Bel: Visit even more rainbow drinkers.

You're shaking with want, he has to be seeing what it does to you, being held down like that. When you push against him, he resists, and the muscles rise on his shoulders, across his chest, and yours as well, and the two of you are like beautiful idealized soldiers in some ancient fresco, locked in sexually-charged combat forever. You're burning up.

"I'm offering you my bulge," you retort, "you know where you want to put it. I don't have to beg when you want me as badly as I want you."

You're not even sure yourself whether you're bluffing. Here in the warm air of the enclosed aircar, the pheromone concentration is already outrageous.

 

"That's as may be, but I'm on top," you grin. You take a deep, steadying breath— it doesn't help— and go still. He protests, tries to rise against your grip, maybe buck you off, but you're getting better at this, at keeping back a little blood to run your brain at the same time as your bulge— and you think he likes this, somehow, or hates it in a way that boils all his brains clear out of his skull. You set his arms above his head so his wrists cross between his horns, and now if he wants to get up he's got to do it all in one clean go or risk snapping his own antlers off.

"Ha," you say— gasp, maybe. "Ask."

 

"I can outwait you," you lie desperately. He is unconvinced. You try another tack: lick your lips, roll your hips, try (and fail) to grind. Let your voice drop to a breathy growl. "You're thinking about it too. How it'd feel. How hot and slick. How full you'll be. How you can drive me out of my mind like that, just like I drove you out of your mind on the mesa. Don't pretend you're not just as desperate for it as I am."

 

A growl and a shuddering moan both try to come out of your throat at once—you move against him once, twice, before getting any measure of control back, but you do. He's still spread underneath you and you're trembling, nearly dripping with sweat, your nook a pulsing ache of hunger— god, his voice, the way he can still string together such awful, beautiful words—

"A-ask me," you repeat, unsteadily. "Fucking— damn your pride, you arrogant, you, hhh, you hateful prick, you're mine, I have you, and I'll, I— I—I'll hold you here till our bulges curl up and drop off, s-see if I don't, until you know who you belong to."

You lean in— god, this is hard, you hate it, you hate him so much— "Ask me," you snarl. "Fucking well ask me and be bloody well grateful I'm not making you beg."

 

"Fuck you," you gasp, turning your head aside so you don't have to look at his gorgeousness, but that just makes every other sensation stronger. The scent of him, the beautiful bruising harshness of his hands, the thrumming of his presence in your horns, his voice half-broken with desire and stubbornness saying mine.

Just a puff of his breath across your sweaty, stretched throat is the final straw. Your stomach hollows, your thighs twitch; you blurt, "You know I'm yours, damn you, how far I chased you, how dare you doubt -- I'm yours, now please may I fuck you!" You make the mistake of looking at him as the naked want on his face is joined by triumph. "You smug jackass," you add, furious and adoring.

 

"Thank you," you say— you mean for it to come out snide but you're too shakey, it sounds fervent, relieved, but you are, you lift up off him and then it's all a jumble of too many eager claws getting off your trousers— you lock horns with him on sheer accident as he's leaning up to bite you, and you just go with it, let him strip you and shove himself in while you lean on him forehead-to-forehead and just breathe, breathe him in, shudder and push and curse and roll against him.

"Never be rid of me," you promise him raggedly, "you said always, you said, you're mine, god— fffuck, more—"

 

It's too much, too good, you've forgotten what pride and restraint even are. You love him, you need him, and you babble it out to him between moans while he takes you in. Pull his hair, touch his face. "Oh, Trouble," you gasp, "oh Trouble, oh my thorn. Vex me forever."

 

You laugh, breathlessly, and it hitches into a wild keening halfway through— it's too much to bear, not having him in every way you can, you grab up one of his legs and get it around your hip, sink into him in return— god, he's good, so warm, drives you mad. You think you could fuck him for the rest of your life, a thousand thousand sweeps, till this flyer rusts to bits all around you—

You snarl, grab his shoulders, and spill over.

