Total PWP, starring Makoto and Nephrite. I don't own Sailormoon, or any other copyrighted material in this story – just the tale!

Mudslide Connection

"Lita! Lita! Wake up!"

"No," Lita mumbled, twisting slightly on the sofa. She'd only been napping ten minutes, after shoving the salmon in the oven to bake, and the reddish pleather beneath her was just now starting to warm up. Lita snuggled in just a bit deeper. "Don't wanna. Nappy."

There was a piercing yowl, and suddenly Artemis's claws were embedded in Lita's skull. She sat bolt upright with a shriek, hurling the unfortunate cat back across the room at Mina. Mina shrieked right back at her and sidestepped his outstretched paws. Artemis hit the opposite couch with a long-suffering hiss. "Goddammit, Mina, throwing your obese cat across the living room is not the fucking solution to everything on your long-ass list of problems!"

Completely ignoring Lita's beginning tirade, Mina dashed over to the sofa, pulling Lita to her feet and dragging her into their shared closet. She snatched something wee, green, and glittery off a hanger, holding it up to Lita's chest with a critical eye. "No. You're too…tittiful."

Mina tossed it behind her and was about to seize something else when Lita grabbed both of her wrists.

"Mina. What the hell is going on?"

"I've got the invites, you slut," Mina giggled.

"What invites?"

Mina rolled her eyes expansively. "What invites, she asks. The invites! Prophet! Playing tonight! At Pryde!"

Lita stared at her for just a moment. Whatever happened next is anybody's guess. Three minutes later, they were out the door, keys and lipgloss in hand, leaving a trail of body glitter and a tray of blackened salmon behind them.

Nephrite shoved a tawny lock of hair off his forehead, the spotlight coating his body in sweat as they finished their first song. "Stick around, kids, there's more where that came from," he breathed into the microphone.

"I want to have your babies!" a distinctly male baritone erupted from the crowd. Nephrite grinned.

"Yeah, yeah, I kind of want your babies too," he answered, and the fans went wild. He knelt by his bassist's side, running an affectionate hand over his silvery head. Kunzite batted his hand away, still obviously concentrating on the complex wiring system before him.

"How's the setup going?"

"It's going fine," Kunzite answered flatly. "And keep your fucking fingers out of my hair, or people will think I'm the one who takes it up the ass."

Nephrite refused to stop grinning. "Oh, you'd prefer it the other way around, wouldn't you, Kunz?"

There was no reply.

Nephrite stood slowly, stretching out that long, spare frame. There were a few loud hoots from behind him, and his grin turned into a knowing smirk. "I can act as homo as I damn well please, Kunz. I'm a rockstar."

So true.

Lita and Mina edged their way across the wall, finally reaching the stage after Mina merrily promised any number of possible sexual favors (and quite a few Lita didn't think were possible) to every bemused man and woman in their way. Lita had no idea how Mina had managed to wrangle invites for a private party like this, but she would be surprised if the acquisition process didn't involve some rugburn on the blonde's part.

Ah, there he was, reemerging from the sea of amplifiers and wires. Lita didn't mind craning her neck nearly horizontally – just being this close to him was a private slice of nirvana. Her chocolate-eyed rock god.

Without a word of introduction, Prophet launched into their next song. The grinding crunch of the bass, the melted-toffee melody rolling above – Lita noticed none of it. His voice came from underneath, a breath of diamonds and richer, finer things than even a members-only club in SoHo. Some people were headbanging to the music, but Lita danced to his voice, her hands almost able to touch the cuffs of his black leather trousers – but she didn't try. Her hips flicked this way and that, slow and sinuous. Mina came to join her, soaked in whiskey sours, and they moved together, arms slung intimately over shoulders, their bellybuttons almost touching. Men noticed, stopped to look. Women saw too, and they tried to imitate it, but only Lita and Mina had the alchemy to turn their bodies to liquid gold. They knew it.

The boys in Prophet seemed to notice, too.

Two hours later, the concert was over and the crowd had dispersed into private booths and tables. After fifty magnums of vodka had been emptied in the space of an hour, the Prophet boys didn't seem so much celebrities as very old friends – they were spread out all over the club just like everybody else, kissing and talking and making forgettable acquaintances.

Mina and Lita had a table near the center, filled with poets and roadies, and they were having a very good time. Everyone wanted to know the dancing girls. Kunzite the bassist was there too, lured like everyone by Mina's nighttime sunshine, her laughter ringing from the ceiling and back down again. He was drunk too, but nobody could tell aside from the fact that he was peaceably allowing Mina tug at his lower lip with her pearly teeth.

