fluorescent weight
For someone who is, quite literally, a flaming ball of necrotic ooze, physical stimuli tends to register more often than not.
It's not just things like blinding pain and scorching heat, either. The taste of food both familiar and foreign lingers on a phantom palate. Scents tickle nonexistent olfactory nerves, from the rotting-sweet stench of a corpse to a salty sea breeze. His lifeless heart has taken to performing backflips whenever inky black eyes, and their barely-visible earth-brown irises, smile fondly at him.
All these certainly fall among things that any corpse being piloted by a homunculus shouldn’t be experiencing, but somehow he can. Beheaded doesn’t really let himself think much on that, just as he never lets himself think much of who he might have been prior to being thrown into a gauntlet of malaise-twisted monstrosities.
And that mindset persists even now, dropped smack-dab in the middle of a race to save a colliding, collapsing multiverse. It’s not worth the headache trying to figure out the logistics of literally any of that crap on top of everything else he has to deal with. But more recently, he can’t help but find himself grateful that this aspect of whatever humanity he has left has been miraculously preserved.
For newest to his recollection of sensory-based knowhow is the familiar rhythms of two willing bodies, getting down and dirty with one another.
Regardless of Beheaded’s distinct lack of situational awareness when he had first woken up in the depths of a prison, some things had been simply too innate to be completely forgotten; things he knew had happened to him in his bygone past. It had served him well the first time Drifter had successfully cornered him alone, barely twelve hours following their jailbreak from that stuck-between-dimensions prison vault those bastards stuck him in.
Granted, those first few differences between then and now are fairly stark. Lacking an actual mouth, for one. It probably would’ve put a damper on further copulation attempts had it been anybody else, but the immortal is anything but a quitter. What was initially clumsy experimentation has since yielded very interesting results.
There’s also the matter of his burning head being… more recipient to certain kinds of touches than others. Namely, when a gloved hand had grabbed hold of his flame in a desperate effort to keep him from tumbling into a sea of bright red, swiftly-smelting physical matter just last week. And how despite the existential threat to his everything as the doomed realm began to collapse, something about the strange sensation of his fire being pulled taut bypassed every panicked train of thought he’d had and gone right down to his loins.
It doesn’t come as a surprise that Drifter had taken notice of that, nor that he was more than happy to replicate the experience come their next moment alone together. What Beheaded hadn’t been expecting, though, was just how quickly the mere act of fingers tugging curiously at the veil of luminescence could make him hard as a rock.
The proverbial cherry on top of all of this? It also effectively doubles as a makeshift handlebar. Go figure. Not that he’s complaining about all these recent revelations in the slightest, especially when it chases away all coherent thought, and fills his mind with a warm, pleasant haze.
(Especially when it makes him melt beneath the touch of the handsome wanderer who’s captured his undead heart.)
“Nnng--fuck… ” Beheaded so eloquently says between gasps for air he does not need. Somewhere over the static clouding over his consciousness, and the delicious pain prickling across a scalp he does not possess, he catches an amused huff emitting from his normally-silent partner. “C’mon, can’t I just--mmmph!”
His complaint is cut short by a firm yank forward, promptly muffling it in soaked, swollen lips. Drifter’s free hand caresses the side of his head with the tips of his claws; Beheaded needs little further encouragement to pick up right where he left off.
He’s discovered a lot about himself these past few weeks (months?) since they first started fucking. Namely, reciprocation when it came to the categories of sex related to oral. He had eventually come to something of a vague conclusion, namely that it had a lot to do with what senses he still somehow holds onto. Simply put, sheer willpower has enabled him a degree of manipulation over his own flames, stirred by faint memories of another time; one long gone and, frankly, none of his business anymore.
Not that he isn’t grateful for the few fragments he can grasp, especially when it aids with the present moment. He knows, on some base level, that this is far from the first time he’d been sunk upon his knees at the foot of a bed, his field of vision framed by two gorgeous thighs, and his arms kept pinned to his back by order alone.
It all just comes so… naturally. Lapping obediently at the faintly metallic, salty slick secreting from his hole, nuzzling into his petal-soft folds for more. Normally, the idea of being at another’s beck and call would irritate him in a way he can’t properly explain. But like this, for Drifter, all he can think to do is chase that flavor to its source; drink deep from him until they’re both satisfied.
He catches the rim of his pussy, narrows his focus down to that point, and pushes in.