 

It's not long before you follow, stifling your cries against his neck, claws raking his back. When it's over, you stay there, nuzzling. Scratch idle designs lightly on his skin; stars, spades, your initials.

Eventually, you move enough to see his face. "Let's go home," you propose softly.

 

You squirm against bit, not quite parsing. "Mmm," you say vaguely, and rub your horns to his. It makes a delicious warm friction, shivers you up with aftershocks, and you subside back against him, purring with contentment.

"Go fuck yourself," you say, on general principals.

 

"Nah," you purr. "All fucked out. I don't mean right now, I just mean... I miss my hive and my moirail. I miss my lusus, my matesprit, and my best friend. I'm tired of sleeping in unfamiliar recuperacoons and flyer seats. Let's go home."

 

"Oh, your home," you say, and yawn. "Alright, then. Was wondering how long you'd be out and about..." you settle your face on his chest. You're still full of him, hardly even untangled, but you just want to drift along like this for awhile. Forever. You think you spent a whole night just having sex with Cloris, somewhere in your time with her— she had, drinks and things, special aides for it, but you think you might like to give it a shot with Bel. If he's going back to the island maybe he's got that sort of stuff somewhere about the premises. You and his yellowblood were certainly keeping him busy, between you...

"We should try this with your matesprit aboard," you say sleepily, rolling your hips against his just a bit, just to enjoy the ache. "It'd be. Mm. Nice. We could, we could, oh— trade you off. Go all night." You nibble his shoulder. "Break you. Be so pretty..."

 

Your bulge had been considering withdrawing, but at this idea it takes a renewed interest in the situation. "Oh god please," you blurt. Then, clearing your throat. "I mean. That sounds. If he's into it. Um."

(congratulations, erskin, you found the head explody button!)

 

That wakes you up. You get your elbows on his chest and survey him.

"Like that, then?" you ask. "That thought. Breaking you." He shivers and inside you he's warming up again, starting to squirm, and you smile and press back against him and don't let him go anywhere. He does, somehow. Who'd have thought? He's so good, so strong and brave, knows how to do all sorts of things. You'd never have thought.

"I wouldn't even have to hold you down for it, would I?" You say, fascinated. "Could just get your— get Galley to do it. If the chap can ram a starship around the galaxy I shouldn't think it'd be any great feat to pin you down somewhere— in that big hive of yours, somewhere, immaculate, we could lay you out over a library desk."

Ah. You have to stifle your own whine, your nook oversensitive, already full of him from the first go-round, you rasp a bit as you keep sounding this notion out.

"Bet you have one. Bet you keep it clean, you academic, we could sweep all your precious papers and whatnot to the floor, shove you over it— work you over, hands, mouths, we'd rough you up." You lick the sweat-slicked length of his throat. "Stain it your color, what? Bit by bit. Nnnn...I'd let him have you first, he's known you longer, he knows all your soft parts, wouldn't he, you'd let him have learned them. He'd, he'd t-tear you open for me, all, all soft, sweet—ah, fuck, you like that, then? He'd be so good to you, wouldn't he, your love, gentle, he'd show me just where to touch you, wouldn't he?"

 

Who taught him to read minds? Who's been telling him your secret fantasies? You're in no state to interrogate him; the images he's putting in your head are driving you crazy. You can see it as he describes it, you can see the sweet mischief in Galley's eyes as he sets you up for the knockout, you can hear him calling you good boy and perfect as you fall apart.

"Sh-shut up," you whine, but you mean go on. This is delicious torture; you can't come again so soon, but your bulge doesn't seem to know that, and so you're twitching and electric and stupid with pleasure and it never ends. And Erskin wants to conspire with Galley to do this to you for hours? Both of your beautiful boys working you over, and you all helpless to do anything but feel it all -- "You bastard," you moan.

 

"Is that a no?" you ask, drawing back a bit, but from the black fire in his gaze and his claws dug into your back you surmise that it was, in fact, a yes, please.

