sure not to let you pressure me," she said, reading off her screen in sapphire, "because I'm very sensitive, while you're into kinky stuff."

    "You're just making that up," he accused, trying to see her screen. She held it out for him, and it did indeed say that Sagittarius liked kinky sex. "This is why I don't believe in astrology," he grumbled.

    "You mean you're not into kinky sex?" she asked, and she pouted dramatically as she said it. He couldn't tell if she was actually disappointed, or just pretending to be as a joke.

    "I. That. Is a very subjective word. Open to interpretation." His face was on fire. Nova laughed.

    "I'm sorry," she said, and she took his hand and squeezed. "I'm not trying to make you uncomfortable."

    "It's fine," he said. "I just. Can't tell if you're trying to make me think about kinky sex with you. Or if I'm just a pervert." Tactless honesty was, indeed, his default mode of communication. It was why he did not often communicate with people he wanted to like him. He was slightly better at tact when he was working, but not by much.

    "You're not just a pervert," she murmured in indigo, and her cheeks turned a faint pink that made him want to kiss her. "Why do you think it's depressing?" she asked, and it took a moment to realize she meant soulmates.

    He turned his hand around beneath hers so that their palms were facing each other, and their fingers laced together in a way that felt perfect. "It... invalidates relationships," he said. "If everyone has one true love, then every other love is. Fake. That doesn't seem fair. Just because I don't love someone anymore doesn't mean I never did. It invalidates every emotional connection that didn't last until you died. So. I don't like it."

    She squeezed his hand and leaned on his shoulder. "That's sort of romantic," she said.

    "Don't tell anyone," he said. "They'll take away my license to practice law."


    "Thank you for lunch," she said when he dropped her back off at work. "And for the violet."

    "Thank you for joining me," he said, "and liking the violet."

    They stared at each other.

    "Are you forgetting something?" she prompted.

    "Am I?" he asked, furrowing his eyebrows. With a huff of annoyance, Nova gave up on hinting and took him by the tie to pull him downward. "Mmph!"

    He had forgotten something. Specifically, he had forgotten to kiss his date. He had forgotten than sometimes people liked being kissed as much as he liked kissing them, and he had forgotten just how very much he liked kissing people. He didn't mean to back her into the front window of the cafe, it was just a thing that happened as a side effect. All he'd wanted was to kiss her, to cup her face in his hands and draw her tongue into his mouth and press his body to hers as best he could when she was holding a potted plant. She was soft and warm and moaned in pastel purple that he could almost taste, and she smelled like coffee grounds and marzipan.

    When he finally managed to pull his mouth away from hers, they stared at each other again. "Sorry about your lipstick," he said.

    "Ditto," she said, and he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and it came away blue.

    "Sorry," he said again.

    "I'm not complaining," she purred. She fixed his tie one-handed, and he tried to get his glasses to stop being slightly crooked. "See you tomorrow morning," she said, giving him a peck on the cheek, and it wasn't a question.

    Of course, it wouldn't have to be. He came in every morning. He wouldn't even know what to do with himself if he didn't have that to look forward to. Except now he also had special drinks and soft hands and messy kisses to look forward to.

    He had a feeling he was going to start being late for work very regularly soon.

Nic Fit
grayson crawford x nadine pascal-said
valesport
NSFW
that werepoodle au
except also some kind of domestic au
aka a nesting series of increasingly bizarre scenarios as an excuse for tinny to write weird filthy porn

    The collar was unnecessary. Absolutely, unquestionably unnecessary. Come sunrise, she'd be able to walk right out of it. If she really wanted to, Nadine could pick the lock on the thing right then and there.

    She did not, because Grayson was trying to prove a point, and now so was she.

    He'd bought her clothes, but she wasn't wearing them. Instead she wore a sweater, with the top button missing and a hem that fell to the middle of her thighs. Nadine was not large at the best of times, but in this particularly sweater she looked downright tiny.

    She had a sneaking suspicion that he was trying to find glasses in her prescription. Which was almost cute, except he was not buying her the one thing she actually wanted.

    Cigarettes. Cigarettes cigarettes cigarettes. She wanted nicotine. She tapped her nails impatiently against the white ceramic of her mug, sipping absently at her tea. His house smelled like bleach and expensive carpet shampoos. The fluffy ears resting in her mane of black curls twitched at the sound of something being thrown aggressively away upstairs. Her mind made up, she set her mug down and made her way to Grayson's office.

    "I'm not taking it off," was the first thing he said when she opened his door, followed by, "get out of here, I'm working."

    "I know," she said, to both or neither. "Just thought I should tell you I'm going out."

    That made him stop whatever he was doing on his laptop, spinning in his chair to look at her. She may or may not have posed a little in the doorway, showing off her legs as she stretched against the frame. "Really," he said. "Going where, exactly?"

    "The store," she said with a shrug.

    Grayson raised a single eyebrow, pushing his glasses higher on his nose. "The store," he repeated. "I'm not giving you money for cigarettes."

    "I know," she said, adjusting her sweater and very pointedly adjusting her breasts beneath it. "I'll be fine."

