THE SPACE NAVY AU (18+)

Any concern that you might be too drunk to fuck is settled by your reaction to his mouth on your neck. You're going to have a ring of hickeys that shows above the collar of your uniform, and you don't care one bit. You want everyone to know you're his.

You also want, however, to get your mouth on various parts of him as well, so eventually you have to detach him from your throat so you can finish undressing him. As you slide his pants off, a few more plastic ornaments come off his prosthetic and scatter across the floor with tiny ticking noises. "You're going to leave a trail of those everywhere you go for weeks," you point out proudly. "Even after you get them all off the leg, even if you buff off every speck of glue, you'll be finding tiny pandas and daisies in your laundry, and you'll think of me every time."

 

"I already think of you when I look at, at pandas," you protest. "And hopbeasts, and itty kittens, and hatchsqueaks." You smoosh his cheeks together and peck tiny mwah! kisses all over his face. "You are so decorative."

 

You flail ineffectually (because you don't really want him to stop) and make vague protesting noises. "I'm not an itty anything, Erskin, I'm a warmongering death machine, I'm pretty sure you said so yourself!"

 

"You are a cute death machine," you point out. "You are my itty bitty tiny adorable most precious murder tank." You kiss the very tip of his nose. Then, because this seems insufficient to convey the point, you grab one of his horns, pull till he's bared his throat whether he fucking likes it or not, and delicately kiss it too.

 

You make a mortifying noise, helpless and needy, and melt like he's a behemoth tranquilizer in trollish form. "Fuck you're strong," you gasp. You should not have worn light-colored trousers.

 

You grin and dot a line of flutter-soft kisses down his throat. Lainey doesn't really care for this sort of business, but Arguus doesn't mind a bit of delicacy. It's a bit different to also be strong-arming a highblood two or three times your size at the same time, but mostly you're just pleased that you've had enough naps for at least a few of your muscles to come back online. And Bel's not-particularly-subtle appetite for being held and treated like the daintiest of lowbloods— like the daintiest of kittens— is, frankly, adorable.

"Should'a had your way with me earlier," you point out. "More of... more of it, I mean. I can do this now." You suck on the bright skin of his ear, then kiss more warmly at the racing pulse beneath it. "...Soft." It's not really teasing, you're far too many drinks along for subtlety or clever plots. You're just, enjoying. Gentling. You knead his hornbed, hardly pulling on him at all anymore.

 

"I can -- I could -- something about having my way, mmm Erskin..." You're realizing that he doesn't mind, that it's okay to be soft sometimes. You push your hands into his hair and laugh quietly as glitter and particles of makeup shower onto your skin. "If we turned in a bucket tonight we'd seed pixies instead of grubs."

 

You giggle. "Tank size pixies. War machine pixies. Dreadnoughts, with, with the— the little wings— on!" You press your head into his big hands and mumble appreciatively, enjoying the slow, diffuse sort of arousal it builds. There's a fairly significant amount of movement and pressure between your legs as Bel's trapped bulge tries to get free. You roll against it, find a really excellent angle, purr. Pull his horns forward, now, to mouth at one— get hair in your mouth and giggle again.

 

"You're ridiculous," you laugh softly, giving up on taking any sort of control of the situation -- or saving your pants. You hang onto a couple delicious handfuls of his ass and just enjoy the sloppy horn job. His mouth is cool and busy, and you can feel the buzz of him, so alive. It's good, it's so good. You're purring unevenly and kneading his gluteus maximus like a big cat.

 

You suck at his horns and grind against him for a long, hazy while, until your bulge has actually deigned show up for the party and the sensation between your legs starts to get urgent, a hot, delicious ache. You pull reluctantly away from his horns and lean back to attempt opening his pants. The clasp defeats you, even with Bel trying to get his own hands into the area to help, so you tear the whole thing off, then strip the rest of the tight, stained fabric off his legs.

"Right," you decide, looking him over. "You shouldn't— you shouldn't be clothes. You're best like this."

This important conclusion concluded, you get one of his big pylon legs up over your thigh— your good one, so the glittery bullshit of your prosthetic doesn't chew his ass open— though that would be fairly hilarious, then who would be finding little plastic kittens for months?— and move in. The wet, hungry clench of his nook once you introduce your bulge makes you keen and grab clumsily for his shoulders.