"You're so amazing when you're helpless," you say, brushing his hair back from where it's sticking to his face. "Look at you, all that power. Bet you're terrifying on the battlefield, lightning— nnh, a, an avalanche, a tsunami. Just look at you. Force of nature. If your, if— if that fellow of yours, if he can, if he can helm a ship, he could, he can throw you about, can't he. God, look at you. We'd stretch you out and hold you down and when he was done with you and, and you looked like this, yes, just like this, just like this, I'd still, still be fresh, wouldn't I? That'd be a situation. You have me coming off twice to each of yours but it wouldn't be like that, this time, would it, I could, I, I could suck you off and you'd just have to lie there and take it, long as I wanted to play with you, till your matesprit wanted to go again. We'd wring you out between us, pail by pail. Spill it all out."

You palm your bulge— don't quite mean to but god, the way he's looking up at you, the way he's moving inside of you. You tell him, gasping, "I wouldn't have you till we'd spilled out every drop you had to give. Till you couldn't move even if neither of us had a finger on you, couldn't raise up so much as a horntip. Wouldn't take you until you were, were— all out, at your end, and it wouldn't be fair at all, wouldn't— it'd be a rout, an, an easy victory, you'd be the easiest beast I ever took. Fight so easy I'd hardly win, there'd be nothing to win, just you laid, laid out, so soft, fuck."

You confess: "I want to hear what you, y-you sound like, when you can't even scream for me—" ah, that was it, the last of your words, you're shuddering completion all over again, brimming over. Hadn't thought you had it in you, really: it knots you up, leaves you dizzy and faint. You cling to him and keep moving, through it, with sheer bloody-minded determination.

 

However much you fight it, you feel yourself shifting into that state Galley sometimes gets you into, where you're just a place things happen, where you don't have to make decisions, don't have to lead, don't have to protect even yourself. You cling to his words as much as to his body, trying to stammer denials and producing only sounds of pleasure and need. He's gotten right in amongst you. Right inside your defense. There's nothing you can do now but hope he doesn't misuse you, and it's horrible because life on Alternia doesn't teach you to trust, but also wonderful because, despite everything... you do.

When the finish finally comes, it rolls over you like high tide, drowning you wave by wave, and you can't see or think for what feels like hours. It's frightening and glorious, and when it passes, it leaves you wrung out and trembling. It takes quite some time to focus your eyes, and even longer to speak.

"Dashed unsporting of you," you finally say, in an imitation of his voice, and then giggle like an idiot.

 

You give him a sharp, fond nip on the ear.

"Hush up, it's not as if anyone could get the best of you in a fair fight. It's your own, hm, your own fault you've turned me to treachery."

He just keeps giggling senselessly so you nip him again and again, peppering his face with sharp little kisses until he's gasping nearly as hard as laughing, gone fantastically out of it. He's right off his head, you've both a tendency to be silly after sex but this is really something else, this is gorgeous, you've finally fucked him stupid. Your chest stirs with a feirce, protective adoration.

"I have you, lovely boy," you murmur, nuzzling, petting. "Mine, my storm, my disaster, shh, I've got you."

 

It's a little alarming how happy you are right now. You're purring like an animal, glaze-eyed and boneless. "I feel drunk," you explain at one point. At several points you also explain, "Erskin, Erskin, Erskin." When you finally start to regain control of yourself, you hug him as tight as you can manage and heave a huge sigh of contentment.

"I'm so glad you hate me in the fun way, not the mean way," you confide. "The saying goes, 'hate is love with its back turned.' But I think, I think, maybe, for us? I think hate is love with a big grin and a water balloon behind its back.'"

 

"I feel like a bally waterballoon," you snicker. You squirm awkwardly, to disengage your mating parts, and release takes you involuntarily, sharp as falling-- you make an utter mess of yourself and come to your senses gasping, clinging-- Bel is still soppily nuzzling at you.

"Whoops," you mumble. God, you're tired.