Adventures In Time & Space

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 (I know I already saw eight so I’ll stop here). And for the record, I sent you this only because of what you said! I’ve not even seen the prompt list yet because I haven’t made it that far down your feed, so I don’t know what I’m asking, but I’m confident it’ll be amazing!

Hahahaha, well, for everyone else, what I said was this: My excuse that I can't post these kisses on FF/Ao3 is that I'd want to post in order, and no one has prompted the earlier numbers. So @kasienda went and remedied that fact immediately lololol. Guess I gotta look for new excuses while I work these off xD. Here you have number 2.

Do you guys remember that scene in Super S where they are on the phone sooo cutely (because it was a disaster they hadn't seen each other for ONE FULL DAY)? This kiss can be read as a changed version of that scene or just one modelled after it because I bet this happened all the time.

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A Kiss Goodnight

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"Finally!!!" Usagi yelped into her phone, hitting her feet against the mattress and her purple bunnies-and-moons comforter with a big fat pout. "Why didn't you call me sooner?!"

She'd only heard radio silence from Mamoru for like, the whole day and it had been driving her insane! She'd been on the phone complaining to the girls non-stop about it.

"I TRIED. The line was busy all day!!! Who did you keep calling?!"

Usagi blinked, sat up straight in her bed with flushing cheeks.

"You were griping about me with the girls again, weren't you?"

She flushed even more. "I don't gripe about you."

"Uh-huh."

"Besides," she said, crossing her pj-clad legs, "You could have texted me."

"I didn't have reception in the library," Mamoru said, voice apologetic.

Usagi deflated, flopped back on her bed, and cradled her Tuxedo Mask doll close while pressing her phone to her ear even closer. "I miss you." She pouted into her phone and the pillow against her cheek. "I didn't get a goodnight kiss in two days now."

She jumped about a mile high in her bed when his reply echoed through her room and not only her phone.

"One day," he corrected, lifting his second leg over her windowsill and slipping into her room while pressing the end call button on his phone.

She blinked at him in surprise and he threw her a wink before sitting on the edge of her bed and bending over to remove his shoes.

She shrieked in joy, dropping both her phone and her Tux doll blindly as she tackled his back.

He chuckled, straightened, half-turned rather awkwardly and pressed a kiss to her temple, then smirked harder when her hands pulled on him to get him fully on her bed.

She didn't have to voice the 'what are you doing here,' instead he just lifted his arm and she cradled herself into his side and he answered her unasked question anyway.

"I didn't know if I would reach you this time," he told her with a judgementally lifted eyebrow, and she huffed. "And your house is on my way home."

One of his lips quirked up and he bent over and captured her pout with his lips, and she sighed happily and grabbed onto his shirt to pull him down on her more fully. He stemmed his elbow against her mattress, trying to not crush her, and trying to prevent her from crushing herself via his body weight, as she pulled harder at him, lips moving almost lazily and utterly content against his.

She hummed against his lips when he released her with a small pop and his tongue poking out to run over his bottom lip where her teeth had just graced him, his eyes slower to re-open, and she melted, but didn't remove her hands from his shirt and kept pulling.

"Do you have to go home?" she asked, the pout back in full force.

He nodded slowly but with great emphasis. (They had this argument regularly.)

She wrapped her arms tightly around his shoulders with a hrmph and a leg thrown over his hips, and his second arm came up to brace himself against the mattress, almost lifting her up from it as she clung to him.

"Let me convince you," she mumbled against his neck.

"Usako," he groaned.

She curled one hand against the nape of his neck, started carding her fingers through his hair there, fingernails stroking against his scalp, and felt him moan pitifully. It was one of his weak spots and one of the greatest weapons in her arsenal. She felt one of his arms buckle immediately and she bounced against the mattress as she was dropped back into it, Mamoru's weight crushing into her as he mewled against her, muffled by the fabric of her pjs against his mouth.

His voice was that of someone giving up who hadn't really put that much fight into the matter in the first place.

"Fine," came the muffled voice against her shoulder and the pillow, and she smiled a smug smile and wrapped her second leg around his hips as well, pinning her captured boyfriend to her fully.

I've been loving all these drabbles so much! They're all so cute and such a delight to wake up to. Could you try number 8 and number 48 please???

I'm happy you like them!!! 😊😊😊 8 is already posted, here's 48:

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A Kiss Out Of Habit

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Endymion was irritated.

