Bel: Visit even more rainbow drinkers.

"Well, now I'm going to have to get canekind and never use it," you grin back. "As for Heinrich, I did not get the impression he was being suggested for sexytimes. I have no clue what he even looks like. He's probably a dead ringer for Mister Tuberhead. Don't make biting have to be a sex thing, Erskin, you'll get a matesprit and then they'll dump you because you keep fucking dead girls."

 

"Well it sounds sordid when you say it like that!" you protest. "My matesprit will be gracious and sweetly understanding of how dead girls keep fucking me."

 

"Good luck with that, I wouldn't put up with it if I was in pity with you. Fortunately, I'm not, because you're loathesome. Give me a ride back to the rainbow drinkers' hive, I have to show you Reggie's hatchling. I tried to show you before but you were half asleep and I think you thought I was trying to make you eat it." You shove him over so you can get up.

 

"Alternate suggestion!" you say, rolling over and striking what you hope is a sultry pose. "You should make out with me, on account of I'm very handsome and up for it."

 

"This is absolutely the worst place to make out," you protest, and then immediately undermine your own point by kissing him. You're both going to end up with sand in places, but it's too late now, you've got a lungful of pheromones and your cognitive faculties have gone on sabbatical. Why does someone so terrible have to be so hot?

((i am being offered homemade egg rolls! i will be back in probably less than an hour.))

 

"Yes, well, you're absolutely the worst person to make out with, so!" you say cheerfully, and wrap your arms around his shoulders enthusiastically. You enjoy a while of increasingly heated exchanges of affection— disaffection?— until he gets a hand up your shirt, splays rough fingertips across your gills, and you do not entirely succeed at choking back a moan of enjoyment. You lean back, letting him have access to any bits he likes.

"So about that ride I'm supposed to give you!" you say breathlessly, and bat your eyelashes in shameless invitation.

 

"Yeah, I'll be taking that," you reply in something between a growl and a purr, and strip your shirt off.

You straddle his hips, grip with your thighs so he can't throw you. You begin unbuttoning his shirt as infuriatingly slowly as you can manage, thoroughly hickeying his collarbones in the process, and occasionally grinding down just to remind him how much he needs you. You can't believe he thought you dumped him. Obviously you're going to have to reiterate your point.

 

You purr and arch under the attention— he always goes so slow but you expected this, and it's been long enough you're prepared to enjoy it. You cup the front of his trousers, though, and softly stroke at the emerging length of his bulge through the fabric with just your fingertips— he takes a breath in and his eyes close, holding on to his precious composure because that's really important, that's certainly what you care about— and you take the advantage to run your free hand through the surrounding dust and splash a pale-gold handful across the side of his head. It makes a magnificent bright streak in the fall of his hair, like a comet— his eyes snap open and you laugh giddily at his expression.

 

"What the hell," you say, delightedly angry and confused. "What was that for, you brat?" You rub a hanful of dust into his hair, and your very reasonable plan for riding him until his brain melts devolves into tussling and swatting. When you come up for air, you complain, "Now we're both dusty, we're going to get sand on our junk, you never think ahead, god you're an asshole. I really, really hate you."

 

"That's what it was for," you tell him, utterly satisfied, "I hate you too, you're mine," and you kiss him hard and sharp and dark. You wipe your hand clear of grit on the least objectionable part of your shirt before getting it down his pants.

 

"You think you're so -- clever -- mm." Yeah, talking is over. Only kissing now.

Some busy minutes later, you remember you wanted to get your pants down and his open; not so much because you realize you're going to be squelching all the way home if you don't, you're not quite that coherent once he's twining your bulge through his fingers, but because your nook is too empty and it doesn't have to be. You can shove his hand -- unzip, unbutton -- pull and squirm -- and grin down at him, open-mouthed like a howlbeast, licking your teeth, as he slides into you. Yes, this is what you need. You sit up straight, lean back a little, let him watch ripples of tension roll up your body from thighs to throat as you clench around him, ride him, grind his ass into the dust.

It's stupid how gorgeous he is, how perfect he is beneath you like this, all rumpled and scuffed with his shirt tangled around his arms, his jewel eyes and candy mouth and the insufferable arrogance in the tilt of his jaw. "You need a tattoo," you rasp, trailing your claws down his beautiful chest. "Tattoo my sign on you, then maybe you'll quit forgetting I'm not going to give you up."