There's a hitch in Drifter's panting, his hips lifting right off the bed to meet him. His partner grinds down onto his ‘tongue’ as Beheaded works his way deeper into his molten-hot core. The homunculus watches, attention rapt upon his pretty features, as that careful composure of his melts away, giving way to faint moans and breathy whimpers. It's all he can do to try and keep up with the steady rolling of his hips, growing more and more desperate with each downward cant.
Sweat-damp fur bristles on either side of him, the solid muscle beneath growing tense. Those sweet sounds start to increase in pitch, his thrusts taking on an uneven tempo, all but rutting against his face--
And then sword-steady fingers grasp firmly around the flickering flames of his fiery skull, abruptly wrenching him away from the crux of his thighs.
The rough treatment makes lightning bolt right down to his weeping, unattended dick, twitching painfully against the empty air. Slick dribbles down the plasmid surface of his face, and the air he sucks in instinctively is heady with the odorants of sweat and sex.
A whine escapes him, staring dazedly up at the wanderer, propped comfortably upon a mismatched pile of pillows. Drifter holds him mere inches from his drooling cunt as he catches his breath, dark eyes dancing with heated mirth and shameless lust.
Beheaded strains against his hold without meaning to. He suddenly can't help but feel like a starved dog being teased.
An agonizing minute-and-a-half ticks by before his partner finally eases him back in, fingers raking down the flames until he can cup the back of his plasmid skull. Beheaded instinctively follows the slight, upward nudge, urging him from his swollen slit to his petite cock.
This takes a bit more concentration, drawing in instead of pushing out. But with a bit of effort, grasping firmly at those faint flashes of heat and closeness, his flames engulf it in its entirety. The soft but ragged moan that follows sends a tingling surge of self-satisfaction through his naked frame.
He suckles at the throbbing flesh like a man possessed, a groan rumbling up his chest and out into the shadows that have gathered around them. Drifter’s scarred chest stutters in answer as the sound somehow vibrates against him, like he has lips and a tongue with which to pleasure him. Beheaded doesn’t know how literally any of this even works, but he cannot bring himself to even care. Not when the only thought he can really hold onto at the current moment is making the other man feel good.
It’s practically a dirty dream come true, getting to watch the somewhat-stoic swordsman writhe against the cushions and sheets. Brow knitting and furrowing with euphoria, fangs glinting in the orange-pink-reds now permeating the room, his expressions so vulnerable and needy. Every little mewl that Beheaded coaxes from him feels like a victory in some way.
It isn't long before the telltale signs of impending release begin to overtake the wanderer’s body yet again. Those long, fuzzy ears of his pin back against his perpetual helmet hair, the tip of his tail twitches erratically. He bobs his head with renewed vigor, matching Drifter's equally fervent pace, and hoping desperately that this time he’ll be allowed to bring him to climax--
But once again, for what must surely be the one hundredth time tonight, a hand hurriedly wraps around the veil of luminescence crowning his scalp, he is roughly dragged away from his meal. Stars flit across his vision in response to the terrible, wonderful sensation of his flames being tugged on.
His hips mindlessly jerk forward, an action followed by the exquisite agony of his dick grinding itself against the icy metal frame of the bed, veiled only by a scratchy bedskirt. There’s a wretched keen coming from somewhere beyond this dark, private corner of the strange world their merry band of misfits have taken refuge in for the night. It takes far too long for him to realize the sound is coming from him.
Any remaining scraps of pride he might have still possessed at the moment all melt away like snow beneath the spring sun, leaving him flayed and raw and ravenous.
“Please… “ His pathetic plea cracks on a near-sob, wracking his trembling frame. “Drifter, please, I--”
The grip Drifter has on his head cinches tighter, pulling his fire taut to the point of pain. A startled yelp is punched out of him as he’s yanked upwards, away from where he wants--no, needs to be. For a moment, the world around him briefly dissolves into streaks of blinding white, and he swears he might finish from this alone.
When it clears, his partner has risen from his pillowy perch, curving over him like a sliver of the moon. His wrist flexes, pulling his gaze upwards to directly meet his own, and the missing tendons of his decapitated neck start to strain. The wanderer leans the rest of the way in, canines glinting dangerously in the hazy pink and sunset-orange flares. His lips brush the blazing plasmid surface of his forehead, smiling sweetly against it.
And then, in a rasping, honeyed-whisper, Beheaded is given a gentle command.
“Touch yourself.”
Drifter’s illness-ravaged tone is barely audible over the sound of his undead heart, pounding a-mile-a-minute in his nonexistent ears. But he might as well have barked it the way the immortal’s hand flies from behind his back, scrabbling for his slickened shaft. No sooner does a moan of fathomless relief escape him, as he makes that first firm stroke, is he roughly pushed back into place.
