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You are not sure exactly how the machine was obtained- Well, no, that wasn't quite right. Though you were not the kind who enjoyed making assumptions, mostly because they seemed to him to have a tendency to blow up, hurt others, and even worse, make you look the fool when they turn out wrong, but when there was something mechanical that showed up in the bubbles, something new, chances were rather high that it was brought into being by Horuss. Especially when the machine happened to be as large and mean looking as the one before you, though you hesitate to attribute such a negative connotation to an inanimate object, but.
It was big, dwarfing even the sea dweller who was sitting himself upon it, so just going by it's size, it was quite intimidating. The build was nothing like the two wheeled devices you were used to seeing, even of the motorized kind, which had always seemed terribly unsafe to you, speeding around with barely any protection against roads or other vehicles and let's not even contemplate what could happen should a crash take you off the road, or crush you all over the road, or-
Mean. Yes. On second thought, that seemed a very fitting word for such a deadly contraption.
Although, you suppose, being dead already, most of the danger had been taken out of it.
"'Mazin', right?" You blink, even as you lift your head, colorless eyes turning to look at the violet troll straddling the still object, face completely devoid of it's usual smug slyness, completely open with a kind of wrigglerish joy that even you could hardly help but find enchanting. "God, she's a real beaut! I can barely evwen believwe that Zahhak did so wvell! It's, like, an honest ta goodness Harley! Just like from my mags! No extra horse dicks or nothin'!"
"Language," you chide him, an automatic slip of the tongue that, after all the centuries, you're not quite sure why you still bother, sometimes. He'll pull out his old 'Sorry Chief' and the wide, round eyes that aren't really very effective at all when they're just blank white, trying to convince you that he won't do it again. And maybe he won't, for the rest of the conversation. Maybe he'll keep himself in line around you for the rest of the week. But sometime, and sooner rather then later, he'll do it again. "Musclebeast art, while occasionally controversial, is something that has shaped our culture, and though you and I may not appreciate the art in and of itself as certain others do, we should not depreciate it, or them."
"Sorry Chief." You don't roll your eyes, but only barely, and mostly because you've never been able to master the ability to keep your eyebrows from twitching when you do, which is a dead give away, and there is absolutely nothing worse then being called out on it. "Got a little bit awvay from m'self, there. It's jus' that this is evwery thing I'vwe dreamed of. Hell, more then I could'vwe dreamed of. 'M not that great wvith imaginin' up the technical stuff, y'knowv?"
"It's good that you can see your own limitations, and take them into account, though on the other hand, you walk a dangerous line between a healthy knowledge of yourself, and a detrimental lack of confidence which, as you friend, I must be concerned about. Should you put your mind to it, I'm sure that there would be no end to the amount of technological and mechanical baubles you could will into existence."
The corner of his lip quirked up, that oh so familiar smirk that means he's taking your words as some sort of flirtatious compliment, though in reality that was not at all your intention, but you let it slide. He doesn't tend to take it farther then that with you anymore, and you cannot actually censor what goes on in his mind, as much as you would like to, so it's best to not exhaust yourself on a useless endeavor.
Besides, you're still not actually sure what Cronus is doing there, on his "Harley", just before the memory of your hive, and that is far more pressing on your mind then him thinking you're coming onto him.
As if reading your mind- and isn't that a horrifying though, Ampora having access to your innermost thoughts-, he shifts from where he's sitting, reaching back to pat the small amount of seat left on the vehicle that he wasn't taking up, himself. "Wvanna go fer a spin, Kan?"
"...Pardon?" You're not sure what you were expecting, but that was not it. He wants you to get on that…that thing with him? You don't even see any protective headgear anywhere. For fuck's sake, pardon the language, Cronus himself wasn't even wearing that leather jacket that he'd practically adopted as part of his own anatomy, so there was nothing between him becoming a gruesome smear on the asphalt other then a thin white tee and a pair of jeans that seem a little worn through around the knees.
"Come on a ride wvith me, Kankri. It'll be a blast, I swvear. You ain't nevwer felt nothin' like it."
