THE SPACE NAVY AU (18+)

"Don't mention any underachievers, just talk about me and how I'm amazing at giving head," you instruct, tugging at his lacy fucking panties you can't believe he did this for you with your teeth.

You're going to have glitter in places, and the prosthetic is shedding plastic kittens down your back, and you don't care one bit.

 

"I will when I get any evidence— aah, okay, yes, that!—yes—" you manage, and arch up shakily. Wrestling his head around in any meaningful way is right out, but you can squeeze his horns and enjoy his enthusiasm.

Usually you're driven absolutely mad with impatience at the way he likes to tease, and drag every last little thing out for ages. Right now, though, when you're like this, it won't hurt to take your time. You're interested as hell and your bulge hasn't even deigned make an appearance, yet. You're not sure if it will.

"In a hurry?" you taunt him, when he goes and tears your panties. "Is there a, ah—nnh, a fire I should know about?"

 

"I'm a hive that burns down every night for you," you quote, and then your tongue is busy with things more important than talking.

 

You laugh at him, then lapse into breathless purring. Bel's really unfairly good at giving head, you wonder if he's been practicing, you wonder if Lainey maybe gave him pointers, you wonder if you can look pitiful and attractive enough to earn a threesome with both of them sometime, you wonder if you are going to pass out and die before you climax. You pull his horns a lot, and wear the side of his face a raw blue with your stupid fucking chunky prosthetic.

"Fuck me," you manage to demand, when you feel like you're getting close and you can smell him, the sharp hungry scent of his pheromones coming off him like a heat haze. He's got to be absolutely dripping for you, you're dizzy with how much you want him. Loose and soft and unstrung, your bulge an aimless curl against your hip and your nook fluttering helplessly around his tongue, and he smells so good.

"Come on, get up here, fuck me."

 

His imperious demand gets a groan of pure need from you. You were planning to wreck him with your mouth alone, get yourself off by hand to the sight of his afterglow-sprawl, but as soon as he said that the plan changed. You drag the flat of your tongue across him from taint to bulge-base one last time, then undo your uniform trousers and move up. You're so wet for him that your bulge makes a ridiculous noise as it unfurls; you giggle against his beautifully bruiseable throat.

 

He's even better up close, stained your color and already panting before he gets in you. You pull his face up from marking you neck and bite his mouth, kiss him fiercely. When he finally starts to slide inside you, you have to leave off devouring his face in favor of whining for him to go faster, which he doesn't, the smug asshole.

 

Drunk on his frustration, on his scent and his taste and his realness attribute, you tease your way in centimeter by centimeter. His fins are finally healed enough for you to nibble on them. You can feel his pulse on your tongue as his blood roars through the thin tissue. He's so vulnerable to you right now, and yet every bit as proud and defiant as always, and you hate him and love him for it with your entire soul.

He not only wore the ridiculous leg, he dressed up to match it -- where else in the entire galaxy would you ever find such a fine vintage of sass?

 

You climax in a long, slow rush of heat, shaking all over with the intensity, with your near-total helplessness. Like this, like this Bel's strong enough to pull you apart, he doesn't just match you, he can own you, ruin you. But he won't. He's yours, for as long as you can keep him.

"You're mine," you tell him, fists sunk into his hair, legs as tight around his hips as they'll go. "You beautiful thing, you're mine, I have you." You bite his ear with wild, defiant possessiveness.

 

"Yes," you reply brokenly, "yes, don't let go --" and then you're careening toward your own finish, stifling your cries against his shoulder.

When you've caught your breath a little, you kiss him thoroughly, then sit back on your heels to gaze up at him, half adoration and half mischief. "Let's go out. Murfey's got his bar-and-grill up and running. I'll buy you drinks." The unspoken challenge, of course: does he have the globes to be seen in public in that pastel goth getup?

 

Well, you can't back down from that kind of challenge. "You're on," you say promptly.

The exertion catches up to you all at once when you try to sit up. You don't swoon, exactly, but you certainly don't actually accomplish any sitting.

"In-- in a bit. An hour." You think about showering. "Two hours."

 

"Yeah, okay, I should freshen up as well. I pulled a double shift in this uniform. And then had sex. Shall I come back and get you at --" you check the time on your phone -- "0700?"

 

Maybe you should put up a fuss over being met at the hiveportal and driven to a date like some blushing juvenile lowblood. Instead you just blearily nod, set yourself an hour to pass out for, kick your soiled clothes off, and pass out.

 

You head home for a shower and a caffeine pill -- you've been awake a while. As you get dressed in something that'll coordinate with Erskin's outfit -- pale blue slacks and a white sweater over a lavender silk t-shirt, the sweater loose at the neck so the shirt shows underneath -- you call ahead and ask Murfey to reserve a table. From the noise in the background, the place is busy enough that you'll be glad you did. Not that Erskin couldn't get a table just by clearing his throat and giving someone a pointed look, but he wouldn't.

Promptly at seven, you knock on the door of Erskin's quarters instead of just letting yourself in. Might as well do things properly.

 

You've had a nap, three protein bars, a small cup of very strong coffee, and a splashy sink bath. The wardrobifier had enough time to chew up your silly edgelord costume and spit it back out clean and shiny. You fix the smudgiest bits of your makeup, get struck by inspiration, and are attaching the handful of chipped-off ornaments from your leg into your hair with little pins when Bel rings for you. You look like a pitfight on wheels, and can't help giggling as you scoot outside.

"We're going to start a trend," you tell Bel, "if someone doesn't cull us for brain damage first."

 

"You look absurd. I adore you." You touch one of the silly little hair pins and beam. "Clever!" High on his fearlessness, you lift his wheelchair onto the cart you brought without waiting for permission, and laugh when he bites your hand.

As you drive toward what's becoming the recreational end of the ship, you ask, "So Sigmah got all the helm noodles out? You're cured?"

 

"Yeah," you say, and laugh again, wonderingly. "Yeah, I, I think so. That's what he said." You touch your leg above the rim of the bright prosthesis, where your long trousers have been cuffed. "...it doesn't even hurt anymore. Maybe I'll be able to use that running track you've been working on."

 

"Oh thank fuck," you blurt at the 'doesn't hurt anymore'. "You've been in pain for too long. Listen, if this prosthetic turns out to bother you at all, if it even chafes a little bit, don't tough it out. Have it adjusted. Promise me."

 

"Kadros, I'm going to drop the damn thing in one of the nuclear furnaces somewhere around noon, it's clearly a product of vile solar magyks."

 

"Of course it is, but they're my vile solar magyks, darling. They'll protect you from the pox and the evil eye. And boredom."

 

"And having too much fluid in my body, at least when you're around," you grin, and give one of his hatemarks a pinch. "My stars, I would love to have seen you as a little bitty goth boy, I bet you were darling."