“Good boy... ” He hears, and has to promptly pinch the base of his dick in order to keep himself from coming immediately. Without even a moment’s hesitation, Beheaded dives in with wanton enthusiasm. The sheets shuffle and shift and settle as Drifter lies back down, grinding his hips against his featureless face eagerly.
A chorus of electric-hot pleasure rises to join the hazy symphony of warmth coursing through his veins as he settles into a steady rhythm. Clawed-tipped fingers keep an ironclad grip around the edges of fire, guiding him from his dick to his slit and back again as he pleases.
The immortal doesn't even let himself think, sucking and mouthing and licking at his cunt like it's the only thing he’s good for. Drooling like a famished beast; fucking into his own fist with mindless fervor. How had he ever gone these uncountable decades of endless bullshit without this? He’s drowning in pussy and never wants to come up for air again.
A firm tug repositions him against his plush folds, keeps him there until his tongue snags on his entrance. A sharp, sudden buck of Drifter’s hips against his face startles him from his fugue state for only a moment. In the next, he promptly complies with his unspoken demand. Beheaded squirms his way past the rim of his hole, the plasmid appendage he’s conjured from memory alone sliding in, in, in--
“Haaahh... !”
The wanderer’s faint cry is like music to his nonexistent ears. Drifter’s hand releases his fire, scrabbling for the back of his head as if to brace himself. His hips start to roll forward in shallow but swift thrusts, building in tempo until he's riding his jaw with wild abandon.
All the world around them both falls away. There's only the obscene sounds of the swordsman using him, the wet heat of his core smothering his senses, and the euphoria that pulses through him in time with each rough pump of his slick, battle-scarred palm.
He senses more than sees Drifter’s lower back beginning to lift from the mattress, spine arching in a sinful curve as the lean muscles of his abdomen tense and twitch. His off-hand flies down from where it was gripping the blanket, and for one heart-stopping moment, Beheaded fears he’s going to deny them both yet again.
An unfounded terror dispelled in the next second as his grip goes not for his flames, but his own throbbing cock, pinching it between his forefinger and the pad of his thumb.
The pinpricks of pain that accompany claws digging into burning plasma become an afterthought, not when the immortal’s attention fixates on the sight before him. Drifter, jerking off with almost manic desperation, fucking himself on his tongue, and head thrown back against the pillow pile looking utterly blissed out.
Whines and whimpers alike bubble up his sliced-open throat, and are promptly swallowed by pulsating flesh. His own strokes pick up speed, matching the other man’s frenetic pace, and hoping to whatever sadistic God running this shitshow that this time he’ll finally--
His uncharacteristic prayer is answered by a breathy, sweetly-staccato “ah, ah, ah--!”, and then at last, at last, Drifter falls apart with a beautiful, broken, gasping moan.
Beheaded drinks it all in with a dazed sort of reverence. Rapture blossoms across his handsome features, hips rutting mindlessly against his face and his thighs quaking almost violently. His silken walls clench and shudder all around him with every pulse that wracks his wiry frame. The grip he has on himself tightens subconsciously, as if in mimicry.
And then the tension bleeds out of him all at once, slumping down onto the mattress with a heavy thud of muscle upon a feather-filled duvet. In the next moment, his hand jumps from his twitching dick to land on Beheaded’s blazing forehead, nudging at it insistently. The homunculus instinctively falls still before easing his makeshift tongue out of him, leaning away from his dribbling folds the moment he’s clear.
From this angle, those irises of his glint in the flaring hues of his burning skull, half-lidded and sex-drunk. Normally this particular look of his would instill feelings akin to being gazed upon by a predator. At the present moment, Beheaded finds himself thoroughly distracted by the sight of his fucked-out cunt, oozing still with slick and saliva, and clenching around nothing. Perfect jerkoff material, in his own humble opinion.
He wastes little time working back up to that brutal rhythm he left off on, hunting for release. Just as he does so, Drifter’s hand navigates itself to the veil of luminescence atop his head. He’s anticipating another rough yank, and it leaves him entirely unprepared for the way those clever digits so tenderly card through his flames.
Tingling warmth blooms across his miraculously-functioning nerves, lighting each one up like a live wire. It surges across Beheaded’s undead body like a wildfire consuming kindling, and the pulsating sensations center right down his dick, punching a groan out of him in between labored pants.
A breathy hum of approval resounds from above, followed by the distinctness of Drifter’s other hand curiously tangling itself into his flames. The razor tips of his claws scratch lightly at Beheaded’s scalp, and the sound that erupts him would be embarrassing in any other circumstance. A tingling sensation erupts across necrotic flesh, heady and warm like a hot coal dropped into his gut.