It crawled beneath his skin like an ever-present itch that he couldn't quite locate, forever out of his reach.

It wasn't the first time. He watched from the sidelines, his face so tense it physically hurt to unlock his jaw, his hands balled into fists.

Kunzite's youma had Sailor Moon cornered.

He found himself watching the doors and windows, snarled as he locked the stray hope away that the Senshi might appear to help her any second now.

No. This was the plan. Beryl wanted the Moon princess captured. He was a soldier of the Dark Kingdom.

The itch turned unbearable. He gasped aloud, it turned into a growl.

When Sailor Moon howled in pain, he snapped.

Her eyes looked at him in hopeful surprise when he hurled a black rose right into the youma's eye and lifted her away and out of the trajectory with one, too practiced, too familiar fit of his arm around her waist. She held on like she belonged.

The youma howled after him and with a growl from his angered lips, sparks flew from the rose in its eyesocket, rendering it to painful shrieking agony.

He didn't let go of Sailor Moon. In the corner of his eye he saw Mars and Jupiter arrive, but it only caused his grip to hold on tighter, his jump to lift higher.

He broke out through the windows and told himself it was because he wanted to be the one to capture the Moon princess. He wanted the glory.

And yet he felt no urge to present her to his Queen at all.

He could. He had her in his arms. More fully now, even. She didn't put up an ounce of fight, this trusting, naive idiot. His arm clutched tight around the back of her knees, the other cradled her to his chest. He could phase away right now and lay her at his Queen's throne.

The very thought had his gut twisted, the itch turning into crawling maggots, bitter bile creeping up his throat.

He set her on her feet on top of the nearest rooftop. The bright, contrasting lights of the Tokyo night sky shone in colorful magenta and blues from her shining, hopeful, naive eyes, as she looked up at him and settled her hands against his chest in a gesture that moved something in him, shifting something in him so forcefully he gasped again. Nudging, screaming, crying in his chest.

He swallowed it down with a hiss.

She pulled on his shirt, pulled him down towards her, her eyes on his lips.

"Mamo-cha--"

Before she could finish the uttering the offending word, again, he clawed his gloved hand into her shoulder and pressed his lips to hers.

She whimpered into his mouth, allowed it all; his hand as it drew around her waist and pressed her to his form, his tongue against her lower lip, swallowing her gasps with tortured sighs.

It wasn't habit. He knew it wasn't. He didn't kiss the enemy like this. This needy, this breathless, this relieved.

His chest cried out, the itch had stopped.

The urge to do this, though. Exactly this; attack her mouth until she curled her hands into his hair, gripping him tight until it hurt him, crying into his mouth, falling under his spell.

The urge to kiss her like this was older than his memories.

The urge to kiss her like this was the habit, the urge was the unbearable pull.

Whoever he had been before, whoever he was who had held back so often it was ingrained into his very skin... it was not him. Endymion was not someone who held back.

Endymion pushed Sailor Moon hard against the chimney behind her, pushing her up the bricks and closer against him as he ravaged her mouth, her neck, pressed his tongue flat against her jugular and hissed in pleasure at the frantic beat it hammered back against his aching lips, his skin singing at the way she keened and clawed her fingers against his scalp and into the tuxedo jacket almost wildly, wherever she could reach, pulling him even closer.

They kissed as if the other would disappear if they didn't.

No, Endymion did not hold back. Not at all. Not this time. Neither did she.

8 please?

Here you go ♡ (And of course this goes for the two anons who requested number 8 as well!)

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A Kiss In Secrecy

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It had been thrilling, in the beginning.

She was his forbidden fruit. The one woman he wasn't only not supposed to have, the one woman he was not allowed to have. And yet somehow, inexplicably, he got away with it.

He'd been infatuated with her from the start. Sometimes he asked himself if the thrill of the secret had a play in masking the fact that this was not merely an adventure. Starting out, he had not understood that she was inevitable. That she had stolen his heart and his wit and his reason with the theft of that rose the first time he had found her in his gardens. He thought he would be able to stop.

He couldn't. He wouldn't ever. She taught him what this heart could feel and he would never be able to unlearn it.

But among these new feelings was that of it bleeding when he had to pretend she wasn't his, and he wasn't hers.

