THE SPACE NAVY AU (18+)

You glower back over your shoulder, though it hardly daunts him. The next time hot breath and wet lips brush against the vulnerable nape of your neck you don't so much wiggle as grind, pressing back into him, tipping your head against his shoulder. Nerves and threat and annoyance and his broad, strong, gentle warmth are all coiling awkwardly together inside you.

"Kadros," you growl up at him. Warning.

 

It sounds less to you like a warning than a promise. "Oh wow," you say breathlessly. "How long has it been since we had sex?"

 

"KADROS!," you yelp, covering your face with your hands. "Sergeant Pancho-- I'm sorry, I can go--"

 

You're laughing, even as you reach out and pat his shoulder. "Nothing to be sorry for, Captain, you guys have been on smooch restriction for more than a week. If I had a kismesis I hadn't made out with for that long, I'd be ignoring everyone else in the room." You grab Bel's hand and squeeze it. "I'm gonna use your shower, okay hon?"

He nods. "I'm glad you're here."

"Me too," you smile.

 

"Er-- if you'd care-- for some concupiscent recreation, Sergeant, I'm fairly sure you'll just have to walk into a room and point," you tell her, smiling sheepishly. "Just, er, just in case you were, were wondering."

 

"So, life as usual," Pancho grins over her shoulder as she sashays off to your ablution block.

You squeeze Erskin out of sheer joy. "She's the best. And you're the best, and so are you --" that to your lusus -- "and so am I probably, and good grief why am I so happy to be alive? Did I almost die?"

 

You scoot around in his arms to be facing him, and butt his chin sharply. "Yes, you idiotically heroic big lummox— why do you think I haven't touched you in ages, you were all— distasteful."

 

"I was quarantined," you counter. "I was a super attractive plaguebearer, I bet. How come you were in medbay, then?"

 

"Well, I suppose I'm idiotic too, though it doesn't suit me half as well," you sniff. "I was keeping an eye on you, you get into trouble unsupervised. Like contracting a bad case of blood parasites."

 

"Heroically?" you tease, but then something comes back -- just a flicker, more emotion than event, a chilly, heavy-stomached Someone has to, so I will -- and you don't want to remember anymore. "Well, now I can keep an eye on you. And hands on you. And, mm, mouth on you, and mmm."

 

"I— ah—" It's awfully hard to roll your eyes disdainfully while a handsome fellow sucks kisses on to your throat. "Watch— watch the, the, th— the fins, nnh—" you warn, before he gets a hand past the waistband of your trousers to cup your bare ass and you sort of lose track of your words. God, it's been too long. You want to go at him, too, bite and nuzzle and dig your horns in, but with his hair and the sweep of his stupid antlers you're not sure how to angle your attack without scraping. You're forced to sit stiffly upright in his lap, head angled back and away— fuck, it probably looks submissive, as if you couldn't throw him across the room even like this— but you're stuck kneading your claws in his broad shoulders, and— and letting him at you.

It's... not that unpleasant a trial. But you growl anyway.

 

You growl back and plunder his mouth hungrily, licking the backs of his wonderterrible pointy fish teeth. You're vaguely aware of your lusus giving a clicky bird chuckle and launching himself for a glide around his flyspace. What's really important, though, are Erskin's prickleclaws, and his strong thighs, and the choppy way he's breathing.

 

"Ah, fuck, fuck," you contribute hazily to the discussion, and manage to get his fingers between your legs yes, there, more— like that— you're not entirely sure what's out loud anymore. The sensations have gone all scrambled up again, dizzy: blue and panting and the bright electric shine of a body in motion, you gasp warm when he gets something into you, tongue or fingers, can't tell, don't care. You wrestle him awkwardly to his back, you can't— be on yours, it'd scrape, undignified, no— elbows on his chest. Forehead on his shoulder. His breath against the side of your face is just enough sting to be good, ah, so— so good. You whimper his name, hitch yourself urgently against his fingers. This, you needed this, you've been waiting for this, him, god, you didn't know if you'd ever get him back. You're mad for him.

