Work Text:
And I know you like the back of my hand
With a stamp that says I paid to get in
And yes I am your television show
And you're the nicest place I've ever been
-------------Joan Osborne
Your name is Latula Pyrope and you are stripping Mituna Captor down for the day.
The zipper first, letting the bodysuit open along the side, then you start working the top off him, peeling the sleeves off his arms, uncovering his back. He tugs the gloves off his hands as you go, stretches his fingers out, palms flexing like a cat's. The air on his shoulder blades draws a soft sharp sound from him and a shiver.
Early on, before you were even dead, you tried to ask him if he wanted something simpler to wear, the bodysuit is a complex enough piece of clothing that it's difficult for him to maneuver, but he always said no and finally you asked, "Is this about looking awesome or about wanting me to take your clothes off?" and he laughed something crude about wanting hands all over his body if there was an option, "Partichulary hands of a rad bitcth like you," and that settled that.
It's become a ritual, a little piece of shared matesprit time, the beginning and ending to every day together.
How much this is Mituna wanting you to be there and how much is about Mituna not wanting to get naked alone, you're not sure. It's not something you feel the need to ask. It's pretty obviously both.
You suspect the tight clothing is soothing, on a simple physical level, while he has it on. He sometimes wears simpler clothes, but he prefers not to. You know that when you take the bodysuit off of him, his nerve endings go crazy for a little while, that he shivers whether or not he's cold, that he hangs onto your hair or the divan or whatever's handy to grasp. That those times you've been interrupted in the middle of this little scene or right after, you've come back to find him hugging himself, not really able to work it out of his system on his own. S' why the helmet goes last. It keeps him anchored.
But you can always chillax him.
"Settle, honeybee," you murmur. You run your knuckles down his spine, slowly, rolling rhythmically down one vertebra and the next, like a string of beads. From top to bottom, again and again, until the tension works out of him and he's softly whining in the back of his throat.
That sound is the same, hasn't changed since the first frantic adolescent makeout, before his accident, so very long ago now. So very long ago that it amazes you there's continuity; it's weird nostalgic vintage feelings, like a song on the radio from a time very unlike now. But there is.
You turn him over and start working the tight fabric down around his thighs. He tangles his fingers in your hair, other hand hanging onto the divan below him, breath catching in his throat in little irregular noises, huh - huh - nnh - kkh - and you just lay your head there for a moment on his chest, let your firm weight settle on top of him, and he wraps both arms around your head and says Latula, just your name, in a tone of such deep satisfaction it's almost a purr. Lying there you reach your hands down and keep working at his leggings until they're hanging off his ankles and damn that boy is frisky tonight, squirming and pressing up against you; you can feel his bulge is half out of its sheath already, and that makes yours start to stir. "I want - hnngh -"
It's like a gear that was slipping catches all of a sudden. "I wanth you to pound my nook into fuckking oblivion," he growls.
"That's an amazing coincidence," you say, and you grin at him brightly. "Cos that's exactly what I was planning to do, radboy."
The bodysuit hits the floor, freeing his ankles, and he reaches up and wriggles his helmet off his horns. You've already shucked your skater duds and slipped into a loungy robe. He likes being able to undress you, too, without having to worry about his hands shaking or fumbling. You have to admit you look killer in this thing. It's the polar opposite of anything you would ever wear in public, made of frill and flounce and silk and gauze and feathers, secured by a single tie around your waist and suitable for - well, suitable for being taken off.
He's sitting up now and you're straddling his lap and he slides the garment down off your shoulders, can't resist burying his face in the softness for a moment, and the tips of his horns graze your neck as he slides his cheek back and forth, enjoying the textures against his skin, between your half-bared breasts and their ethereal border of feathers. It tickles him, and he giggles softly into your chest.
At some point your bulge finds his, begins seeking that place in the center where his bifurcates - "You're so awesome your crotch has a crotch," you say, an old joke that you've made back and forth enough times that neither of you can remember who started it, and he grins and then he gasps out loud as you find it and slide back and forth. The membrane feels like the webbing between fingers and thumb, it has rigidity but also give, and it's wonderfully sensitive. He moans and his hands clutch around you and your movements are punctuated by sounds of both of your breathing, irregular and haywire.
You still don't quite understand the afterlife - how all of your eyes have changed, but bodies stayed the same, mostly-nearly. How important it is that there's still breathing. You tried some experiments early on, trying to figure out what was necessary and what wasn't, but the novelty wore off quickly. Ignoring the biological aspect just felt wrong and didn't reveal anything new.
You curl a finger into his nook, then two, and he lets off a high sharp gasp and bursts into tears.
He hasn't frozen up, he's still participating, so you wrap your other arm around him and murmur into his ear. "Mituna, sweet, my babez, my honeybee. S'okay. I'm here. Hang on tight, remember how I showed you?" and he nods, at least you think it's a nod, and reaches for your earlobe. A tug means keep going, claws mean back off. He's said he could handle words for this part but you know he would struggle, and you don't want this to ever be frustrating for him, don't want him to ever feel broken.
You are still the Knight of Mind, and you wrap a glimmering cocoon of quiet around his thoughts, a world within a world where he is allowed to just feel.
The first time he started crying while you were pailing him, it scared you, you thought you'd done something that hurt him, and you drew back, alarmed, and he thought he'd upset you and didn't want you to go away, and you got caught in a recursive loop of I'm sorry back and forth until he found his words again and you were clinging to his hands while he shook and hiccupped and got his breath back. Tula, he said finally, I don-n't know how to feel so much, it - ith boiling over - but I want - pleathe - don't stop -
Now it's just part of the way this works, like a typing quirk of the body that you can read now without a second thought.
