THE SPACE NAVY AU (18+)

"I can do stuff," you insist vaguely. "Try me."

 

You hadn't actually thought that far ahead. "Pet my horns and tell me I'm pretty," you order, and go in for another round of licking his nook.

 

You laugh, though there's a hitch in it as his tongue finds a good spot. "That's so normal." You find his horns with your fingertips and stroke them obediently. "Did I ever tell you how hard I had to work to keep up the ground-pounder pokerface when I first saw you? In those goofy booty shorts and a wet t-shirt, blinking up at me all oh hello you're very large. I nearly invited you to climb me instead of introducing myself."

 

"Shut up, it's kinky, we're doing a kinky master and servant thing right now, and your master wants hornrubs."

When he tells you about your first meeting you have to pull back and sporfle at him. "I don't remember that!" You strain to remember details. Your first impression of him had been 'not so bad, for a boy'. "You're not really my type for some casual fun, but I still might have, you know, if you'd offered, and I didn't yet know what an absolute pain in the chute you intended on becoming. How'd that be for a welcome-aboard tour, eh?"

 

"I think I saw a porno like that once," you chuckle. Then you poke the horn you've been rubbing. "You stopped! Unacceptable!"

 

"You can either engage me in conversation or get sucked off, Bel, make up your damn mind!"

 

You think about this for a moment. "No," you decide. Then you crack up.

(welcome to Bel Is On A Lot Of Drugs theater, with your host, bel's poor neglected bulge)

 

"Fine, then!" You brace yourself on the least bruisey parts of his hips and climb aboard, grabbing his bulge— at least it's cooperative, and respectably frisky, considering the rest of him—and setting it to your own aching nook. You've still got his fluids in you from the last round but you've got kind of a thing for that, taking a partner past your own physical limits. Going out of your own head from the pressure. You close your eyes and purr as you work your way down on him, the ache inside you flaring up and going sweeter, hungrier.

"There, we can finish, o-our important conversation," you pant out, a trifle belatedly. "Aah. Don't stop the hornrubs. No. Wait." You move one of his hands to your own bulge. "A-all, alright. Go."

 

"Oh. Erskin, fuck." You're dazed, yes, but you'd have to be dead not to get enthusiastic about this. "Conversation." You roll your hips, trying to remember what you were even talking about. Oh yeah -- "When we met. I was crushing so hard. From like -- immediately. It didn't ping black until Hardcase though. You were such an asshole about it. Hnng -- and I was a sullen jerk, and you made the best mean faces." You tug on his horn and his bulge demandingly. "Show me your war face."

 

You stick your tongue out at him, just for a laugh, then scrabble for balance when he bucks underneath you. You end up with fistfulls of his hair, which isn't exactly a tragedy. You can't really remember at the moment what you'd thought about him then, but you try to think. Close your eyes, try to imagine it, Bel as arrogant and dangerous as any other highblood threat you've had to face down for your ship, hands dripping green and brown, lip curled with contempt. It's a clearer picture than you'd expected— you had thought of him that way. He's still— he's yours, you rolled him over and he's yours as long as you can keep him there, he'll condescend to the duties you and your ship require of him, but he doesn't like it, doesn't think it suits, and all this last week—

"You've been difficult," you tell him, the tight coil of anger at the center of all your exhausted relief starting to unwind. Your voice comes out a low rumbling growl. "You know that, right? I've had to keep you in line just the same as Ironfist and I don't—" a snap of your hips "—appreciate—it."

 

"There you are," you grin wickedly, rolling to meet him. "I've been difficult, have I? So sorry for not being gracious about watching that disgusting creep put his hands all over my! fucking! rival!" You pull him down by the horn and bite his shoulder to illustrate your feelings.

 

You growl and nip his ear. "I don't need you gracious, you condescending sack of smug, I need you obedient. You show up, you think you know best about everything— think you can do better than me—go and screw around because I c-can't— possibly know what I'm talking about— my own ship—we're here like this now because you had to show me up, I ought to shove you in a box and— mail you off to Wavebane himself—put a fuckin' bow on—" his bulge gives a particularly spiteful thrash and you give an incoherent snarl, overwhelmed with the need to pin him down and keep him there.

Still, you mind your claws: there's been enough blood spilled tonight.

 

You arch under him, eyes unfocused, dizzy with pleasure and flying high on the release of anger -- it's been festering for days and you just need -- "You used to give me grief about being bloodthirsty -- warmongering -- then you conveniently forget how fighty I am -- when there's someone who needs fighting! Fess up, Trouble, you just want to be a big damn martyr." Giving up on horn and bulge, you grab handfuls of his hair, haul his face into range, bite his eyepatch off, and spit it at him. "I could have fucking lost you because you didn't trust me to help!"

 

"Fuck you!" you shout. "I could be composting you right now— because you didn't— think I could survive— some routine slap and tickle—made it this far, why should I need your help!? I need you SAFE." Your eyes are stinging. "You're mine— you're my crew. You're mine."

 

"And you're mine, and you don't need me safe, you need me watching your back! Am I some cute toy you can put back in the box when you're done, or am I your goddamned kismesis?" Dizzy or not, you're done being underneath him. You roll the both of you off the couch onto the rug, plunge back into him, fist both his horns and bump foreheads. "Fighting's what I'm good at, Erskin -- let me do it for you!"

 

"Over my— bloated corpse—" you arch underneath him, shove against his weight, try to toss his hands off your horns. He rides you out, humiliatingly: the more you struggle to roll him back over, or even just throw him off, the more pathetically apparent it is you've hit a hard limit. You're too fucking worn-out to match him anymore, not even if you really try, not even if you thrash and try to bite, and his bulge is a fairly effective distraction from really trying. Your efforts to unseat him trail off into breathless, furious grinding of horns and hips up against him. If you can't beat him you can at least take his bulge clean off of him, and serves him fucking right.

 

"That's what I'm afraid of!" you yell, and that's about it for arguing, because he feels so good, much better than even fighting. On some level you're aware that you're kind of past your limits now and you're going to pay for it with a terrible comedown, but that doesn't feel like a reason to stop. You have to prove yourself to him. You have to make him respect you. And if that means fucking yourself into a coma, so be it.

 

He comes first, and you have enough time for a spiteful "Ha!" before your body hits the edge too and you possibly black out for a bit. You blink muzzily back to yourself after some time, heaving for breath and shaking hard in every limb, and aren't sure which way to squirm free. He's still above you and all around, hands fisted addlingly on your horns.

"Lem' go," you say uncertainly. What remains of your voice is mostly hiss.

 

You shift to the side, pinning him between you and the base of the couch, and dazedly go from gripping his horns to petting them. You can hardly keep your eyes open. You feel happy, as if you've accomplished something. "There," you say vaguely. "Grievance aired. Only respect now." You nuzzle against his neck, considering sleeping right here instead of making the long journey to your respiteblock.

 

"Mmnfgh," you go. Then, "Nnh. I gotta..." and struggle painfully up to your knees. Biological imperatives don't care if you're tired, and after getting plowed like that twice you'd probably be getting up for the pail even with a broken spine.

Once you've gotten out the pail and used it, you feel a little sharper and a lot better. Also like if you don't get some sleep right now you will literally fucking die.

"Up," you tell Bel, and prod him in the snout. "'N't sleep here. 'Sjugglators."

You don't even want to contemplate how difficult he'd be if he went and got his skull fucked.