You open your mouth, a denial on the tip of your tongue, because you do not want to climb onto that ridiculous machine (in the deepest parts of your mind, you feel like, should you get onto the 'motorcycle', it might literally eat you). But his face is open, again. Hopeful. And as impartial as you've always try to be, it's impossible when he looks at you like that, like he actually wants your company, like he actually cares what you think. And once more, one more moment in time which you will never admit to, you find yourself unable to tell him no.
But you don't feel comfortable telling him yes, either.
Instead, you kind of shuffle forward, slowly, hesitantly reaching out, brushing fingertips against the leather of the seat. It was cool, and not exactly soft, but much smoother feeling then you would have thought, and you hope that it is a sign that getting on it, riding it, will not be as bad as you imagine.
And you remind yourself, again, that you are already dead, and should the two of you wipe out, you will not be mangled for very long at all.
The thought does not comfort you nearly as much as you wish that it would.
"There is not a lot of room," you point out. For such a large contraption, and for yourself being as petite as you know that you are, with Cronus already sitting upon it, there is not enough space for you to sit upon it and not be touching the seadweller.
"It's a bit of a tight squeeze," he admits, smirking somewhere halfway between cheeky and apologetic, and shrugs. "But you'd have to press up all nice and close to me, anywvay, Chief. 'Less you wvanna fall off, y'feel me?"
Oh.
"Oh, I don't think that I-"
But he reaches out to you, taking a hold of your arm, and even through your thick sweater, the chill of his body raising goosebumps on your arm.
"C'mon, Kan. Please. Just a quick go 'round the block."
You know better. You know that if anyone else sees you, you won't hear the end of it for at least a decade. The entire concept of that is almost enough to have your eye twitching in annoyance. But you find yourself sighing, awkwardly straddling yourself onto the bike, having to pull up your sweater and take a hold of Cronus' arm to pull yourself up, grunting as you shift around on the small bit of leather and try not to think too much about how your feet don't touch the ground. You feel off balanced, like you'll fall off at any moment, and you are close, far too close to the highblood, knees brushing against his thighs, your chest only a few inches away from his back.
"Y'ain't gonna stay on like that, Chief. Hold up a sec..." He reached down, hooking his hands around the back of your knees, tugging you forward until you're pressed flushed against him, legs spread almost uncomfortably wide to accommodate his own, and without any thought on your part, your hands jerk up, fisting into his shirt around his shoulder blades, the sudden movements making your already precarious positioning feel even less secure, despite the extra hold, the strength in his digits.
You do not remember the last time you were this physically close to another being, and you do not think that you are enjoying it. He's cold against your front, and large, you hadn't noticed just how big he was until you were sitting behind him and notice that the top of your head isn't even close to reaching his shoulders. Between Cronus and the monstrosity of a machine underneath you, you feel tiny and weak and insignificant.
And.
You.
Loathe.
It.
"There wve go. Hold on tight, Swveetheart."
You don't even get a chance to reprimand the cheap endearment that you've heard him toss around billions of times, because he was shifting, pushing the bike upright- you never even actually noticed it was tilted slightly to the side, the way he'd been bracing it with his leg until he no longer was-, and you hear the click of a key turning on the ignition, and then-
And then your world is overtaken by the sound of the motor, the feel of it, loud and overbearing and shaking you to your core.
Literally. Your entire body is shaking with the vibrations, but you can barely feel it, all of your attention taken by the sudden awareness of how, sitting as you are, with your legs spread the way they are, your nook, oh your nook is pressed against that smooth leather seat, and the way it rumbles against it, like the universe's largest purrbeast. Except the purring of some oversized fauna wouldn't have you gasping for air that you no longer need, wouldn't have you flushing red all the way to the tips of your ears, wouldn't have you pressing yourself closer against anyone, let alone your oft times wayward friend, if only so that you can cant your hips for an even better feel of those sinful vibrations.
Cronus hasn't even started going, yet. Just turned on the bike.
You have an awful, sinking feeling that you might be fucked.
