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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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.

Aeryn's belt dropped to the floor with a hard, crisp clatter, tongue invading Plourr's mouth.

Fierce. She might be a princess, but that was how she tasted. She smiled against her.

The table was far too high for her liking and she grunted, getting into a better position.

The table is perfectly to Plourr's liking. Of course, she's got a good three or four inches on Aeryn, so maybe that's unfair.

At any rate, there's a faint quirk of an answering smile, though Plourr doesn't know the source of the amusement, and an answering tongue, too, meeting Aeryn's. She runs her hands down her back, letting her thumb slowly trace every vertebrae.

Tingles. Butterflies and tingles. 'I'm straight' The irony didn't escape her. She aimed to be horizontal.

'Don't let your guard down, Aeryn'

"Think this thing can hold both our full weights?" Tongue withdrawn, it was whispered hastily, hoarsely against Plourr's chin.

She reaches back, presses down hard with a hand a few times; nothing too alarming. "We'll find out, huh?" she says with a breathless grin, hopping up on it. Not even a creak. Force bless sturdy furniture. Sitting with her feet dangling a little above the floor, she holds a hand out to Aeryn.

Aeryn eyed the hand and almost delicately...reached down to yank her boots off.

With that out of the way, she took a firm grip and hauled herself up.

"Feels steady enough." She bounced a few times to make sure and couldn't help the laugh that escaped.

Bouncing does fun things to the female anatomy. And so Plourr is rather distracted (and immediately nipping at Aeryn's neck as soon as the bouncing stops) as she murmurs, "What's so damn funny?"

"We're about to 'kriff'. On a table."

She laughed again, half a moan because...those teeth and moist lips and Plourr herself was a lot worse than distracting.

She is about to inquire, 'So?' but she grins instead. It is a proud grin. "You said kriff." To celebrate, she leans up from her neck and kisses her hungrily, resting her weight (rather precariously) on the knuckles of one hand on the tabletop.

And it's not really much work to reach over and dislodge that hand, lowering Plourr's full weight on top her her.

Not much work at all and the benefits far outweight the risks.

"I did." She murmured into the kiss and her hands squeezed. Turned out Plourr had a very nice ass too.

It is less 'lowering' and more 'dropping with a yelp.'

Still, Plourr's not gonna complain. A choked sound and she's sending them both over, toppling them from the sitting position. She doesn't even care who winds up on top; she just wants Aeryn.

Aeryn is too busy being surprised that she seemed to be underneath, blinking dazedly.

It really wouldn't be very kind to take advantage. Plourr's solid muscle, heavy and cosy and it's actually sort of nice. Or it would be if she could get some damn relief. Aeryn shifted, teeth sinking into her lower lip.

She moves, shifting the rest of her weight on top of her (suffering a little awkward in the first place; kriffing skirt, she can't move in it), and takes a quick breath. She bows her head to suck at Aeryn's neck, low at the join between shoulder and neck, hard enough that it'll likely leave a mark.

Forget a lovesick foostep-dogging count, forget a planetful of responsibilities, forget the chance of global war, forget a crazy rebel leader who insists he's her dead brother. They're all so far from her mind right now; all there is, is warmth and Aeryn. And that's fine with her.

Well that wasn't going to be suspect at all. I mean Aeryn usually wore polo-necks. Okay it might be a little awkward to explain, but at that microt she really didn't care.

Don't think, just squeeze your eyes shut and drift away. That was what she was used to, getting lost in the feelings; forgetting about everything else. No. This was Plourr.

Aeryn growled softly, pressing harder against the pilot. "Clothes. Off. Now. All of them."

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