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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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."

A snort. "Whose?" Despite the question, she's already sitting up (on Aeryn's thighs) to reach behind herself and unhook her bra.

"Both." She simply said, a sly grin alighting on full lips. She reached down to pull her leg holster free(it really should have been done earlier) and left it to one side.

"I trust you not to shoot me while we're doing this."

Another snort, this one amused and accompanied by a teeth-baring grin. "Yeah, I'll try." She leans forward again with a quick, impatient nip at Aeryn's chin, hands moving to unfasten her pants.

"Hmm, really. I'll have to keep an eye on you." Aeryn laughed softly, fingers sliding down the inside of Plourr's thigh.

They stopped short when they came in contact with something smooth and cold. The Peacekeeper leaned over, straining her neck.

"Something you'd like to tell me?"

Plourr pauses, fingers on the hooks of Aeryn's trousers. "What?"

"That." The object was given a sharp poke. Cool and unyielding.

And that is pushing cool and unyielding into her inner thigh. She twitches and shoots Aeryn a 'so what?' sort of look. "What, my knife?"

"Oh. Knife. That's --" She breathed, relaxing. "-- good."

A pointed look at Plourr's fingers.

"You can...carry on." She sounded just a bit strangled. Perhaps embarrassed.

Plourr shoots her a suspicious look--what had she thought it was? Whatever she'd been thinking, Aeryn is doing a damned good job of making this less hot. So Plourr goes back to unhooking Aeryn's pants. And when she reaches the last hook, she presses with a strong hand and rubs. Just a little.

Clearly, this is purely for the sake of hotness everywhere.

She knew what was supposed to happen, she was just...nervous...which was very strange.

"Frell." Aeryn murmured, low and husky. Now that was just evil. When she wasn't prepared, trying to ease herself into it; evil.

Pure, simple wickedness, but damn did it feel good. So good that she was struggling to get the knife out of the way and muttering about the skirt Plourr was still wearing.

"Oh for fuck's sake--"

She reaches down and slaps Aeryn's hands out of the way (not unkindly, just impatiently), unstrapping the large, sheathed knife from her leg and letting it clatter to the floor. She is about to go for the skirt next, with the same quick, military economy of motion-- but then looks over and realizes that Aeryn is still mostly clad, and that won't do at all.

Eyes dark, she reaches around and unsnaps Aeryn's bra, pulling it off and paying no attention to where it ends up. Balanced on hands and knees, she leans in fast and open-mouthed kisses one bare breast.

In combat, you roll with the punches. In other things it was much the same. So far from reeling, Aeryn responded with equal fierceness.

And if that kiss caught her off guard, she didn't show it. Nails dug into Plourr's shoulder, but she only allowed herself a moment of pleasure, wriggling her trousers off the rest of the way.

"I don't think --" A pause in the middle, breath not at all even. "-- your royal garb was made for this."

Plourr's mouth, lips and teeth and tongue teasing, is (quite gleefully) still occupied, and so there is no way to respond other than a wordless '...what?' sort of noise that's really more a hot breath against Aeryn's skin than a noise.

Aeryn's teeth sunk into her lower lip, stifling the hiss of air that escaped. She remembered times spent in corridors; always quiet, it had become a natural habit to hold the noise in.

Her fingertips danced up the line of Plourr's neck, coming to rest behind her ear.

"What're you talking about," she says after she's given the other breast the same treatment and is up for air for a second. "Whoever designed that shavit" a vague wave at her clothes, "obviously had middle-of-the-night tabletop simulator room trysts in mind." Deadpanned, and followed up by tracing with her tongue the scar that begins between the other woman's breasts and runs down her ribs.

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