You can't hear Cronus laugh so much as you can feel his back shaking against you, and that's the only warning you get before he revs the engine, and takes off, leaning forward for, you suppose, better aerodynamics. Or, you would suppose, if you weren't simultaneously scared out of your mind and turned on beyond all reason, arms slipping down quickly to wrap around the surprisingly slender waist in front of you, hoping that the noise you could feel working it's way out of your throat but unable to hear between the roaring of the motorcycle and the rushing of your own blood through your veins was a sound of distress, and not a moan of pleasure. Even more then that, you hoped that Cronus couldn't hear it, either way.
You remember overhearing once a conversation that Porrim was in, talking about how a small dash of fear, a heaping helping of adrenaline, would often times not kill off arousal, but enhance it, like pouring oil upon a flame. At the time, you hadn't understood, writing it off as another strange sexual deviance your well meaning but so very misinformed friend dallied in, but this time you were the one in the wrong. You were very much petrified, you were very much aroused, and the two combined in a way that had you withering behind Cronus, thighs clenching and twitching, squeezing against him and then pushing a little bit away, each movement you make changing where you receive the strongest vibrations. Squeeze tight and you get direct stimulation against the blossoming lips of your nook, quickly swelling and opening all on it's own, the once comfortable fabric of your pants suddenly irritating, too much against your sensitive folds, and you almost sobbed when you realized that they were clinging to you, they were so damp with your own arousal. Spread your legs and you feel a cool wind against the damp crotch of your pants, and the vibrations echo across the base of your sheath, whispering up your entire bone bulge, overwhelming the squirming length beneath the protective shield, the tip just barely unsheathing, as if it wasn't sure whether or not what it was feeling was pleasure or pain.
Cronus took twists and turn on a road you couldn't bring yourself to open your eyes to see, feeling like he kept going faster and faster. Or maybe that was just you, your mind spinning faster and faster as you try to figure out if you're feeling extreme pleasure, or a pleasure so extreme it's actually painful. You're leaning towards the latter, the slickness between your thighs quickly tipping over from sensitive to over sensitve in the blink of an eyes, even at the same time you feel your inner muscles start to clench, your whole body tensing.
Your grip on Cronus tightens so much you can feel him vocalize a slight complaint, claws pricking through his shirt to graze the tough skin beneath, and you pull your hips up, removing nook and bulge from direct stimulation, but somehow that makes you hyper aware of the echos of the vibrations through the rest of your body, shaking through the air, and Cronus revved the engine once more and that was it. You clung to him, mouth open, eyes practically rolling up into the back of your head, whole body shaking as your nook went through almost violent contractions.
Miracle of miracles, Cronus begins to slow down not long after, saving you the agony of even more of an overload of sensations then you were already feeling, and as soon as he rolled to a stop, you were pulling off with shaking legs, looking dazed, face still red and wet with tears you weren't aware you'd shed. Cronus doesn't get off the bike with you, but he does take a hold of your elbow, helping steady you as you try and remember how to make your legs work again. And how to keep a horrified expression off of your face when you notice a very bright splotch of red on the pale fabric of the highblood's jeans.
Your own pants are dark, so any stains are unnoticeable. That incriminating red on the curve of your friend's behind was anything but.
Close to panicking, you focus all of your attention on willing the damp redness gone, out of existence before anyone else notices, because then it'll be like it never even happened, a secret moment of shame at your own inability to control your body. But it wasn't going away, would probably never go away if the knowing chuckle that escaped Cronus meant anything.
Your gaze shifts immediately towards his face, eyes wide, just in time to see him throw you a wink.
"Told ya it'd be fun." He most certainly did not, but you didn't have a chance to inform him of that before he was blowing you a kiss, a move that had you gritting your teeth in annoyance. "Wve'll have to go on another spin again sometime, an' soon, yeah?"
And then he was off, on his loud, mean, amazing bike, showing your red in a testament that you can no longer boast of chasteness without feeling a stinging shame, and the knowledge that next time he rolls to your hive on his obnoxious Harley, you'll take him up on his offer of a ride around the block again.