Flash Fiction Fills (Take 23)
Dec. 4th, 2011 08:46 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22a/n: Urgh. Migraines suck. S'why I couldn't post yesterday. BUT, today I have all the flash fiction in one handy post. Enjoy!
For dellessa
Prompt: Jazz/Prowl, G1, consideration
Fandom: Transformers G1. Warnings: pre-series, mostly friendship fluff
For hockeyiris
Prompt: Ichi/Grimm, snowfall
Fandom: Bleach. Warnings: OOC, fluff, language
For ancientlybroken
Prompt: Justice League, “I had the strangest dream...”, sequel to this flash fiction
Fandom: Justice League (cartoon-verse). Warnings for one-sided BatFlash, past alcohol use
For azardarkstar
Prompt: TF, “the past is weakness”
Fandom: Transformers: Prime, Event Horizon-verse, Knock Out POV. Warnings: spoilers for Event Horizon, character death
For mistress_pirate
Prompt: JL, who spiked the egg nog
Fandom: Justice League (cartoon-verse). Warnings: unintentional alcohol use, crack.
For firegirl0
Prompt: SupermanBatman, voodoo
Fandom: Justice League (animated). Warnings for NSFW porn, slash
a/n: Yay! Finally got all six done. Congrats to me.
Tomorrow we'll see an update to Event Horizon. And after that, updates to other things that need updating. Perhaps some fic recommendations so on and forth.
Comments are love!
For dellessa
Prompt: Jazz/Prowl, G1, consideration
Fandom: Transformers G1. Warnings: pre-series, mostly friendship fluff
“War's coming.”
“You noticed.”
Jazz leans back against the wall, near the shuttered window, affecting a casual lean. “'Course I noticed. Would be hard not ta, what with the way business is tankin'.”
Prowl hits the release, the shutters snapping open and letting him look out at bright, shiny Iacon – or what constitutes it's dark, shadowy underbelly at any rate. “The Council's wrong, Jazz. Megatron will not be cowed so quickly. This is no mere uprising to be quelled by a brief show of force.”
“Is this a guess?”
“Call it a mathematical surety.”
Jazz's vents kick on with a loud whuff of air. “Frag. Ya know this means we're gonna hafta choose a side.”
“Yes.” Prowl pauses, optics tilting downward, to the mechs skittering about in the street, heedless of the doom resting on the horizon. “There will be no such thing as a neutral.”
He can feel the brunt of Jazz's gaze, even with the visor. “What ya thinkin' in that logic circutit o' yours, Prowler?”
His servos land on the windowsill. “That Optimus is a young fool, nothing more than a figurehead for the Council. And Megatron is a false idealist with a thirst for power.”
Jazz's fingers rap a beat on the sill, a familiar rhythm even Prowl can recognize. “In other words, either way we're fragged.”
Prowl cuts a gaze at his companion. “You have such a way with words.”
“I try.” The teasing note vanishes. “You could shift the tides of this, you know.”
“Yes, but for who?” After all, his processor yearns for the taste of battle tactics, rather than the menial, tedious tasks he's been assigned for his entire existence.
“Heh, that's the question.” Jazz hefts himself up on the reasonably wide ledge, legs swinging. “Well, wherever ya go, I'll follow. I wanna be on the winning side.”
Prowl chuckles, hitting the button to close the shutters once again, closing them in the dim. “I'll factor that into my calculations.”
“You noticed.”
Jazz leans back against the wall, near the shuttered window, affecting a casual lean. “'Course I noticed. Would be hard not ta, what with the way business is tankin'.”
Prowl hits the release, the shutters snapping open and letting him look out at bright, shiny Iacon – or what constitutes it's dark, shadowy underbelly at any rate. “The Council's wrong, Jazz. Megatron will not be cowed so quickly. This is no mere uprising to be quelled by a brief show of force.”
“Is this a guess?”
“Call it a mathematical surety.”
Jazz's vents kick on with a loud whuff of air. “Frag. Ya know this means we're gonna hafta choose a side.”
“Yes.” Prowl pauses, optics tilting downward, to the mechs skittering about in the street, heedless of the doom resting on the horizon. “There will be no such thing as a neutral.”
He can feel the brunt of Jazz's gaze, even with the visor. “What ya thinkin' in that logic circutit o' yours, Prowler?”
