fighting_mad | [OOM] Simulator Room

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[OOM] Simulator Room

Juke left, juke right, juke left, juke right; lure your opponent into a false sense of security, make him think he knows exactly what you're going to do.

Lasers flash by on the screen.

One last juke to the right, and there's the light-up of a targeting lock; she yanks the stick back and to the left, throwing the sim fighter into a tight roll that should press her back against the seat with its force. Of course, this machine isn't nearly complex enough for that.

She's got to find some way to throw the Priamsta off guard like that. To catch the rebels--the ones who say they're lead by Harran but they're not they can't be--off guard and--

The flash of an explosion and the screen goes dark.

"Sithspit!" Plourr slams an open palm against the overhead frame of the simulator, then lets her hand rest there, hooked on the frame.

She runs her other hand over her head in an unconscious motion; auburn stubble still foreign to the touch, too rough and scratchy. Hell, her whole body feels foreign; her tunic is smooth and skintight, eggshell-colored with deep purple, allowing every cord of muscle to show. She's not used to anything so fine, and she's definitely not used to the matching skirt, to seeing her legs bare in anything but athletic shorts. High heels. She'd drawn whistles from the Rogues that afternoon; joking whistles, yes, and ones that had earned several of them glares and thwappings, but she had caught admiring looks from not a few men at court, too. From the nobles at dinner.

Dinner.

"The tyranny of the nobles is at an end, Laabann. I will see to that. If you wish a place in the future of Eiattu, either stand with the throne-- or fall."

The crash of a breaking wineglass.

"The choice is yours."

Plourr hits the top of the simulator again.

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"It's why I joined the military," she deadpans as she's forcibly yanked to her feet, mind whirling even as she speaks.

Her reservations are gone by the time she's up. Kriff it, figure it out later, right?

The second she's on her feet, she sinks a hand in Aeryn's hair and kisses her.

Yes. That was it. That was really it. Simple, good and the ache wasn't for anything other than the urge to press against Plourr.

High Command had always understood. Soldiers had needs. Aeryn never gave it much thought before, but now she knew.

Hopelessness, depression; none of it was an option when the blood started rushing like that. All there could be was the cool feel of her lips over yours and the way your arms pulled her closer.

A low noise into her mouth and Plourr takes the quick half-step forward that's necessary to close all distance between them; there's not one molecule of air separating them now, she would swear. Her other hand starts out high, between Aeryn's shoulderblades, and slides down til it's settled low, and she nips at Aeryn's lower lip.

She muttered a curse word, low and dirty. Leaned into Plourr; like ice, melting over capable hands.

And this wasn't what she came here for, but she did it anyway.

Eyes opened, she tugged her face back, only to move forward again. Her nose was touching Plourr's, pressing an indent.

Wry amusement. "We've got to stop meeting like this."

Quiet laugh. "No, we don't," she points out, blinking slowly and not moving a millimeter.

"Yes --" Her tongue flicked out to touch the lower lip in front of her, nostrils flared, but she stayed just as still as the princess.

"We do."

Pads of her fingers, touched the back of Plourr's tunic, softly wins the day.

"Nope," she persists against Aeryn's lips before she leans in again, tilting her head to the side and kissing her warmly.

Just drifting. It was almost a relief to just drift away on the tide of warmth and safeness and had Plourr said she was strong?

Yes. There was nothing to feel guilty about.

A step backwards to better balance herself, her foot closed on something hard and she stumbled, breaking the kiss.

Reflexes are fast; Plourr has a hold of her arm before there's any chance of her falling, even if she probably wouldn't have. "What--" She looks down. And then has the good grace to grin shame-facedly. "Sorry. I knew those things were devilish; shouldn't have left them to their own devices." She kicks the offending shoe away.

Plourr's grip was hard, Aeryn knew there'd be more bruises. Seemed fitting somehow.

She was still caught there, kept from falling further by some very tight muscles. The look of open-mouthed shock on her face quickly morphed to a smile and she pulled herself back up, using the momentum to push Plourr against the nearby sim.

"Thanks."