    Grayson, slightly blurry from her perspective, narrowed his eyes. "... are you threatening to become a hooker if I don't buy you cigarettes?"

    "I'm not threatening anything," she said, crossing her ankles and clasping her hands behind her back, holding her sweater down over her tail so it couldn't give her away. "I am just stating a series of facts. From which you may extrapolate what you will."

    Grayson sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I will put you in jail again."

    He did not actually mean for-real jail, where he might have to explain to someone why he had a half-naked woman in a collar with a tail. And where she might be able to get cigarettes. And would probably be able to walk right out the door in the morning.

    What he actually meant was a large cardboard box on which he had written the words 'gay baby jail' in permanent marker, and which she was not, in her other form, large or strong enough to escape.

    "Don't you dare," she said, aquiline nose crinkling with a reflexive show of teeth. Grayson put his hand over his chin to pretend that he was being thoughtful instead of amused.

    "Go watch TV or something," he said, clearly dismissing the idea that she'd be going anywhere at all.

    Nadine pouted. "You like me better when I'm a dog," she accused.

    "Yes," he agreed immediately. Nadine huffed, tossing her hair as best she could when the curls were so short.

    "I can pretend," she said suddenly, sweetly, eyes shuttered with the heavy fringe of her lashes, "if it'll make you play nice."

    "Please don't," he began, but it was too late. Nadine sank to her knees with entirely too much ease, pressed her palms to the floor and stretched herself out until she was on her hands and knees. Hips high and shoulders low, she looked up at him, sweater ridden high enough that her tail had escaped.

    "Better?" she asked.

    Slate grey eyes tried and failed not to trace the shape of her. "Not remotely," he said after a moment's hesitation, but the lie caught in his throat.

    Nadine resisted the temptation to grin, but her tail gave her away, anyway.

    "What about this?" she suggested, rolling onto her back so curls cascaded near his feet, back arched and slender legs in the air like a pinup. "Is this good?" Green eyes were wide as he tried to avoid meeting them.

    "Please get off the floor," he muttered, rubbing the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses.

    Nadine rolled onto her knees, but this time launched herself forward, practically pouncing to position herself between his knees before he could figure out what she was up to and stop her. "But you don't let me sit in your lap anymore," she protested, pressing her breasts against him and her fingers into his thighs. She cocked her head to the side, one ear up and the other down, and fluttered her eyelashes.

    Grayson groaned, gritting his teeth, putting his hands on her shoulders to push her away but then leaving them there instead. In an instant she'd undone another button on her sweater, let it fall from her shoulders to rest at her elbows and leave her breasts exposed. His hands slid lower, and she pressed against his palms with a pleased sigh.

    "I'm tying you up next time," he said, but the threat didn't have much bite.

    "Promise?" she asked, fingers finding their way to the fly of his jeans. He did not so much groan as growl, but as her tongue found his shaft the sound died. He released her to fall back in his chair, running a hand through his hair, watching the eager way she licked at his cock. Her lips wrapped around him, and her head bobbed in his lap, the tip of his cock pressing against the back of her throat each time.

    He tangled his fingers in her hair, twining through curls. When they curled against her scalp, some brushed against an incongruous ear, and Nadine made a small sound of surprise muffled by his skin.

    That was interesting.

    He waited a moment for her to resume her ministrations, her expert tongue and the slick friction of her lips. Then he rubbed his fingertips very deliberately at the base of her ear. Her perfectly practiced blowjob came to a halt, a high-pitched gasp against his cock replacing it. Immediately he began using both hands to massage her ears between his fingers, soft and silky and apparently very sensitive. Despite a valiant attempt to resume what she'd been doing, she was soon not so much sucking as panting, tiny whines muffled and utterly unlike her usual husky confidence.

    Holding her still as his fingers rubbed circles in her skin, he slid his cock from her mouth to hear what she sounded like without it. Wanting little moans, almost needy, leaning herself into his touch. He rubbed the head of his cock over her open mouth, smearing precum over her lips, watched the almost-absent way she licked at it.

    Experimentation gave way to desire, complete control for as long as it took her to wrest it back. He thrust into her mouth, into helpless and breathless cries, against her throat until he triggered a long-dormant gag reflex. She winced, and he realized he'd started holding her ears too hard. He took her by the hair, instead, and though he kept thrusting she relaxed. She looked up at him, and as green eyes met grey he came, cock twitching on her tongue.

    When he let her go she leaned back off of her knees, sitting on the floor at his feet. She swallowed and she licked her lips, running fingers over her chin to make sure she didn't look a mess. She reminded him more of a cat than a dog, pretending to be nonchalant as she adjusted her hair and gently rubbed the ears he'd so recently abused.

    She'd made no move to cover her breasts, and Grayson leaned forward to trace circles around tight nipples. "You're cute when you can't talk," he said, and while most people would have been referring to her mouth being full, he preferred that moment of incoherence.

    Nadine rolled her eyes, but Grayson hooked a finger in the collar around her neck, using it to pull her forward and upright. Closer and higher, until he'd draped her over him, used his hands on her thighs to position her straddling him. "I would have been better off hitchhiking to a smoke shop," she said, "and leaving you out of it entirely."

