"Mmph!"

That's about as much as the famed paragon can get out, at the moment, a grin narrowly escaping her lips around the spit-slicked girth of her partner's cock. It's a good thing no one happens to be observing, really; although the blinds are drawn tight in the tiny apartment, the neon lights and rumble of airtrucks of Second Seoul still almost a presence here, inside, there's not much mistaking what's going on inside. And if they were observing?

Well.

The sluicing result of a sloppy, indulgent suck cascades down the famed defender's chin, jaw held slack, and familiar fingers curl through the locks of close-cropped hair to pull her back. Even that produces a rumbling groan from above, and with her eyes closed shut, she can feel every inch of him. The lazy curl of veins around that familiar shaft, pulsing up against her lips with an steady beat, the salt and sweat of his skin accompanying the slow spread and swell, sliding with a luscious drag out from the warm depths until, at last, only the tip remains, nestled comfortably, effortlessly, against her tongue. There's an easy confidence in his hands, when he lets her pull back for air, a playful grin dancing on his face.

"Good girl."

And with that, Nick traces a hand along her cheek, their lazy journey from cheekbone to jaw to lips ending with a gentle slide into Kat's mouth. Echoing their earlier pursuits, her cheeks hollow, and green eyes meet brown when he nods his approval.

"You're good at this, love," he grins, remembering the effortless dance of yesterday. Even now, his coat splays open against the back of his chair, the weight of his arms free of gauntlets making every motion an easy delight. And to see his lover, free from the stolid layers of armor that usually shroud her form... Perfection.

They make quite a team together, really. With his tightly-choreographed flit between buildings, darting from room to room with a bullet sliding precisely home in every enemy and the great, swarming clouds of nanites gusting forth to stitch together the sick and broken, he's an icon, the Lancet Knight, taking his place in the pantheon of modern heroes. Flashing from point to point, a smile on his lips and the swirling camouflage of his coat striking hope in the hearts of the injured, and when it comes to his lady love, well! Naught but a flicker on his radar, and he's sailing past, the clouds of healing swirling around her and leaving her refreshed with a ghost of his taste on her tongue. Only for her, of course, so she feels that swell, deep in her stomach, of being his, and he'll stride away with a smile, on to the next until the day is through.

And her? Beneath her shimmering shield, Britannia strides across the battlefield, the rounds from her revolver hitting like a hurricane and the case-hardened steel of her armor shining in the sun, a beacon of hope and protection. Beneath her great, domed arc of impenetrable plasma, beaming out from the stolid projector on her back, no flame or shell can touch, and though she might tower above the rest, the world has seen, time and time again, the great armored paragon bend to embrace a child. But when it comes to her healer... The two are like polished clockwork, shield sliding and lifting and flowering to life between the gaps in his fluttering, every bend to attend to the fallen matched by the rise of her gun, every hunkering down to pour all power to the defense matched by the surgical precision of a dozen rounds of lead.

But when the smoke has blown away and the sun sinks below the rubble, when the mission is over...

Britannia becomes Kat, and the dashing Lancet turns gentle and knowing, the same fingers that can stitch up a wound knowing just what to touch, just where not to touch, and the burdens of tracking a thousand targets, of feeling a million blows, fade into a quiet release. With her wrists gently bound behind her, all there is in her world is him, always firm, always smiling, always pushing her just a little bit farther and reminding her that she is his, and fear never seems quite so far away.

And what fun they have! A glorious, raucous rutting, the famed paragon's defenses speared through and her belly warmed with a proper stuffing, or the flushed tangle of limbs as his tongue flickers between her thighs and his cock thrusts hungrily into her parted lips.

Perhaps he loves the way her bulwark front melts into a flowing, eager lust, a desire to please; perhaps she adores that feeling of being made whole with him in her, of being healed amid the collision of flesh on flesh.

Perhaps, from time to time, she might eagerly pull him in and beg for more, and he might seize her in his grip with an iron lust, and she might melt into the bright, warm glow of being a healslut.

And there's no perhaps about how much he loves it, and how much he loves her.

Never, though, is there a doubt:

They're doing it right.

What's a Saturday morning without some games, some idle thoughts of happily-firm healsluttery, and a rollicking role-reversal romance? A sloppy blowjob, the promise of more, and some silly, and admittedly Overwatch-inspired shenanigans...

Kinks: Butt stuff, happily rough sex, charmingly positive healsluttery, and not taking things too seriously.

Limits: Gore, poop, and annoying little DPS types. If I hear just one more "nerf this..."

DPP Profile