He finally reaches that heavenly pace from before, that point where it all becomes climbing heat, and then chases it hungrily. Calloused paw pads gently pinch at one of the fiery tendrils, trailing his touch from root to tip. The blissful pressure swiftly chases away all semblance of thought, pathetic mewls and whimpering moans escaping him with every caress, every stroke of his digits through the fire.
His hips and wrist move together in frenetic tandem; heat coils tighter and tighter in his gut, poised to consume him in its ruinous salvation. Drifter gives that same vibrant strand of fire a curious but firm tug, pulling it taut--
And then he is gone, consumed by the radiant thrall of his climax. A burst of brilliantly warm colors emits from the immortal's eternally-burning skull, heralded by his debauched shout, and driving away the shadows that swathe them. He is flung to the stars above, dappled with nameless constellations, and then thrown right back down into this unknown world without a shred of mercy.
Reality creeps back to him in dredges, one ragged sense at a time. A husky scent permeates the air his lungs reflexively heave for. There’s an ache in his knees and hands on his back, petting over his scarred shoulders soothingly. Eyes he does not have blink themselves open to find his head comfortably cushioned on a muscular thigh. Someone's shaking and he’s pretty sure it's him.
Entire minutes tick by as he tries to remember how all his muscles work. Craning his impossibly-sore neck upwards, Beheaded manages to glance up at his partner. Another rosy-tinged flare paints the plain walls of the inn upon registering his warm eyes and carefree smile, framed by sweat-soaked strands of hair all but plastered to his face.
An index finger taps twice upon his overheating flesh, deliberate and firm. It takes a moment for his scrambled brain to recall the exact query that particular touch is meant to convey, and then another few more to settle on an honest answer.
(“What do you need right now?”)
“Help me up?” The homunculus grunts out, in a voice more exhausted than he intended to let on.
He's more than likely got some serious rug burn going on by now. Not that he can really tell, what with how numb and jelly-like his legs have become. But with that seemingly endless vigor of his, Drifter helps him stagger to his feet, urging him onto the cushion-covered blankets, and taking care to avoid the damp spot shaped like his lower back and ass.
Some of the pillows hit the floor with faint thumps as Beheaded finally finds a comfy spot to gracelessly flop down on. Drifter is right there beside him the moment he hits the mattress, arms slipping over his shoulder and beneath his side.
He distantly thinks they ought to shower. For all its medieval accents and aesthetics, this eerily empty inn had excellent plumbing. He's contemplating pitching the idea when smiling lips brush along the curve of his flaming head, whispering sweet nothings against the roiling plasma, hoarse in tone and yet so softly sincere.
“You did so good… “ Another pathetic whimper threatens to escape him; he can't quite bite it back in time. “So good for me… “
Yeah, nope. He's never moving from this spot again.
Pleasant fog seeps into his flesh with every slow, breathy murmur of praise, sinking down to his sore muscles. It warms him from the inside out, filling him with fuzzy contentment and leaving him utterly boneless. Reality could start finally falling apart at the seams around them, and he'd hardly give a shit. The ball of slime that made up his spirit might just ooze off the body he possesses at this rate, and melt into a puddle of saccharine mush.
Drifter falls silent shortly after, undoubtedly to spare himself any further risk of triggering another coughing fit tonight. The weight of his chin shifting and settling atop his sensitive crown takes its place, whilst his silk-soft touches continue to smooth down his spine and side.
They're gonna stink in the morning. Drifter will definitely be grumpy about that, nose scrunching cutely in answer to the heavy odors of a night well-spent permeating the room. Much as he hates water, he certainly took pride in keeping himself clean. He might drag them both to the shower anyway before meeting with the others for breakfast. Maybe he’d let Beheaded scrub at his fur, his thorough touches growing friskier until Drifter swats his hands away, that playful half-smile stretching across his face--
… God, he really had to go and fall for a dying man, didn’t he?
Beheaded shuts down that train of thought before it can start spiraling into grim restlessness. He firmly reminds himself he’s not the only one in their group keeping an eye out for a cure that could halt the progress of his deadly ailment; a panacea to free him from the monster that poisons his blood. Yeah, sure, they haven't had much luck with anything in that department thus far, but it was a big multiverse. 'Miles to go and all that', he thinks he's heard somewhere before.
There had to be something out there that could work. Come what may, they still have time. And damn him if he didn’t make good use of it, for once.