"Ohhh, Bel," you breathe, eyes closed, enjoying yourself immensely. "Oh, fuck."

 

He's so pretty like this, with his makeup smeared and his hair disheveled, skin flushed and damp, your louche and decadent little prince. You want to tell him all about how pretty he is, but with the way he's moving in you all you can say is yes.

 

You press close against his front — you can't reach his neck from here, damn, so you settle for petting his grubscars and sucking random splotches of blue all over his chest. His bulge gets excited enough between your hips to blunder its way down to your personal business and then get sort of stuck, so you have to spare a hand to help the poor thing out, and then the lovely ache and stretch of it in your nook starts to spur you to urgency, even through all the drinks and exhaustion.

You shudder and wriggle against him, driving your hips into his harder, faster, doing your level best to get his bulge as far into you as it'll go, as fast as possible, and your bulge into him likewise. You go from holding his bulge just for guidance to kneading at the base of his sheathe, encouraging him on. The paired sensations from your fully engaged nook and bulge make your head spin, lose you in pleasure, and you keen raggedly against his sweat-damp ribs.

 

You curl over him and around him, mouthing at his horns, until it feels like the everything is Erskin, inside and out and all around, there is no rest of the world. "I'm close," you gasp, "are you, can you, Erskin, oh."

 

You have no idea what he's asking. You clutch at him and kiss whatever you can reach, and when he comes it's like being folded into a very damp earthquake. You moan breathlessly as he spills into you, his nook clenching over and over around your length, trying to draw out your own release, but you feel so— strung out, blown apart, muddled— you're not there yet, you don't want to stop. His bulge is softer, stiller, inside you but you feel tight and electric with the volume of his release, and his nook's gone from clenching to fluttering. You drive yourself against him in single-minded eagerness, catch his mouth with yours, suck on his tongue, adore the way he's gone so shuddery-helpless with aftershocks.

 

It's too much, complete overload, shorting you out like a faulty droid, but for some reason that's so good right now, and you surrender to it. He's a tsunami, you're drowning in him, it's wonderful. He plunders your mouth and your nook, doesn't let you pull out, holds you so tight even when your arms have lost their strength. The noises you're making would be incredibly embarrassing if you had any sense of shame right now.

 

It takes— some amount of time, you don't know, long enough for his bulge to become an active participant again, before you finally find your climax. You cling to him, spill out into him, around him, fall apart. You shudder and cry against him for some second span of forever, thoroughly overwhelmed. You're exhausted with the pleasure of it all, but still, there keeps being more.

 

You know if you kept going you could come again, and maybe he would too, and it would be even better than last time... but you've burned off enough of the alcohol that you can just glimpse sanity through the fog, and it's signaling a reminder that your rival just got out of medical yesternight. So instead of pursuing that second orgasm, you let your body still itself by shuddering increments, relax, focus on stroking his sweat-damp hair rather than riling him up again. After a little while of this, it isn't an effort anymore. You really are tired. And he's shaking in your arms, so thin and tired, so pitiable...

You are not yet so sober you can't push aside the little swell of alarm that thought brings.

 

You whine at him, frustrated— you weren't done, it was still good— you needed—but as he pulls you off and out of him and shifts you up to just curl against his chest, exhaustion rises up like a black tide. You press your face under his chin, trembling all over from strain and the fading echoes of desire, and gasp for breath. You will never not be this brainlessly tired, it feels like, you're worn clear through. Kadros's genetic material sits in you heavily, though, an imperative, you're not done. You can't stop shivering, or whining just a little on the edge of each exhale.

 

"Ssh, breathe," you whisper, as much to yourself as to him. You want to give his trembling a moment to still, want your strength back a little... but you become aware you're more likely to just fall asleep without releasing, and that's supposed to be bad for you. So you tighten an arm around him and work to kneel up.

 

You slide off him with a protesting squeaky noise, then hang on to fistfuls of his hair for balance. When he gets out the pail you think oh, that's it, and fumble weakly into position through sheer instinct. Release feels like— like— if being torn in half didn't hurt. It would feel like that. If you weren't clutching Bel so tightly you'd probably fall off the couch.