His servos land on the windowsill. “That Optimus is a young fool, nothing more than a figurehead for the Council. And Megatron is a false idealist with a thirst for power.”
Jazz's fingers rap a beat on the sill, a familiar rhythm even Prowl can recognize. “In other words, either way we're fragged.”
Prowl cuts a gaze at his companion. “You have such a way with words.”
“I try.” The teasing note vanishes. “You could shift the tides of this, you know.”
“Yes, but for who?” After all, his processor yearns for the taste of battle tactics, rather than the menial, tedious tasks he's been assigned for his entire existence.
“Heh, that's the question.” Jazz hefts himself up on the reasonably wide ledge, legs swinging. “Well, wherever ya go, I'll follow. I wanna be on the winning side.”
Prowl chuckles, hitting the button to close the shutters once again, closing them in the dim. “I'll factor that into my calculations.”
For hockeyiris
Prompt: Ichi/Grimm, snowfall
Fandom: Bleach. Warnings: OOC, fluff, language
He has an aversion to both being cold and being wet. Grimmjow doesn't know where it stems from, but he's quite happy to listen to his instincts and avoid both. Except, perhaps, for the occasional hot shower which he can suffer through when the situation calls for it.
Rain falling from the sky, however, he wants nothing to do with. And this frozen white stuff Ichigo is calling snow? Hell the fuck no. He's going to stay right here, in the warm house, plunked in front of a TV and be all the more comfortable for it.
The fact that he refuses to take one step beyond the front door has nothing to do with it. Grimmjow doesn't like the cold or the wet and snow is both. Hell no.
Ichigo, of course, not only finds this greatly amusing, but thinks it's a suitable time to mock him about it. “You really are a cat,” he says, poking Grimmjow in the shoulder with one of his bony-ass fingers. “I can see your hackles up and everything.”
Grimmjow carelessly swats the brat aside, but like an annoying Shinigami does, he just bounces back up without a bruise. “Shut up,” Grimmjow growls, with hardly any heat to it, and turns up the volume on the remote.
“I say you're afraid,” Ichigo says, stepping back and tugging on boots, coat, heavy gloves, scarves – which in Grimmjow's opinion is all the more reason to stay inside.
“Am not.” He turns the volume up louder.
Ichigo pokes him in the side of the head with a gloved finger. “Prove it.”
“Don't have to prove anything.”
“True. I guess I'd hate to show everyone my weakness, too.” Ichigo says and strolls away, opening the front door and letting in a whoosh of frigid air. “Later.”
The door shuts; Grimmjow fidgets. He's not a damn coward.
A minute later, he thrusts himself out of the chair, and tugs on his own coat, muttering curses under his breath the entire time. He opens the door and the first wave of freezing air makes him shudder from head to toe.
Slamming the door shut behind him, Grimmjow shoves his hands in his pockets and steps off the porch. “There. I'm here. Happy now?”
Ichigo's answer is to slam him in the face with a ball of cold, wet slush.
Grimmjow's eyes narrow with incandescent rage. “Oh, you're in for it now!”
Rain falling from the sky, however, he wants nothing to do with. And this frozen white stuff Ichigo is calling snow? Hell the fuck no. He's going to stay right here, in the warm house, plunked in front of a TV and be all the more comfortable for it.
The fact that he refuses to take one step beyond the front door has nothing to do with it. Grimmjow doesn't like the cold or the wet and snow is both. Hell no.
Ichigo, of course, not only finds this greatly amusing, but thinks it's a suitable time to mock him about it. “You really are a cat,” he says, poking Grimmjow in the shoulder with one of his bony-ass fingers. “I can see your hackles up and everything.”
Grimmjow carelessly swats the brat aside, but like an annoying Shinigami does, he just bounces back up without a bruise. “Shut up,” Grimmjow growls, with hardly any heat to it, and turns up the volume on the remote.
“I say you're afraid,” Ichigo says, stepping back and tugging on boots, coat, heavy gloves, scarves – which in Grimmjow's opinion is all the more reason to stay inside.
“Am not.” He turns the volume up louder.
Ichigo pokes him in the side of the head with a gloved finger. “Prove it.”
“Don't have to prove anything.”
“True. I guess I'd hate to show everyone my weakness, too.” Ichigo says and strolls away, opening the front door and letting in a whoosh of frigid air. “Later.”
The door shuts; Grimmjow fidgets. He's not a damn coward.
