Posts tagged Ali writes too!
Posts tagged Ali writes too!
Posting about half of my final script here under a cut. Consider it a dump of real-life feels that I feel like sharing with ya’ll. I’ll get the other half done either tonight or tomorrow morning.
It took a while to write, but hey, I had fun. It was about time I wrote smutty things with these two anyway, so thanks Megan, for ‘twisting my arm’ on that. C:
Relationships and women (I might add more to this one, I feel like some things could be missing or not fully expanded on.)
NSFW under cut. This’ll be fun. C:
Last notes on religion before I hit the hay.
Bulletpoints to make it easy on myself and people reading, lol.
I really need to draw concepts for the shamans. That’d be a fun task. And political ideas will follow in the future.
Tal was up early that morning. Too early, for his liking. Perhaps it was because he knew Keket’s alarm clock was going to ring soon. She had to put the finishing touches on her exam paper and then head off to her graduate writing class at 10. It amused him that she would rather wake up early and finish than stay up to complete the paper. Then again, she could have finished had not one kiss from him lead to another, and then another, and hands and fingers began to roam about.
He rolled out of bed before her, went into the living room and popped open the fire escape window. He had grabbed his pack of cigarettes from the end table and lit one up. He inhaled, taking in the city air, and then exhaled it out along with the smoke in his lungs. He coughed once or twice, but he felt it was worth it, despite the tiny droplets of blood on his wrist from the coughs.
“And I thought I hid those little bastards away from you,” came a tired but still sultry voice from behind him. Tal turned around and dressed in a very thin white robe stood Keket. Her hair had yet to be brushed, but her waves still looked great in bedhead mode. The robe was haphazardly tied, and the part was more open and low than it should be. Not that this bothered Tal at all. What did annoy him was Keket taking his cigarette and finishing it off herself. She kept one arm underneath her breasts and placed the carton in between them.
Tal laughed. “I have no problem snatching them back out and you know it.”
“You really need to stop with these, bebe,” she said, with less snark and more genuine concern, putting the ashes out on the fire escape metal and throwing the used butt out onto the street below. “They’ll only make you sicker.”
Tal heaved a defeated sigh. “I know, I know…” He placed his elbows on the windowsill. “I’m workin’ in it, K. I promise.”
Keket’s full lips smiled, and after placing the cigarette carton in the end table’s drawer, she pressed herself against his slender back and kissed his shoulders. “Think you can resist temptation for an hour? We can go get some breakfast after my class.”
“No promises,” he smirked.
“Tal…” she narrowed her eyes at him.
“All right, I won’t smoke another cig.”
“That’s what I wanna hear,” she purred. Tal turned around and Keket stood on her toes to kiss his lips. With her arms around him, she asked, “Now are you gonna stay in here or go back to sleep?”
“Sleep’s out of the question now,” he chuckled. He held her closer and smiled. “But I’d rather watch my little minx get dressed than stay in here and have those damn cancer sticks that are within reach tempt me.”
Keket returned his smirk with her own. “I’ll take them in my purse.” She shrugged her shoulders, and the robe slid off of them slowly and delicately. “Come along. I might need your help deciding on what to wear today.”
His baseball game went on much longer than necessary. It tied at the last inning, and went on for another two before the Taitans lost, unfortunately. Yamcha didn’t mind too much, though; after being dead for quite a while, it felt good to be back on Earth and on the diamond playing some ball. He went back to the locker room and noted the three missed calls on his cell phone. All from Bulma. He dialed her back, but there was no answer. “It’s midnight,” he said. “She must be asleep.”
With Puar alongside him, Yamcha tossed out an aircraft capsule, stepped inside, and made a course for Capsule Corp. He was exhausted, and it showed. Dirt and sweat stained his uniform, and he could barely keep his eyes open. Puar even offered to drive home, but he assured him that he was fine. Thankfully, the two made it without incident. He exchanged the capsule upon landing in front of the building for a set of keys to the front door. Scratch meowed as he stepped inside and walked up the stairs. He caught the flickering light from the living room television, and a snoring Dr. Briefs slouched on the couch.