 

That shouldn't make you shudder and gasp but it does, you've still got several inappropriate wires crossed, you think, but it's hard not to want to be his when he's already got some very pertinent parts of you firmly in his keeping god how does he get his nook to do that FUCK.

You claw back from the edge of incoherency to see his smug face hovering above you, and you think yeah, yes, alright, and grab his wrist. Where yours aren't in the best shape at the moment his skin is smooth and silver and you scratch, with your thumbclaw, a few curves— not enough to bleed him but still harsh enough to release his arm with your sign, the traveler, the comet, raised up in angry blue lines. You've never been the sort to need yourself splashed all over everything, but—

"You're beautiful," you say, a bit helplessly. You never mean to compliment him too highly, but he makes you.

 

"You're blinding, you bastard," you return in the same kind of tone, raise your scratched arm to your mouth and lick the mark, feel the sting. Your whole body jerks. You're in danger of losing control, but not yet, not just yet. You need to turn him to jelly. Prove your point. Return the favor: drag a claw point slow and precise across his sternum, a square on the bias and a hooked line through it: "I will if you will."

 

He doesn't have anyone else's sign on him, carved in him— the thought makes you lose all control. You arch against him, spilling yourself out— yes, anything, anything to keep you— you shake apart blindly, your fingers clamped around his hips, his name in your mouth.

He laughs, you think— or moans, you don't know— but he keeps moving, till you're wrung clean out and then further— you can't beg for mercy now, not with how smug he looks, not with how painfully good he feels— you hang on to him and try your damnedest to keep up.

 

Perfect, he's at your mercy, he's digging his claws into the thick muscle of your ass like he's afraid of falling off the world, and you can hang on, you can do this, he's so good but if there's one thing you have it's willpower. You bite into your lip, taste blood, your toes are curling. Squeeze him inside you, grip your bulge with one hand to keep it from lashing you to the finish too soon. Your other hand is pulling your hair. Head thrown back, listening to the sounds he's making. Harsh breaths, little grunts and whimpers.

"Come on, Aspera," you snarl. "Do it, brat, come on, I know you've got more for me, give it to me."

Almost too late, just as you begin to go to pieces, he jerks and bucks under you once again, and you ride him like a wild hoofbeast, ride him like self-control was never a thing.

 

Afterward, when there is an afterward, you find yourself rendered down small and raw and shivery, but glowing with an indefinable triumph. You let him go and he gets off you, making lovely little noises, and you can hardly be bothered with the business of sitting up and cleaning off and going anywhere. Lying here and purring contentedly in the moons-warmed dust is perfectly fine for any possible situation.

 

Your every cell is thrumming satisfaction. You watch him watching you, both of you languid and heavy-eyed, as you get out a pail and release what he spent inside you; yours is all over his stomach, this isn't something to save for the drones, but you're not going to spill his material in the sand. Your hate for him is frequently baffled, exasperated, or taunting, but it's not contemptuous.

That done, you flop down beside him, arms spread, and grin at the stars. "I missed you, jerk."

You're not really talking about the last three nights.

 

You tilt your head to the side, press your lips briefly to his dirty hand, scoot lazily further until you can get your head proprietarily on his chest. Grit digs into your fin.

"Missed you too," you say softly. You add, "no idea why, mind you, I must have brain damage."

You snicker at yourself.

 

"That's what I keep telling you." It's an easy retort, he really set himself up for it, but you're tired and contented and not really in the mood to make a lot of effort.

A few lazy minutes later, you say, "So the night you hooked up with Aurora, I was out at coffee with Lainey, and we were talking about the Reenactment Society, and somehow the idea of bringing you along to the next war came up. She was like 'Well I guess he could wear tight shorts to raise morale' and I was like 'If the enemy underestimates him like you just did, they are so screwed.' Anyway, do you want to go? The signup deadline's not for a couple weeks, I could make you my aide-de-camp or something, then you could go to the planning meetings and parties with me and save me from dying of boredom. So many self-important highbloods oh my god."

 

"I told you no, once," you sleepily note, but find yourself considering it. It's been some time since your refusal, and you're-- better, a bit. Better enough to get bored.

"I can't imagine being any use on the battlefield," you say finally, "it's just not my skillset, and anyways you know I'm still a few grubslices short of a sandwich about shocks. But if all you need is for me to wear tight pants and piss off every blueblood that comes in range--"

You tug on the point of his ear and smile.

"Sure, why not," you say.