Plourr Estillo (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
fighting_mad) wrote2006-06-11 10:41 pm
fighting_mad) wrote2006-06-11 10:41 pm
[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.
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.
no subject
Aeryn's other hand wrapped around the back of Plourr's neck, holding her close. Second. It was the second time and she realised with some fervour that she had never wanted to stop; that feelings and idiotic things had merely cluttered this up.
It was simple really, need, lust; tenderness. It was all fulfilled in the end.
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It's a few moments of increasingly hard panting and absolute incoherency and she can't think can't breathe and there may be more talking against Aeryn's throat, but who the hell knows? Not Plourr, certainly, and she has no idea what's coming out of her mouth but it's those few minutes of heat and kriffkriffkriff before she's shuddering herself to pieces.
no subject
Plourr quivered around her and in the back of her brain somewhere a voice noted the oddness of the situation. Then her hands were her own again, damp and helping her friend, her lover, back to the hard table and their sweat soaked bodies.
"Are you alright?" A gentle, tired query, unable to hide the slow grin on her face.
no subject
Yeah, it doesn't make any sense to Plourr, either. She's deadweight. Content deadweight; Aeryn can probably feel the equally lazy grin form against her skin. A good workout, and sex especially, it always does something to her. Calms her some; leaves her unable to keep up the energy that usually keeps her moving, talking, arguing. Leaves her mind less cluttered. Less angry.
But she does move her head back so that it's her nose pressed against Aeryn's neck rather than her mouth. " 'M good."
no subject
And there's that laugh again, intoxicated. Aeryn's pretty sure their legs are so tangled that a Chelsyk fire hose couldn't separate them. She was happy to stay that way for now.
"My toes are cold. I think you leeched all my warmth." She stretched her arms above her head, chest...bouncing might be an appropriate word.
no subject
Aeryn has an approving, buck-naked-besides-jewelry princess grinning lecherously at her.
There's a first time for everything.
She scoffs. "Wimp." But she covers Aeryn's feet with her own (after a kick or two).
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Then there was merely a contented murmur and she shut her eyes.
no subject
Why not?
Plourr doesn't have much hair to use as a pillow.
She borrows some of Aeryn's.