“Another late night,” Puar said in a hushed voice.
“Figures,” Yamcha replied. “He’ll wake up and head to bed soon. C’mon, Puar.”
The scarred fighter creaked open Bulma’s bedroom door, and his suspicions were right on the money. She was asleep, and a hint of frustration graced her otherwise peacefully sleeping face. Yamcha sighed, he would have to explain. But he would in the morning, for he knew better than to wake her up and do so. Besides, all he wanted was some sleep himself beside a warm body, even if said warm body was a little ticked at him. He stripped off his uniform until he was down to a white undershirt and boxers, while Puar flew off to the couch underneath the window and curled up in its cushions. Yamcha crawled into his side of the bed, and planted one kiss on Bulma’s bare shoulder before closing his eyes for the night.
The next morning, the curtains barely veiled the sun from striking Yamcha’s eyelids. He stirred and groaned, but eventually gave in. “Fine, sun, you win,” he mumbled. He rolled over to Bulma’s side and noted its vacancy. He sat up fully and then saw the blue-haired heiress standing in between the end of the bed and the bedroom door.
“And when did YOU come home last night?” she demanded, hands on her hips and lips pursed.
Yamcha laughed. “What? No ‘good morning’?” he teased. “A ‘how’d ya sleep?’ at least?”
“I called you three times!”
“The game went into two more innings. And you know I can’t bring my phone to the dugout.” He lay back down, his hands under his mane of black hair. “We lost anyway, if you wanted to know that, too.”
Bulma’s pout faded into a small smile. “Musta been a good game then,” she said. The next thing Yamcha knew, she had pounced him and her nose was pressed to his. “And here’s your ‘good morning’, you.” The playful kiss quickly turned passionate once Yamcha realized how much he missed kissing her.
They broke away and she whispered, “I think you need a bath.”
“Woulda done that last night if I wasn’t so damn tired,” he replied just as softly. He smiled. “How ‘bout you and I get one right now?”
She smiled back, just as coy, if not more so. “Tonight, promise. But I gotta help Mom with breakfast, and there’s no way you’re going to eat with us smelling like a gym locker.”
“Yeah, not a good idea. All right, I’m goin’.”
Bulma moved off of him and watched him enter her connecting bathroom. Once she heard the faucet turn, she let out a small chuckle. “You’re not off the hook yet, babe,” she said to herself. She turned around and saw Puar still sleeping away and then made her move. Quickly and quitely.
About fifteen minutes later, Puar yawned and stretched his limbs. He floated over to the bathroom door and knocked with his tail. “You in there, Yamcha?” he called.
“Almost done!” he hollered back. On the other side, Yamcha finally turned off the hot water and pulled the curtain. He reached for the towel on the rack, and didn’t feel anything there. “The hell? I swear I put on there.” He stepped out onto the rug and didn’t see the t-shirt and jeans he laid out on the sink either. All he saw was a small hand towel. He rolled his eyes. “Cute, Bulma. Real cute.” He cracked the door open slightly and said, “Puar, can you get me a pair of boxers from the drawer?”
“Sure.” He went over to the tall drawer and pulled one open. “Um. There’s nothing in here.”
“Try the one below.”
Puar opened it. “Nothing here either.”
Yamcha blinked. “Well, is there ANYTHING?”
Puar keep looking through the drawers. “Ummm…only this.” He held up a pair of underwear. One of Bulma’s lacy little G-strings. And to make it worse, it was pink.
Yamcha’s face fell. “She took all of the towels AND my clothes?!”
“She took the towels?” Puar repeated.
Before Yamcha could yell out, Bunny called out from the hallway, “Yamcha, dear, are you dressed? You’re going to miss breakfast!”
“I-uh, yeah, I’m almost done!” he scrambled. He looked at Puar and said in a slight panic, “What the hell am I gonna do?!” He held the hand towel and continued, “She only left me this and that!” He pointed to the underwear Puar still held. “And there’s no way I’m wearing it!”
“Don’t ask me!” Puar argued. “Think of something!”
“Turn into a towel!”