A minute later, he thrusts himself out of the chair, and tugs on his own coat, muttering curses under his breath the entire time. He opens the door and the first wave of freezing air makes him shudder from head to toe.
Slamming the door shut behind him, Grimmjow shoves his hands in his pockets and steps off the porch. “There. I'm here. Happy now?”
Ichigo's answer is to slam him in the face with a ball of cold, wet slush.
Grimmjow's eyes narrow with incandescent rage. “Oh, you're in for it now!”
For ancientlybroken
Prompt: Justice League, “I had the strangest dream...”, sequel to this flash fiction
Fandom: Justice League (cartoon-verse). Warnings for one-sided BatFlash, past alcohol use
He wakes feeling like he's made of fuzz, from the cottony taste on his tongue to the pillow-fluff in his brain. Flash groans, a twitch racing through his body as his thoughts bounce off jello walls. Oh crimony. Did anyone get the name of the villain that stomped on his head?
Rolling over, he finds that not only had he slept in his suit, but he's also drooled everywhere. Gross. And so attractive.
Flash stumbles out of bed and into the bathroom attached to his room, peering blearily at himself in the mirror. Nearly blood-shot brown eyes stare back at him. What in god's name happened last night?
Well, he remembers the party. And the music. And dancing. And the punch. And Batman.
Oh no. Flash groans, banging his forehead on the mirror. Had he really spent most the night following around Bats like an overeager puppy?
Why yes. Yes he had.
Knocking on his door interrupts his self-recrimination. “Flash?”
“I'm up!” he hollers, and splashes some cold water on his face. Doesn't make him feel any more awake though.
His door opens and GL invites himself inside, making a beeline for the bathroom and hovering in the doorway like an amused parent or something. “You look like hell, kid.”
“Ha, ha.” Flash rolls his eyes. “Thanks for tucking me in.”
“Wasn't me.”
It wasn't? Who else would bother to make sure Flash didn't sleep on top of a table again? It wasn't Diana. And then, he has a flash of memory. Wait... Bats? Flash groans again, completely mortified.
“I'm never gonna live this down.”
“Look on the bright side.” GL claps him on the shoulder. “He didn't dump you on the floor.”
Flash brightens. “Maybe I'm getting through to him.”
Lantern chuckles. “Keep dreaming, Kid. Keep dreaming.”
Rolling over, he finds that not only had he slept in his suit, but he's also drooled everywhere. Gross. And so attractive.
Flash stumbles out of bed and into the bathroom attached to his room, peering blearily at himself in the mirror. Nearly blood-shot brown eyes stare back at him. What in god's name happened last night?
Well, he remembers the party. And the music. And dancing. And the punch. And Batman.
Oh no. Flash groans, banging his forehead on the mirror. Had he really spent most the night following around Bats like an overeager puppy?
Why yes. Yes he had.
Knocking on his door interrupts his self-recrimination. “Flash?”
“I'm up!” he hollers, and splashes some cold water on his face. Doesn't make him feel any more awake though.
His door opens and GL invites himself inside, making a beeline for the bathroom and hovering in the doorway like an amused parent or something. “You look like hell, kid.”
“Ha, ha.” Flash rolls his eyes. “Thanks for tucking me in.”
“Wasn't me.”
It wasn't? Who else would bother to make sure Flash didn't sleep on top of a table again? It wasn't Diana. And then, he has a flash of memory. Wait... Bats? Flash groans again, completely mortified.
“I'm never gonna live this down.”
“Look on the bright side.” GL claps him on the shoulder. “He didn't dump you on the floor.”
Flash brightens. “Maybe I'm getting through to him.”
Lantern chuckles. “Keep dreaming, Kid. Keep dreaming.”
For azardarkstar
Prompt: TF, “the past is weakness”
Fandom: Transformers: Prime, Event Horizon-verse, Knock Out POV. Warnings: spoilers for Event Horizon, character death
It's his first mission as a legitimate Decepticon, the purple brand on his plating still stinging and smoldering. The weight of a blaster in his hands is unfamiliar, unwieldy. The mechs on either side of him are strangers with crimson optics and battle-hardened sneers. Their paint jobs are a mess of dings, scrapes, and dents.
Knock Out's knowledge is limited. He has instinct and reflex, but no practical experience. If he survives this, Flatline has agreed to take him on as medics apprentice.