Lita couldn't remember the last time she'd been this trashed – wait, actually, she could, but it had been a long time ago, at least a month, so it didn't count. There was a guy crawling around under the table trying to lick her sandal-clad feet – no, two guys, but they seemed nice, so she let it pass. Lita was busy, anyway, talking to Kunzite between Mina's kisses…and Mina between Kunzite's kisses. Whichever worked.

She looked up for a moment, and Nephrite's face loomed just above hers before darting alarmingly close.

"The dancing girl?"

He took her face in his hands and kissed her, hard, and Lita gasped – the same mudslide on his lips that she'd just finished!

Kindred spirits, obviously.

Nephrite straightened, making his decision with the flavor of that kiss. "Where's Kunzite?" he asked curiously, and Kunzite raised a hand, still attached to Mina's face, nearly hitting Nephrite in the face.

"Mmm. Kunz. Hey. I think I'm gonna go – the party's slowing down. Me and – " he slung a possessive arm around Lita's rounded hips, waiting expectantly.

"Lita," she supplied.

" – Lita have places to be going. Lita. That's a hot name. That's a rockstar name."

"Thank you," Lita said shyly. Was her rock god taking her on a date? A first date? OhmyGod. Is our apartment clean? Or are we going to his? OhmyGod.

Somehow or other they made it to the limousine waiting in back. Nephrite opened the door, all six feet a gentleman, and she stepped inside, feeling every inch the lady. He followed. Once on the way, he turned and grinned at her, his coffee-colored eyes bright with anticipation. She smiled back, and suddenly her shyness faded. Lita was the dancing girl. His dancing girl, dammit.

"You're a rock god," she told him, before leaning over and biting that deliciously surprised smile off his face. He tangled his fingers in her cinnamon curls, pleasantly surprised by the heat in her kiss, by the luscious curvature of her breasts and hips pressed up against him. He was tired of skinny blonde roadies, and she tasted like Baileys and he wanted more. A whole lot more. I have to remember to get her whole name, her phone number, something. Not likely, because we're both plastered, but I should try.

And then, suddenly, they were at his apartment. It was the first floor, thank goodness – Lita didn't think her borrowed-Manolo'd feet could stand anything more. They stumbled inside the front parlor together, very swanky, Lita noticed. Creamy leather and maplewood everywhere. And then Nephrite gave her a good reason to not notice anymore.

The first thing he took off was her shoes, which made her laugh, because seriously – who did that? He tossed those borrowed $600 bucks halfway across the room, and they hit the only lamp. The bulb gave out with a piteous hiss. No matter, because at that point Lita's hands were already on the buttons and zips of those skintight black leather trousers, and she sure as hell didn't need help (or a particularly high degree of visibility) undoing those. One quick pull of string and Lita's glittery hankerchief top was gone. He backed her up to the bed, and she fell into the soft, violet pillows with a giggle.

"I'm gonna make you scream, dancing girl," he grinned down at her forested eyes.

Scream she did.

Oh, Christ. My head. Is it even worth it, me having a head right now? Nephrite clawed himself into a sitting position, blinking and swearing in the bright sunlight coming through the bay windows.

Who ran me over last night? And backed up, and ran me the fuck over again?

There was something soft clinging to his bare foot. Bare everything, actually, and a little sticky, and if he was honest with himself, smelling a little roadkill-esque. Millésime Impérial and whatever rat poison liquor (bottle) he'd spilled on himself last night didn't mix well. Still, nudity was usually a plus. At least I know I got laid…by a semi…Nephrite reached forward, wincing at the punishing pain throbbing in his temples, precisely in time with every sudden move he made. The thingy hanging off his toe slowly came into focus.

Frowning, Nephrite closely examined the object now dangling from his fingertip, and suddenly, everything came back in a rush. He fell back into the bed, headache forgotten.

It really was too bad he'd forgotten to get her whole name, her phone number. She'd been…Nephrite shook his head, grinning. She-wolf, when I find you, I hope there's more where that came from. There were clothes scattered all over the room, the bed in particular – his inside-out leather pants, his jacket, his T-shirt…He tossed the scrap of neon pink cloth up, couldn't resist crushing it to his face, a furtive, satisfied little inhalation.

Most definitely not his thong.