“Are you nuts?! I am not letting you use me to dry you and your business!”
“Then yank off the bed sheets!”
“Bulma will skin you alive if you came down wearing them!”
“Ahhhh!” Yamcha yelled. He honestly had no idea what to do. Again, he consulted his old friend. “Puar, which would be worse? The towel or the underwear?”
“The underwear, definitely,” he answered.
His hand reached out from the bathroom. “Give me them anyway.”
“I wonder what’s taking that boy so long,” Bunny inquired. “The eggs are getting cold.”
“Oh, give him a minute, Mom,” Bulma replied, a minute evil smile pulling at her lips as she played with her food. “He’ll be down.”
And then came his voice. “Mornin’, ladies.”
Bunny and Bulma turned to look at the hallway. Bulma let out a bewildered squeak and Bunny dropped her fork with an “Oh my.”
There stood Yamcha, stark naked with the exception of a very small piece of pink undergarment barely covering him. “Sorry for the wait,” he said, taking his place at the table beside Bulma. “Only had a hand towel to dry myself with. Took a while.”
He actually did it, Bulma thought. I…I…
“That’s funny, I thought I put fresh towels in her bathroom yesterday. So, where’s your bowtie, Mr. Chippendale?” Bunny mused, vapid as ever.
“MOTHER!” Bulma shrieked. She looked up at her boyfriend, and Yamcha flashed her an innocent smile. She didn’t know whether to cry or laugh from all of this, so she turned back to her food. Although her eyes would dart back to glance under the table once or twice. How does it stay IN there?
Bars and best friends and implied pairings, OH MY.
He was able to get one last drag out of his cigarette before the pretty young Saiyaness working the bar that night placed another crystal glass of hard whiskey near his ashtray. He gave her a look of slight confusion, and with a wink, she explained, “It’s on me, honey.”
He smirked in approval and took a swig. The liquid burned the whole way down his throat, and it didn’t bother him in the slightest. With the drink already halved, he lit up another smoke, and he found himself unable to keep his eyes off of the waitress’s…tail, as she bent over the bar talking to another paying customer.
It seemed that he wasn’t as discreet with the gazing as he thought.
“You ain’t got a chance with her, brother,” came a familiar voice behind him. Toma took a seat next to his best friend and laughed. “Once you take her home and she finds out you got a kid, you aren’t getting a damn thing.”
Bardock scoffed and exhaled smoke up into the lights. “So says the new father,” he countered with a smirk. He tapped some ash off the stick and said, “Which reminds me, about that bet.”
Toma sounded an annoyed growl and handed over a fair amount of money. “Damn. And here I thought you forgot.” The ‘bet’ being that Selypa wouldn’t scream during labor, much less yell at Toma something along the lines of “You did this to me, you son of a bitch!” He lost; he thought she wouldn’t scream at all, but childbirth was hell, even for female Saiyans.
With a smug smile, Bardock counted the money to make sure it was exact. “How is she, anyway?”
“Other than exhausted, fine,” his best friend shrugged. “She needs to stay in that infirmary for a few days, and that news didn’t settle with her too well.”
“Hn. The stubborn woman doesn’t know when to take it easy.” The shorter Saiyan man whistled shrilly, and this got him the attention of the buxom waitress. She slinked over, and he gave her three of the ten bits of currency. “Get me a round for my friend, will ya?”
She turned to Toma and smiled coyly at both of them. “Of course,” she purred. She pocketed the money and turned around to the array of alcohol.
“You’re using my own money to buy me a drink?” He laughed. “A bit cold, Bardock?”
“Ah, shut up. Call it a congratulatory drink,” he explained, with a small genuine smile. The waitress came back in no time and set a drink down for Toma. The two old friends raised their glasses to the other. “Cheers,” they said in unison, and then down the hatches went the burning liquid. “Now you’ll know what it’s like to have a brat of your own,” Bardock chuckled.
“But guess who’s got the babysitting gig now, brother?” Toma smirked, followed by a fit of laughter gauged by his friend’s barely audible reaction of, “FUCK.”