This is his first mission, but who could have guessed it would go so wrong. That they'd barely escape with the energy converter only to come head to head with an Autobot defense team when the Autobots weren't supposed to be within megamiles of this abandoned base.
And who could have expected that there would be a familiar face among those Autobots, or at least, familiar to Knock Out, who was admittedly cloistered while living in Uraya. This familiar face makes Knock Out hesitate, finger cramped on the trigger of his blaster. His spark pulses in friendly greeting, while alarm races through his circuits.
Newly blue eyes stare at Knock Out in utter surprise – once upon a time, those optics had been green, like the rest of his brothers. Like Hot Spot.
“Knock Out!” Streetwise greets with a tone of relief and happiness, optics flashing. “You're alive! You're... with the Decepticons?”
“You know the Autobot?” Knock Out's companion demands, voice ripe with suspicion, his blaster raised to fire at Streetwise and his Autobots. Their two teams are at an uneasy standstill, violence ready on a hair trigger.
Knock Out's universe boils down to a choice, one he knew he'd have to face sooner or later. He hadn't realized it would be now. He lifts his blaster, aim unsteady, yet intending to incapacitate.
“Yes,” Knock Out says, with far more bravado than he actually feels, tanks churning. “Get out of our way, Streetwise.” Don't make me do this.
“Not happening, 'Con!” one of the Autobots snarls and Knock Out's finger twitches. He fires and Streetwise goes down, frame twitching and smoke rising from the wound.
Knock Out and his team fight their way through – too easy in the long run – and are home free with their acquired converter well in hand. Flatline agrees to take Knock Out on as his apprentice the very next orn. And it's only later, elbows deep in a Seeker moaning about his bent wing, that Knock Out learns his very first kill as a Decepticon had been a mech he once called friend. Such is the cost of his loyalty.
Knock Out's knowledge is limited. He has instinct and reflex, but no practical experience. If he survives this, Flatline has agreed to take him on as medics apprentice.
This is his first mission, but who could have guessed it would go so wrong. That they'd barely escape with the energy converter only to come head to head with an Autobot defense team when the Autobots weren't supposed to be within megamiles of this abandoned base.
And who could have expected that there would be a familiar face among those Autobots, or at least, familiar to Knock Out, who was admittedly cloistered while living in Uraya. This familiar face makes Knock Out hesitate, finger cramped on the trigger of his blaster. His spark pulses in friendly greeting, while alarm races through his circuits.
Newly blue eyes stare at Knock Out in utter surprise – once upon a time, those optics had been green, like the rest of his brothers. Like Hot Spot.
“Knock Out!” Streetwise greets with a tone of relief and happiness, optics flashing. “You're alive! You're... with the Decepticons?”
“You know the Autobot?” Knock Out's companion demands, voice ripe with suspicion, his blaster raised to fire at Streetwise and his Autobots. Their two teams are at an uneasy standstill, violence ready on a hair trigger.
Knock Out's universe boils down to a choice, one he knew he'd have to face sooner or later. He hadn't realized it would be now. He lifts his blaster, aim unsteady, yet intending to incapacitate.
“Yes,” Knock Out says, with far more bravado than he actually feels, tanks churning. “Get out of our way, Streetwise.” Don't make me do this.
“Not happening, 'Con!” one of the Autobots snarls and Knock Out's finger twitches. He fires and Streetwise goes down, frame twitching and smoke rising from the wound.
Knock Out and his team fight their way through – too easy in the long run – and are home free with their acquired converter well in hand. Flatline agrees to take Knock Out on as his apprentice the very next orn. And it's only later, elbows deep in a Seeker moaning about his bent wing, that Knock Out learns his very first kill as a Decepticon had been a mech he once called friend. Such is the cost of his loyalty.
For mistress_pirate
Prompt: JL, who spiked the egg nog
Fandom: Justice League (cartoon-verse). Warnings: unintentional alcohol use, crack.
The first time Diana giggled, Batman thought there might be a problem. Then Green Lantern climbed on top of a table, wobbling as he started telling war stories to anyone who would listen. Afterward, J'onn kept falling out of his chair because he would randomly phase through it, then look around startled like he couldn't believe it had happened (or remember precisely how).
The icing on the cake, however, was when Batman caught Flash trying to chat up Black Canary in a corner while a red-faced and oblivious Green Arrow insisted everyone do karaoke with him (and where he got that sound system set up for karaoke Batman was convinced he'd never know).
