This is, by a factor of like 50, the most NSFW thing I ever wrote. Which isn't saying much, considering I usually stick to ye olde fade to black, but yeah. T-T
Dyspo moaned heavily into the pillow. He'd slipped his uniform down to his waist—Hit had soundly refused his offer to take it off completely—and the wiry muscles of his back and shoulders got the privilege of the assassin's attention. For as well as Hit could stimulate Dyspo's ears, it seemed he worked even better on the more familiar anatomy. His hands kneaded flesh with as much confidence and skill as Dyspo had ever experienced, which was saying something, as the rabbit had had the pleasure of meeting the universe's best massage therapists.
"You're tense."
The Pride Trooper lifted his head. "Can't imagine how that happened. I've had zero stress lately. No drama, no weird shit, definitely didn't have to fight my God of Destruction boss, nothing."
Hit dug the heel of his palm into a particularly recalcitrant muscle. Dyspo's hands clenched into fists as his body tried to decide whether it was being tortured or pampered.
"Your stress is self-inflicted," the assassin said. "It was your idea to seek a training partner from another universe. You chose one with a reputation."
"I'll own up to the general plan but the fine details—that's you—weren't technically my idea."
"What do you mean?" Hit asked. "You sent me an invitation."
Dyspo took a minute to gather himself. "You know how everybody from Universe 2 is basically joined at the hip? Their Destroyer, Angel, Supreme Kai, and best fighters, they just seem like they all hang out together, talking about love and watching cheesy romance movies. I didn't have to send them a recording like I did with you. Marcarita and their Angel, whatever his name is, just acted like phones. I talked to Ribrianne directly."
Hit remained silent. He had no idea what any of this had to do with Dyspo's earlier statement but he imagined the rabbit would get there eventually.
"It was...bad. Probably not as bad as that shit-show you got, but still bad. Ribrianne was polite and everything—and she put me on the waiting list—but I felt like a creepy anime fan-boy by the end of it. I guess Marcarita knew how I felt because she tried distracting me. She asked who else I was considering. I said 'after that, nobody' and really hoped she'd get the message. Fat chance. She threw out a couple names I couldn't even put faces to and then she suggested-"
"Me," Hit surmised.
"Bingo. You. She started going off about how great our fight was during the Tournament, and the more I thought about it, the more I wanted a fair rematch. I knew there was no way in hell you'd be interested, but what could I do? Can't say no to an Angel, especially not when she's selling that hard."
"I tried to. Repeatedly. Vados refused to accept it. She cut me with passive-aggressive remarks until I surrendered."
Dyspo laid in thoughtful silence for a minute. "Do you think they were trying to hook us up?"
Hit nearly choked. "W-what?!"
The Pride Trooper shrugged. "I'm not saying they were. Maybe all Vados wanted to do was get you off your sorry ass and stop you from eating anymore swamp rats. Maybe Marcarita just really liked our last fight and thought we'd push each other. They probably never expected I'd end up shirtless with you rubbing-"
"Shut up."
Dyspo chuckled. "Alright, forget I said anything. Since you want to get back to work, I've got some tension in my lower back. My lower lower back."
"My laundry's ready for the dryer." Without another word, Hit removed himself from the bed and headed for the door.
"That's really funny. Hit? Hit! Come on!"
Dyspo was left half-undressed, and considerably more than half aroused, with no idea how long Hit would be gone. What kind of complete psychopath got a man riled up and then abandoned him in favor of washing clothes?
During their morning matches, Hit had given the Pride Troopers five minutes one time and five seconds the next. Dyspo decided to split the difference. If Hit wasn't back in the next two and a half minutes, Dyspo was locking the door, sequestering himself in the bathroom and...taking a cold shower.
While furiously jerking off.
And cursing the day Marcarita opened her mouth and Hit's stupid name fell out of it.
With twenty seconds to spare, Dyspo heard unmistakable footsteps in the hall. The assassin stepped back into the room without comment, at least on his part. Dyspo had plenty of comments, all of them insulting and most of them vulgar.
Hit withstood the verbal barrage with his typical stoicism. Even when the phrase "cock-blocked by a washing machine" reached his ears, the assassin managed to keep his face neutral. His lack of reaction was fuel to the fire. The Pride Trooper redoubled his efforts to shame, anger, or prod some sort of response from the infuriatingly calm killer.