 

There's too much emotion in you to leave any room for thinking. Your feelings for him just keep coming in like high tide until you fear they'll drown you; everything about him is unignorable and intolerable and beautiful and yours.

Having your fingers in him is great, but your bulge would be better. Unfortunately, undressing, kissing, and a hand job all at once is just too much mental processing.

 

You're shuddering on the edge of completion when he pulls his fingers out, and you almost cry. You certainly make a wild, whining protest, but he's only gone to fumble his silly drawstring pants down, and his bulge rubs up eagerly against your inner thighs.

"Yes, good, right, give that here," you pant, and grab at it. It's slippery and excitable and you're smelling colors that probably don't exist so it takes a certain amount of undignified thrashing-about and giggling before you've got ahold of anything, but finally you catch it line it up where you want it and you ease back, purring triumph. Of course he'd be the very picture of overgrown blueblood hulk here as everywhere else, but it's not as if that's stopped you yet. You can take him. He's not so tough.

((it is just barely possible erskin is kind of a size queen))

 

Laughing during sex is fantastic. His hand on your bulge is even better. Feeling him work his way down on you is the best thing ever. He's such a gorgeous mess, how did you ever luck out like this? You wish you had two more pairs of hands so you could touch more of him at once. You want to drag your claws lightly down his gill covers, you want to pull his hair, you want to feel the movement of his ass and thighs, of his shoulders, of his lungs, of his heart. It's too bad his fins are sore, because you know he otherwise likes it when you play with them.

When he's taken you all the way in, he gives you a smug look and does something with his hips that gets a sharp cry of surprised pleasure out of you. You catch one of his hands to your mouth, muffle your moans by gnawing on the base of his thumb. Just feeling his hand curl against your face is a miracle: a real, living hand, and it's Erskin's hand, and it's yours to kiss, how is that even possible?

 

You laugh at the nibble of teeth on your fingers, half breathless moan. Slide your hand away from his mouth, hold his unbroken horn by the base, a solid point in all the softness and it's alive, buzzing yellow and magnetic against your palm. With less to occupy his mouth Bel makes such good sounds and you huff as he arches beneath you, laugh again, match him. His hands on your legs, your bulge— good, perfect, yes— you ride him hard, hold him fast. You want to see him cry.

 

Surely someone has touched your horns before, but it still shocks you how immediate the sensation is, as if he just opened up a connection between your nervous systems, plugged himself into your bloodstream. The way he moves with you feels so good, but the finish you're chasing doesn't seem to get any closer, and you don't have the strength to contest him for it -- but you also don't have the self-control to relax and pace yourself. So you're a mess of twitches, grabby and babbling, and he's loving it, the bastard.

"I hate you so dearly," you groan after one particularly cruel denial-of-friction attack. "Erskin, please."

 

"Please," you repeat, nearly too breathless to laugh at him, "please what? What d'you— hhah, ah, god, y'pretty thing, what do you. D'you want. S-say it." You cup his lovely face, sprawl along his chest, bite his neck. Fantastic. He should be like this always, laid out, laid open, for you.

"Perfect," you mumble, shuddering all over with it. "God, god, fffuck, c'mon, you're perfect."

 

"Please, I, please." It's so awful of him to make you try to words right now, which is why he's doing it, which is why you can't get enough of him. There's no way you can describe what you need, you're not even sure what you need, just... "More!" You squirm, you roll your hips, grind up into him and sob with pleasure, but something's not quite...

His bulge, writhing wetly in your hand, swollen and purple, its garnet tip curling around your thumb. "This, in me," you say triumphantly, finally recognizing what's missing. "Both of us at once. ...And a bucket, and a drone, and a thousand grubs. A whole Fleet of little Erskins." You laugh breathlessly at the idea.