The candle on the cake, however, was Superman and whatever he called that ungraceful, flailing movement out on the floor. A dance? Maybe if Batman squinted. He'd always thought Superman lacked rhythm but having to see it in person? Not on his to do list for the day.
Bad enough he'd been tricked into coming to this Justice League Holiday-Christmas-Kwanzaa-Hanukkah-Just for the Hell of It Party.
Batman was strongly starting to suspect that someone had spiked the egg nog, something of which he hadn't had a single drop since he'd always loathed egg nog, even as a kid.
With Booster Gold loudly encouraging Green Lantern for one more story and Supergirl joining her talent-less cousin out on the dance floor (lack of rhythm seemed to be a Kryptonian trait), Batman decided it was in his best interest to investigate. A sniff and a small taste later, and he'd confirmed his suspicions. Yes, someone had spiked the egg nog, and more than once by the smell of it.
But who? Surely the culprit would be wise enough to stay away from their own misdeed, yet everyone present seemed to be well on their way to inebriation. (And Batman strongly suspected that many of his fellow superheroes had recognized said spiking and thought to hell with it, happy for an excuse to cut loose and blame someone else later. And, for that matter, where in the Universe did the perpetrator get a spiking agent that would affect the myriad of physiologies present in the Justice League?)
Batman sighed. With the amount of laughing, giggling, uncoordinated dancing, and repeated trips to the egg nog (they had to know it was altered by now!), he was quite certain that the enire Justice League was going to be not only useless tomorrow, but severely hung over with a major mess on their hands.
Well, this was where being only an part-time member came in handy. Batman could return to his Batcave, quiet as you please, and not be in charge of cleaning up so much as one spilled drink.
Ha. And Flash had tried to tell him he'd only get coal in his stocking. Served him right.
The icing on the cake, however, was when Batman caught Flash trying to chat up Black Canary in a corner while a red-faced and oblivious Green Arrow insisted everyone do karaoke with him (and where he got that sound system set up for karaoke Batman was convinced he'd never know).
The candle on the cake, however, was Superman and whatever he called that ungraceful, flailing movement out on the floor. A dance? Maybe if Batman squinted. He'd always thought Superman lacked rhythm but having to see it in person? Not on his to do list for the day.
Bad enough he'd been tricked into coming to this Justice League Holiday-Christmas-Kwanzaa-Hanukkah-Just for the Hell of It Party.
Batman was strongly starting to suspect that someone had spiked the egg nog, something of which he hadn't had a single drop since he'd always loathed egg nog, even as a kid.
With Booster Gold loudly encouraging Green Lantern for one more story and Supergirl joining her talent-less cousin out on the dance floor (lack of rhythm seemed to be a Kryptonian trait), Batman decided it was in his best interest to investigate. A sniff and a small taste later, and he'd confirmed his suspicions. Yes, someone had spiked the egg nog, and more than once by the smell of it.
But who? Surely the culprit would be wise enough to stay away from their own misdeed, yet everyone present seemed to be well on their way to inebriation. (And Batman strongly suspected that many of his fellow superheroes had recognized said spiking and thought to hell with it, happy for an excuse to cut loose and blame someone else later. And, for that matter, where in the Universe did the perpetrator get a spiking agent that would affect the myriad of physiologies present in the Justice League?)
Batman sighed. With the amount of laughing, giggling, uncoordinated dancing, and repeated trips to the egg nog (they had to know it was altered by now!), he was quite certain that the enire Justice League was going to be not only useless tomorrow, but severely hung over with a major mess on their hands.
Well, this was where being only an part-time member came in handy. Batman could return to his Batcave, quiet as you please, and not be in charge of cleaning up so much as one spilled drink.
Ha. And Flash had tried to tell him he'd only get coal in his stocking. Served him right.
For firegirl0
Prompt: SupermanBatman, voodoo
Fandom: Justice League (animated). Warnings for NSFW porn, slash
There must be something inherently addictive about Kryptonians to humans, Batman hypothesizes. Because no matter how often he turns his back on Superman, or how vehemently he tells himself just this once or one last time, he finds himself right back on Superman's doorstep and in Superman's bed, and surrendering to those heated touches, that hungry mouth, collapsing in a tangle of sweaty limbs, racing hearts, and mind-blowing orgasms.