    Instead of replying, he bent his head to press his lips to her breast, holding her nipple between his teeth and sucking. She braced her hands against his shoulders, and he put his hands on her waist. He took his time before switching to the other, suckling at her until she was squirming in his lap. Sensitive almost to the point of being sore, he tested it by cupping her breasts and running the pads of his thumbs over her nipples. Her face gave away nothing, but her ear twitched, and he tried not to grin.

    Holding her collar again, he slid his other hand beneath her sweater, between her legs to find her unsurprisingly soaked. He was hard again, and he pulled her closer; she pressed herself down, and in an instant he was buried in her, her hips rocking.

    "That didn't take long," she purred, pleased.

    "I wasn't done," he said, and he pulled her face closer to his by the collar so he could kiss her. She still tasted like him, a mouth he'd taken even though she tried to give it, her body a tight sheath on his cock though her thighs were splayed wide over his.

    He released the leather around her neck so that he could hold her by the hips, pulling her down as he thrust upward. Breasts and curls bounced, and she expressed her pleasure in a low hum. They rocked against each other, settling into a rhythm; her mouth couldn't seem to stay away from his, her fingers tracing the shape of his jaw and and the curve of his ear, digging into his shoulders only to return.

    Turning the chair, and both of them with it, he used one hand to carefully slide the contents of his desk to one side. His minimalist tendencies helped, since there wasn't a great deal to get out of the way. He pulled out of her, and Nadine pouted.

    "Done already?" she asked, feigning innocence.

    "It'd serve you right if I was," he said, setting her on the emptied space of his desk. "Turn over," he ordered, and Nadine raised an eyebrow.

    "The legs of this desk aren't as tall as yours," she pointed out, prodding him in the knee with her toe.

    "So keep your knees on the desk," he suggested. Nadine rolled her eyes, but did so, spreading her legs as Grayson adjusted the height of her hips. There weren't a lot of comfortable positions at her disposal, all told, so she rested her head on her forearms while she waited for him to get situated. Her sweater had bunched up near her shoulderblades, the heavy knit sleeves pulled up over her hands as she gripped the edge of his desk.

    "That seems a bit too low," she observed, trying to look up over her shoulder at him.

    He slid his cock between her legs, then brought it higher, pressed the now-slick tip against her ass. "Does it?"

    "Oh! Hm." She hadn't thought him the type, but she made that mistake about a lot of people. "I suppose," she said, and his hands gripped her hips as he slowly pushed inside of her. Her breath caught when the head entered her, and a gentle rocking accompanied his pushing deeper.

    Experimenting again, he ran his hand along her spine, then rubbed his fingertips at the spot where what should have been her tailbone turned instead into a tail. Immediately her back arched, and with the same tiny cry from before she pushed against him. She had none of his concern about hurting her, though that may have been his fault. Buried inside her now, he slid his hand along her back, giving her a second to catch her breath.

    "Does that actually feel good?" he asked, because while it seemed like it did, he couldn't actually tell.

    "Yes," she said immediately. "Fuck me, that is – that is so fucking unfair." She rubbed a hand over her hair and her ears with a low whine. "It doesn't work when I do it! God damn it."

    He rubbed his fingertips at the base of her spine again, and immediately her complaining stopped.

    That was going to be extremely useful.

    With a hand at her spine to rub his thumb against her tail, his other hand grabbed her by the hair, barely touching her ears. As he started to thrust, her pleased panting rose and fell in pitch. Because he only had two hands, he decided to keep the one in her hair where it was, holding her down while his other arm wrapped around her. Two fingers slid inside her, slick and hot, thumb pressing against her clit while his cock continued pumping in her ass.

    She was a squirming, whimpering mess beneath him, unable to decide which particular stimulation she most wanted to intensify. He pulled her hair to turn her face so he could see it better, ramming hard into her as he did it. She crested, tightening around his cock and his fingers, a ragged scream of satisfaction; he kept going, even as she went all limp, until he'd cum inside her a second time.

    It took him a minute to get his bearings, leaving her on his desk as he sat back down. He found a tissue to wipe off his hands, tried and failed to fix his glasses and his hair. He was almost definitely going to need to shower, now. "Now will you get out of my office?" he grumbled.

    Nadine slid off his desk to collapse onto his floor, not at all concerned with the mess he'd made of her. "Are you going to buy me cigarettes?" she asked back, making a half-assed attempt to get her sweater over her chest before giving up on the whole endeavor. Sitting flushed and rumpled at his feet, a sheen of sweat on her skin and his collar around her neck, she almost looked cute. On a whim, he grabbed his camera from the far side of his desk; she didn't object when he took a picture of her, remaining still and letting him pretend it was candid.

    He had no idea what he'd do with it, but hell. Might as well.

    "No," he said flatly, setting his camera back down, and she kicked at one of his ankles. "And I'm buying you a leash."

Reunion
not-yet-jean cernunnos & alisdair
not-yet-valesport

Technicality
kreska ido & karek
terran allied forces academy