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Concupiscent Dispensation

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The two best words in the entire Imperial lexicon are concupiscent dispensation. You use them with great relish when your squadmates start bitching about the next perigee's duty rotation, and duck just in time to avoid taking grubloaf to the snout for your trouble. You're still grinning when you come up again.

"Vantas, you lucky bastard," Straterrorist Reikar says, shaking her head. "Going to see that pilot of yours?"

You grin. "Only chance I'm going to have for the next sweep, so we better get our duty to the Mother done while we can." The Firebird is docking with the Battleship Coruscation this morning, and you have a date with her Helmsman. You're going to be a smug piece of shit for the rest of the night, so your squad doesn't miss you at all by the time you head out.

It just about works, too. By the time all the docking procedures and safety checks are done, your teammates are practically begging you to go get pailed, you insufferable nooksack, so you'll shut up already. Never let it be said that you don't know how to follow orders for the good of your squad.

You're humming to yourself as you stride up the connection pathway between your ship and his, and you smile brightly when you show your ID to the securipper stationed at the other side. "Threshecutioner Vantas, concupiscent dispensation to visit Helmsman Captor."

"Thank fuck," the securipper says, scanning your ID. "I mean, er."

"Hah! No, I totally know what you mean. He's an insufferable shit when he needs to get laid." Okay, he's an insufferable shit most of the time, but especially when he needs to get laid. How do you like this jackass so much?

The securipper waves you through the checkpoint and you jog up the corridor. You know the layout of Imperial battleships damn well by now, for all that you're stationed on a destroyer yourself. End of the corridor, up two levels in the vertical transport facilitator, around the bend to the blockportal for the helmsman's off-duty quarters. Only helmsmen and highbloods get quartered on the top level.

You knock twice, pause, then knock twice a second time. It's a stupid little gesture but you're pretty sure he appreciates it.

The portal hisses open and he's right there, grinning down at you, this long tall shirtless tattooed coil of crackling brilliance and heat. "Hi, KK," Sollux breathes.

"Hi yourself, you gorgeous terrible mess," you say. You get just far enough into the block for the portal to close behind you, and then your arms are around his waist and his tongue is in your mouth and life is beautiful. Your hands skate up and down his back, almost-but-not-quite touching the spinal ports where he hooks into the helm when he's on duty. They still make you a little queasy sometimes, but in a way that makes you want to never let go of him.

He must not want to let go of you either, because he picks both of you up and floats you over to the concupiscent couch without even breaking the kiss. You purr into his mouth, fencing with the flickering points of his tongue, as he lays you both down.

"You probably, mmn, that's nice, probably don't want me shredding your uniform, huh," he says as you trace the edge of his aural shell with your tongue.

"You could try asking nicely," you suggest. "Karkat, you concupiscent stud, I'm desperate to get your clothes off."

Sollux giggles, and your bloodpusher explodes into tiny delighted fragments. "Strip, you complete tool," he says.

"That works too," you admit, reaching for the top clasp of your jacket. "Since I'm doomed by an uncaring universe to have the least romantic matesprit in history."

"Somebody has to keep your levels of gross embarrassing mush under control," he says, but a focused, tiny crackle of psionics is undoing your shirt buttons one by one as you sit up and shrug out of your jacket. He uses his hands to push your shirt off, long bony fingers baring your skin, following the arches of your clavicles and then dropping down to trace the hard stripes of your grub scars.

You kiss the hammering pulse underneath his jaw. "You're not fooling anyone."

He nips your earlobe. "But you're happiest when you have something to complain about."

"I see. You're being kind to provide for me," you say, and push him down onto his back so you can get at his tattoos.

Sollux has the most ostentatious service tattoos you've ever seen. Almost everybody gets something inked—you have your symbol done with interlocking threshecutioner sickles on your shoulder—but Sollux really went for it. The entire upper half of his thorax is taken up by spread wings made of red and blue organic circuitry. Below that his symbol forms a fake window into his guts, exposing rows of silicomb complete with dripping mind honey and crawling bees. When the ports in his spine freak you out too much, this is the image you come back to. He's proud of what he is, what he does.

You lick your way from red to blue and back again, tugging his pants unbuttoned while you mouth at his bare skin. You follow the elaborate keel of the wings, inked over his sternum, and press slow kisses to the hollow where his ribs drop away. "KK," he says as you hook your fingers in his waistband and drag his pants down. "Please, yes."

He smells of musky salt and electricity, arching his hips, his bulge unsheathing in a steady, slow coil. You get his pants all the way off and he spreads his legs, his nook glistening wet.

"In a hurry, huh?" you ask as you toss his pants off the concupiscent couch and his powers pop your own buttons undone.

He looks down at you, a crooked grin on his face, his mismatched eyes shining. "Come on, aren't you?"

"Maybe," you admit. Your bulge swells, free of its confinement, thickening and twisting between your legs. The first time you always seem to rush; it's always been too long by the time you get to see each other again. You're terrible at dirty talk but you know he loves it. You swallow hard. "I want to fill you."

"I ordered you an engraved invitation but I guess it never got there," he says. He slides his hands down his torso, between his legs, and spreads his nook open with his fingers. "This clear enough for you?"

"Fuck, Sollux." You lean down over him and he doesn't move, just holds himself open for you, giving himself to you, vulnerable as he ever gets. You drop kisses across his collarbone as you settle your hips between his skinny thighs, and your bulge curls through the slick exposed folds of his nook to sink into him.

He's so warm, so soft inside—the only softness anywhere on him, you think sometimes, when he's all bones and angles and spite everywhere else. But his nook melts for you, rippling in response to every twist of your bulge. He wraps his legs around your waist and his arms around your shoulders and you're home, wrapped up in him, breathing him in and feeling his warmth surround you.

"Mmn, KK, so good," Sollux moans, kneading your back like a purrbeast. The air around you feels staticky and charged. "Miss you s-so much when you're, hha, not here."

"You too, you total wreck," you tell him, holding on tight as the tip of your bulge twists and coils against his seedflap. "Wish I c-could be with you, all the time," and you know that wouldn't really be a good idea, know you'd flip on each other if you didn't get any time apart, but it feels like the truth in times like this.

Sollux tosses his head, making little incoherent whimpers and shivering with sparks as you coax his seedflap into unfurling, welcoming the tip of your bulge. The suction wrenches a sob out of you and when the walls of his nook clench down around your length you come in long, crashing pulses, pouring your fluid into him as he moans your name.

You collapse on top of him, or you would, except that there's a fine sparking layer of psionic power bearing your weight. "Jackass," he says comfortably, running his fingers through your hair.

"Knew you'd catch me," you say, fuzzy with contentment.

Sollux snorts. "I can't decide if that's cute or obnoxious," he says.

"Victory," you declare.

He spills you off him to one side, and your bulge slides free of his nook as you sprawl beside him. You throw an arm over his middle and cuddle up close, because he still smells so good and you're only halfway through round one, really. He sighs, and runs his nails down your nape in this maddeningly gentle way that makes you far too aware of your skin. "You need a minute?"

You shrug. "You want a pail before we keep going?"

"Nah." Sollux splays one hand low over his abdomen, where his genetic bladder is now full of your combined slurry. His bulge snakes over his fingers. "I can wait. Do you while I'm still full."

"Kinky," you say, and watch the gorgeous knife edge of his smile flicker across his face. "Come here."

You pull him into a kiss, languid and biting, his bulge squirming against you in anticipation. You have three nights for your concupiscent dispensation, and you're planning to make every minute count.