When Dyspo was eventually forced to take a breath, Hit uttered just two words. "Turn over."
All the bluster dropped from the rabbit. He stared at Hit.
"Lay on your back and put your hands behind your head."
Dyspo moved slowly and cautiously, two adverbs completely foreign to him. The Pride Trooper wished he could blame his tentativeness on something reasonable like fear, reluctance, or the last shreds of his honor and dignity. He couldn't. It was purely physical. Two commands from Hit, and what they might promise, had rocketed his arousal from uncomfortable to pure agony. The skintight uniform penning everything in didn't help either.
Hit was patient. Maybe too patient. Even once Dyspo had managed to lay himself down and had tucked his hands under his head, the assassin made no move to approach the bed.
Dyspo fidgeted. "Are you gonna get over here or what?"
"Once I've finished enjoying the view," Hit replied.
"Oh, that is smooth."
Hit took another few seconds to appreciate the flushed, desperate Pride Trooper before he ambled over. There was a slight dip in the mattress as he sat down.
"You've got a decision to make," the assassin said.
"Right now? Are you serious?"
"I'm in no hurry if you'd rather wait."
Dyspo, for the second time in two days, grabbed his ears out of frustration. "Just ask your shitty question already!"
"My hands or my mouth?"
Someone unplugged Dyspo's brain and ran off with it. The rabbit was left to stare in complete bewilderment, unsure of what he'd heard or how he could possibly decide when his thinking organ had been abducted.
"Can you repeat that?" the Pride Trooper finally managed to squeak.
Hit held up both hands and then gestured to the lavender portion of his face that Dyspo found so delicious. "Which would you prefer?"
"Both." The word was out in the open before Dyspo realized he'd spoken.
The assassin raised a brow. "I don't remember giving you that option."
Dyspo doubled down. "You up and left to do laundry! Both is the least you could do to make up for being such a bastard!"
"I was gone for two minutes," Hit said.
"You know how long two minutes feels when you're so horny you wish your dick could just go and be someone else's problem?"
"I've offered to make it my problem. You're still complaining."
With a huff, Dyspo closed his mouth. He was still scowling but Hit would take what concessions he could get.
"I'm going to deploy my time skip. If I feel your hands on me at any point moving forward, I'm going to leave you to fend for yourself."
Dyspo wiggled his fingers to demonstrate his hands were firmly on the bed and behind his head. Hit nodded. "Good. Keep them there."
"Don't tell me what I already-"
The complaint was severed cleanly and completely, as though by guillotine blade. It was replaced with a strangled yelp that would have brought the other Pride Troopers running to investigate if they'd been within earshot.
If Cocotte and K'nsi had chosen that moment to burst into the room to rescue their teammate, they would have been greeted by the sight of Dyspo getting exactly what he wanted. Hit had jumped through time and had, without warning or teasing, taken everything the Pride Trooper had to offer into his mouth.
Dyspo's hips bucked of their own accord. Not that there were any conscious movements he would have made instead. Upon suddenly finding himself submerged in heat and pressure and blinding pleasure, the only thing he wanted was more.
Of course that meant Hit refused to give it to him. At least not at the pace Dyspo was trying to set. The assassin found a use for his hands, grabbing the rabbit's slim hips and pinning them down.
Being so restrained brought a meager level of sobriety back to the Pride Trooper. As he'd been dragged back from the edge—not far, only enough to frustrate temporarily—he decided to get his money's worth from the experience. Gingerly, so as not to antagonize Hit, Dyspo repositioned his arms. He slid his hands from beneath his head and then propped himself up on his elbows.
The view was worth the risk.
Hit's eyes were closed and, except for the faint purple flush across his cheeks, he seemed completely at ease with his task. Dyspo had slept his way across a diverse universe and had enjoyed his fair share of mouths or similar intake holes. In general he was used to more movement, noise, moisture, and potentially even gagging from a partner. Not that Hit's almost unnatural stillness dampened his skills in the least. The assassin must have had voluntary control over muscles and reflexes most beings didn't.