Now he buries his face in your neck and you go slower, fucking him languidly with your fingers as he gets your collarbones sticky with gold-tinged tears.
Your bulge strains even further out of its sheath and Mituna's nook is so moist, so ready. You can't resist tasting your fingers when you pull them out of him. He tastes salty and sharp and... like nothing else in the world, there are just no analogies. He might taste different if you had a sense of smell but you don't want that world, you want this one. You always forget, somehow, even after countless sweeps you can never exactly precisely summon to mind how beautiful he is like this, wrapped up in your limbs, mussed hair damp with tears and sweat, everything cranked up to eleven, totally lost but totally safe.
You reach for the place where your bulges intertwine, and angle around delicately so that you'll still brush up against the fork of his with every thrust, and then you plunge into him, pulling him tight against you, thighs intertwined, his breath hot against your neck as he whimpers with the sensation. Nnngh, it's so good, and you are probably not so hot at the talking right now yourself but helplessly aroused noises come out your mouth anyway.
Mituna cries harder into your shoulder, and rocks up against you and tugs your earlobe so hard that there's no uncertainty what he wants. Your bulge curls and twists against that little spot inside him, and you tilt your hips fast and furious and give him the pounding he's so eager for. He's so sloppy already it won't be long.
"Dttuuhh-- hh - ffffuucccckk," he sobs, and a stream of nonsense syllables, and "Tula, I'm -" and his other hand digs into your hair as his back arches and his nook gushes with fluid and he lets out a loud wail of pleasure.
You're not done yet, but that's okay, you can tell he isn't either. But his claws prick out, little pinpoints of pain along your ear, and you settle into stillness on his lap.
"A little too much, babe?" you ask, and god your voice has gone hoarse from panting. Mituna nods, shakily, and sniffles. He's still choking out little overwhelmed noises. "Okay, we'll take it slow." You focus on keeping your bulge motionless while you ease him down - it's a torment, being inside of him without moving like this. His thighs are a slick mess of genetic material and so are yours.
He gulps air raggedly. You trace little circles in his hair with your fingers, starting around his horns and going down the back of his head, working down to his neck and spine, and he shudders hard against you, suddenly making no noise at all.
"Good, right?"
"Hyeahhh," he says. His breathing is slowing down. Sometimes he hyperventilates and gets dizzy; that was true even before his accident, it just didn't scare him then* because he didn't lose himself spatially.
You know so many things about Mituna's body, some that were always true, some that changed; some it took you a while to understand. Like you never really realized how much energy he just naturally generated until he no longer had a psionic outlet for it. Nothing physical ever seems to quite empty out the reserve, but he's done much better since you taught him to skateboard; that takes the edge off.
So does this.
His bulge is stirring again, the tendrils squeezing around the base of yours, and then disentangling, sliding past yours, probing into your nook. The sensation is wonderful, filling you up, and you nip at the skin of his shoulder, humming with satisfaction, and let your bulge start to move in him again. No hips, just bulges moving softly, this quiet wonderful intimacy.
You're still stroking his spine in little patterns and shapes, now down to the small of his back; it always seems to simultaneously calm him down and send him into the stratosphere. Little shudders start and spread from the base of his spine where you're touching, as if you were drawing ripples in water, and he leans back against the wall, eyes closed, lips hanging open in utter bliss.
You bring the very tips of your claws out, ever so lightly, and that makes Mituna thrash and cry out and you think you drew blood when he jerked around like that but before you even manage to ask if it's okay he's saying "Yeh yeth yeth yeh" over and over again, because he knew you were going to ask. Tiny, undirected electric zaps are coming off him, the faded embers of the abilities he can no longer command.
This happens so rarely but it's an outlet when it does, and you can feel a massive release building in him, in the way he strains underneath you and the faint colorful haze of static on your skin. Like the first time you brought him off soothed him enough to let some pressure off an invisible reservoir of intensity and now it's allll rushing out.
Mituna's bulge grips you from inside like it's trying to pull you closer, it hits that bundle of nerve endings, and that's it for you, you're rocking him into the wall and muffling squeals into his hair as your climax breaks over you. He's filling you so well that the pressure makes you spray, little droplets of teal genetic material spattering on his stomach. You claw his tailbone harder than you meant to and his face knots up and his arms tighten around you, the motion turning into a sudden spasm that knocks the air out of you as he comes undone again, rocking underneath you, groaning deep in his throat, flooding all over the divan.
You both tip over sideways into the sticky greenish hedonistic mess, panting for breath. He has a little spot of blood on his lip where his fangs sunk in when he came, the second time, and you kiss his lip clean.
Not that anything else in this place is remotely clean. The divan is a mess, the feathers on your robe stained and ruined, but you'll find more somewhere. Everyone still calls it pailing but there's not really any point, it's not like you're gonna reboot a race of troll ghosts with any fucking ghost pails or anything. Oh, sometimes you still use one when you're feeling fussy, because reasons. But right now you're kind of enjoying being lazy.
He closes his hand around yours and grins, sprawling back bonelessly as little aftershocks jitter through him and you try to get your breath back.
"Flushed for you, honeybee," you murmur, when you do.
There's silence, and you can tell he's concentrating, that he wants to say the right words back, not just the ones he knows so well.
"Everyone doethn't know how radical you are," he says finally. "Becauss you save your most, motht sickest baddass grinds for me. Flushed for you, Tula." And he sighs happily and rests his head on your shoulder.
Your name is Latula Pyrope and you have the best matesprit ever.