He usually has better self-control than this, but something about Clark Kent and Kal-El and Superman makes Batman lose all sense of rationale. He knows all the reasons why this shouldn't-wouldn't-couldn't-can't work, but here he is again, standing across from Superman and giving the big Boy Scout the gimlet eye. He doesn't even have to speak for Superman to know what he wants, and Superman never declines to give it to him.
Batman doesn't know what to call it. A way to forget. A way to remember. A way to feel, a way not to feel. A way to not be alone, a way to surrender his solitude. It can't be love; it must be love. It's affection, probably. It's a twist on friendship.
It's Superman's mouth on his, tongues tangling, the taste of oranges on his lips and the feel of those strong hands manipulating Batman as though he weighed little more than a child's toy. Hands that can easily rip through Kevlar, but choose instead to carefully peel it aside, undoing clasps and zippers and buttons. Hands that roam and caress and tweak and rub, turning Batman into an arching, moaning, squirming bundle of want.
Once upon a time, he'd accused Superman of casting some spell on him. (That statement had been made in mostly jest, but at the time, Batman had been convinced that it could be the only logical explanation for his sudden change in outlook on the annoyingly optimistic superhero.) Superman had not been amused; Zatanna even less so. And Batman had quickly dismissed that particular theory, which led him to the current one concerning Kryptonian physiology being addictive to humans.
That's the only explanation Batman can find for the way he grips Superman's head, pulls him down for a kiss that makes his spine tingle and his body heat. It's the only rational reason for Batman to shove Superman onto the bed, divest him of all his clothes, and attack all that perfect skin with lips and teeth and tongue. For the way Superman's hand on his cock feels just this side of body-shuddering perfection, and the way Batman always comes back for more.
Well, whatever the reason, Batman will have to figure it out later. Right now, he just wants to taste and touch and surrender and let Superman do much of the same. Later, he can wonder why he's so comfortable sleeping next to a snoring Clark Kent in a lumpy bed in the middle of Metropolis. Later he can figure out all the confusing details. Because Superman's getting that look in his eyes that bodes well for multiple orgasms and distractions are definitely not wanted or needed. Logic can wait.
He usually has better self-control than this, but something about Clark Kent and Kal-El and Superman makes Batman lose all sense of rationale. He knows all the reasons why this shouldn't-wouldn't-couldn't-can't work, but here he is again, standing across from Superman and giving the big Boy Scout the gimlet eye. He doesn't even have to speak for Superman to know what he wants, and Superman never declines to give it to him.
Batman doesn't know what to call it. A way to forget. A way to remember. A way to feel, a way not to feel. A way to not be alone, a way to surrender his solitude. It can't be love; it must be love. It's affection, probably. It's a twist on friendship.
It's Superman's mouth on his, tongues tangling, the taste of oranges on his lips and the feel of those strong hands manipulating Batman as though he weighed little more than a child's toy. Hands that can easily rip through Kevlar, but choose instead to carefully peel it aside, undoing clasps and zippers and buttons. Hands that roam and caress and tweak and rub, turning Batman into an arching, moaning, squirming bundle of want.
Once upon a time, he'd accused Superman of casting some spell on him. (That statement had been made in mostly jest, but at the time, Batman had been convinced that it could be the only logical explanation for his sudden change in outlook on the annoyingly optimistic superhero.) Superman had not been amused; Zatanna even less so. And Batman had quickly dismissed that particular theory, which led him to the current one concerning Kryptonian physiology being addictive to humans.
That's the only explanation Batman can find for the way he grips Superman's head, pulls him down for a kiss that makes his spine tingle and his body heat. It's the only rational reason for Batman to shove Superman onto the bed, divest him of all his clothes, and attack all that perfect skin with lips and teeth and tongue. For the way Superman's hand on his cock feels just this side of body-shuddering perfection, and the way Batman always comes back for more.
Well, whatever the reason, Batman will have to figure it out later. Right now, he just wants to taste and touch and surrender and let Superman do much of the same. Later, he can wonder why he's so comfortable sleeping next to a snoring Clark Kent in a lumpy bed in the middle of Metropolis. Later he can figure out all the confusing details. Because Superman's getting that look in his eyes that bodes well for multiple orgasms and distractions are definitely not wanted or needed. Logic can wait.
a/n: Yay! Finally got all six done. Congrats to me.
Tomorrow we'll see an update to Event Horizon. And after that, updates to other things that need updating. Perhaps some fic recommendations so on and forth.
Comments are love!