Dyspo quickly realized adding the visual element wasn't conducive to staving off orgasm. It only took a minute of watching the most serene blowjob in history before the Pride Trooper found himself lightheaded. He decided to lay back down before he either came or passed out. Or both.
Even staring at the plainest ceiling imaginable couldn't distract Dyspo from the fire Hit was expertly stoking. The rabbit felt sweat bead across his forehead. His blood was boiling. The air in his lungs was full of sparks.
"Hit, I'm close."
The assassin's fingers tightened their grasp, digging divots into the scant meat beneath them. It was the only acknowledgment he could relay given the circumstances.
After one more squeeze, Hit relaxed his grip. He left his hands in place, loose but ready to exert control if needed, while he took a moment to appreciate a job well done. The muscles under his fingers were a taut, trembling mess. The same could be said about the part of the Pride Trooper that was being so thoroughly entertained by Hit's mouth and throat. Every inch of Dyspo's body seemed to be teetering and begging to fall.
Hit was kind enough to give him a push. He ran his fingertips along the rabbit's inner thighs and then lifted his hands entirely. The moment the contact was broken, instinct took over. Dyspo thrust his hips upward with animalistic intensity.
It was a frantic, unsteady rhythm that couldn't be maintained for long. Sure enough, a few seconds later, Dyspo threw back his head and came with a keening groan. His hands bunched fistfuls of bed sheets while he rode out the spectacular waves of pleasure.
While the Pride Trooper was lost in his warm and fuzzy post-orgasmic haze, Hit took a moment to readjust his uniform, tugging it up over his hips and covering at least his crotch. It wasn't that Hit was trying to protect Dyspo's modesty; the rabbit seemed more than comfortable with nudity, as he'd tried shucking off his clothes at the mention of a massage. It was more like putting a period at the end of a sentence or taking the keys out of the ignition after a road trip.
Dyspo sighed contentedly and flopped over onto his stomach. "You okay? I know I got a little wild at the end there, but it's kinda your fault for being so good."
"I'm fine," Hit replied. There was a hoarseness in his voice—and if he was forced to tell the complete truth, his soft palate and pharynx ached in a way that wasn't unpleasant—but he'd endured no major damage.
"Glad to hear it. Can I ask you something?"
"I feel you're going to regardless of what I say," the assassin said.
"You got me there. So here it goes. How do you want to even the score? You've gotten me off twice but I don't even know what you're working with."
"By that you mean-"
Dyspo pointed downward. "What's in your pants? Wait, can I guess?"
Hit stared at him. "You want to guess...what genitals I have?"
The Pride Trooper apparently did. He sized Hit up, running his eyes up and down the assassin's body in a way that made Hit happy he was wearing such a long coat.
"Tentacles."
If Hit had been drinking right then, he would have sprayed it out his nose. "You think I have tentacles."
"If you do, don't feel embarrassed. I love tentacles. Not that I'm picky either way. I don't know what they're packing in your universe, but the Eleventh has a nice variety."
Those were some fun facts Hit would have lived a happier life not knowing, but there was no ridding himself of the knowledge or the imagery that came with it.
"So...can I find out?" Dyspo asked.
"Later. Maybe. If you're lucky," Hit replied.
"I didn't hear a 'no' in there."
"You will if you keep it up."
The Pride Trooper sprawled himself out like a spatchcocked chicken. "Alright, I'll ask after my nap."
Hit eased himself to the edge of the bed, careful to avoid Dyspo's haphazardly slung limbs. "Tomorrow."
"Tonight."
"Never."
Dyspo scowled. "Fine, you win. Tomorrow. You're a real cutthroat negotiator, you know that?"
The victorious assassin stood up. "Enjoy your nap."
Leaving Dyspo to whatever filthy dreams his brain could cook up, Hit time-skipped out the door. He had laundry that needed to be folded and then...he needed to find the most absurd, ridiculous thing on the planet that resembled tentacles.
Author's Notes of Shame and Degradation:
Yeah, so, this just kept getting filthier and filthier and the next thing I knew, there were time-skipping BJ's… Damn it, this chapter needs to be taken to horny jail.
My memes are as old as Hit.
Spatchcocking, if anyone is curious, is the process of removing the backbone from a bird carcass so it lays flatter and cooks more evenly.
Thanks for reading.