He was here on an official state visit. It was tense and hostile, and his companions, advisors and attendants spewed venom around the marble stone of the castle. A last attempt to calm the fronts to prevent the dawn of war. It seemed too late. It broke his soul, and Queen Serenity's with it, he could see it in the empress's eyes as if he'd looked into her daughter's.

Yet, there was a ball in their honor.

It was not the first time he had danced with her. It would not be the last. But for all eyes at this banquet, under the glow of the lights in this grand, domed, stone dance hall, it was both.

There used to be days when this was exciting. When seeing her and pretending not to know the soft whimper when he pressed himself against her was a playful dance, the most exciting of secrets spoken in lingering looks and careful, hidden smirks and innuendo in his words. It was a game played in dangerous fire, but it had thrummed through his veins and fueled his desire.

Now, holding her as if she was a stranger, moving her as if she was an unwelcome presence in his arms, unyielding, having her look over his shoulder into the far, impersonal distance as he kept her at arm's length and touched her as if he wasn't allowed to, not daring to say a word of intimacy to her because all eyes were on them, tense and hostile and full of the doom of war.

He felt her uneasiness. He knew it wasn't from his touch but from the situation, but the thought that his hands on her skin might ever be the cause of discomfort to her was excruciating. It made him want to jump away and free her from himself, it made him recoil from her skin and that in itself was a feeling her never wanted to associate with her.

Even the tune the harpist quartet behind them played felt stilted and oppressing, and he felt Serenity shudder in his arms, and the sensation was so repugnant because it was the first shudder from his touch that did not spring from anticipation and ecstasy, but from revolt.

She stumbled over her skirts, he tightened his hold on her hand and her hip in reflex and it startled her, frightened her, and it felt like a knife that plunged clean through his throat when fearful eyes met his in concern and alarm.

The knife twisted clean down from his throat to his heart when he realised this look of fear, born from the terror of exposure in his princess's eyes, was the first time she had looked him in the eyes tonight altogether.

Had he reacted without conscious thought he would have grabbed her and shaken her, pressed his hands against her cheeks and pressed his lips to hers to remind her that his touch was something that was meant to worship her, his touch was meant to bring her pleasure and never fear. Of course, he could not afford to loose his reason completely. And so his reaction to the look in her eyes, even if still automatic, was altogether different.

He almost jumped away from her. Recoiled as if in disgust. He was disgusted. By the situation, by the ball, by the eyes of everyone else in the room that was not his love.

But he could read the hurt in her eyes when he let go of her and jumped that step backwards and looked at her like so, and the approving stares of his advisors, and the slight stumble in the music.

He averted his eyes, couldn't bare to look at hers, and nodded his head in a slight, too slight, disrespectfully slight bow, that he thought nothing of but regretted almost instantly when it seemed to echo through the halls both in delight and affront from opposite sides.

"Your Highness," he croaked, and fled.

He spent the rest of the uncomfortable affair glaring at her hand as it touched other men who danced with her. As her hands touched others and didn't look as stiff as they had in his tonight.

Thankfully, she retired early.

Sneaking into her chambers was not new either, but had never been so reckless. Even when he waited an hour, the palace was brimming with officials from both sides, the ball still in full swing, and the whole wing that held her rooms as well as the Queen's was protected and guarded as if the opposing army was in the building - and they were.

All her Senshi were directly outside of her tall, ornate swing doors when he stole through her window, his own planet highlighting his form as he snuck inside.

He slipped beneath the covers, the mattress so big and lush he didn't move it at all when he pressed himself against her shaking backside, wrecked with sobs.

She clutched at his hands as he stroked them across her belly. The stiff, unyielding, thick fabric of his dress tunic, the hard threads of the gold embroidery of the sleeves, felt utterly wrong against the thin, thin silk of her nightgown that barely managed to cover her, and he pressed desperate, grieving, heartbroken kisses to her exposed shoulder, the back of her neck, the skin behind her ear, the tips of her spine.

Her skin came away wet where his cheeks had stroked them through the onslaught of his fevered, frantic lips. He was crying, too.

Having her to himself had been an exciting adventure. Yet, it had begun to feel like having her only in secret meant not having her at all.

She turned in his arms, sought his lips with her trembling ones, and they tore his heart to pieces even if he couldn't stop returning them in his heartbroken panic.

It had been thrilling in the beginning.

It wasn't anymore.