She grunts as her back collides with the sim. "I could think of some more engaging ways to thank me," she says, voice rough but grin at the ready, tugging Aeryn in closer with a hand on her waist.

"A concussion is the perfect way to say 'let's frell'."

Aeryn yanked at the tunic with a frown.

"Do I have to cut you out of this thing?"

She laughs, head thrown back. "Don't; the maids are already frustrated enough with me as it is." It takes a moment of manuevering--the damn thing is tight--but there's a long stretch of pale skin showing, from hips to just below her breasts, when she stops in her tracks and looks over at the open door.

"...You think that locks?"

Aeryn was...sort of distracted, fingers sliding over the now bare skin. It never stopped being fascinating, how soft and hard Plourr was at the same time.

"What?" She craned her neck. "It should. You want me to?"

"Mmmph. No." Her head resting against the cool simulator; she doesn't want her to move. "But you should."

"I know."

Reluctantly, she let her hand drop, leaving damp marks on Plourr's belly from eager fingers.

She walked fast, practically stalking across the room and looked for a latch. There wasn't one.

Her eyes swung sideways automatically, scanning for options. A table. Big. Heavy. Difficult to move. Sure, it might have been simpler to go back to their quarters, but she wanted Plourr now.

"Help me move this?"

"Damn right I will." She's across the room in a flash, not bothering to push her tunic back down. She lifts one end of the table, and it is big, heavy, and difficult to move, but they're two strong (strong) women on a mission, and it's the work of a moment or two to shove it in front of the door.

Barricade now in place, she peels her tunic off over her arms and her head, not noticing as her veil goes clattering off her head in the process. She doesn't notice where she drops the tunic; somewhere on Eiattu, dressing maids cry. No crying here, though; she reaches for Aeryn.

"Jaina would kill us if she knew. This place is her pride and joy."

The idea brought a quick grin to her face. Like somehow they were soiling the room, marking it. As much as Wes had been with black and yellow paint. She'd be willing to bet they weren't the first either. Aeryn didn't think she'd ever look at this room the same way again.

Her eyes travelled, up, then down. She took her time to look, because she hadn't the first time.

"You're beautiful, you know. Bruised and perfect." It was the kind of stupid thing people said in the heat of the moment, but she meant it then.

Plourr snickers appreciatively at the first comment (they are christening it! what good pilots!), sliding hands on Aeryn's hips, leaning back against the table and tugging her in. She shoots the other woman a wry look at the second and rolls her eyes, but it's a decidedly gentle eye-roll and there's a faint smile hovering. "Thanks."

"I must be crazy."

Aeryn exhaled and dragged her simple black t-shirt over her head, tossing it past her shoulder.

"But I don't care. And..." She looked at Plourr doubtfully, thumbs making circle patterns on her waist. "...this is a table."

She talked too much. She really talked too much.

She talks while letting admiring eyes rake down Aeryn's front; she took the time for this the last time, she remembers the muscles and the scars and the breasts, but that doesn't stop her from looking again. "Sanity is overrated; yes, Aeryn, this would be a table; and you talk too damn much." So she does her part in shutting her up.

Nerves. Every damn time. Butterflies in her stomach and doubt and it was stupid. This wasn't love, this was fondness and frelling and -- oh that was nice.

"Pervert." She breathed against Plourr's very full lips, fingertips travelling down the line of her stomach. They followed the colour of the bruising on her ribs, barely touching' admiring.

"Hey. You're the one who started taking my tunic off with the door still open. Voyeur-helper." It's a half-hearted mutter, though, as she hisses lightly under the hands; they're good and not applying nearly enough pressure.

Hadn't Plourr learned anything about patience from last time?

Aeryn would leave her quivering, unsatisfied without meaning it. Just by the very nature of those hands, that slowness, the preciseness. Those callouses had held weapons, had held very lives and now they just held Plourr; held her fast and too soft.

She half-touched her lips to the one's in front of her, wet and warm.

Patience? Ha! Plourr laughs in the face of patience!

Except she doesn't because she's far too impatient for that.

Still, when she deepens that kiss, it's soft. Her hands are heavy, can't help that, but her mouth is light.

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