NCNPNM1

[contains: smut]

Moments of privacy on an Imperial airship are few and far between. Despite the last few decades of technological advancement, there is only so much mass a suspension coil can lift, so the most economical way to staff a warship will always be to pack it like a can of eels. Even with the few moments of rest left by your rotas, there's nowhere to go besides a bustling bunk room. Almost every second of your day is spent in a noisy din, surrounded by the rude jeers and unpleasant scent of other men. That is of course, unless you know the ship well enough.

Deep within the vessel I now call home, on the second deck, if you go past the bunks, galleys, and storage lockers you'll find yourself in the room that houses the computational engine. It's cramped and noisy, full of whirring mechanical cylinders and metal arms clicking with no clear purpose. Nobody ever goes in there, but if you did you might find a service tunnel, one that leads to a hatch which in turn opens to a small unlit compartment that I have never been entirely unable to determine the function of. It's a little too short to stand in, the walls are lined with pipes, and it has a slight draft blowing through it. If I had to guess I would say it could be leftover space from a retrofit, but what do I know about that sort of thing? I'm just a deckhand.

I'm sat in there today, getting away from everything else, with nothing to keep me company besides a powered lantern and a folded cloth to sit on, when I hear the gentlest pattering of feet outside, and a nervous looking face pokes out through the hatch. It's obvious from his stature and pretty orange hair that it's him: the engine rat. As if there was any doubt. It could only be him; he's the one that showed me this in the first place. I doubt anyone else even knows it exists.

"How long do you have?" He asks in a matter-of-fact tone. I can only just hear him over the ticking of the machines in front of us and the engines beneath.

"Fourty minutes. Ish."

"Good." He says, crawling on his hands and knees across the bare metal floor to sit down beside me. From one of the pockets in his mechanic's apron he produces a small vial of clear liquid and sets it down next to my dim red lantern and the towel I brought.

"Were you waiting for me?" He asks.

"More or less, yeah."

He's an odd one, I've always thought that. He doesn't seem to have any friends, and we only started talking because I'm about as unpopular as he is. When I first laid my eyes on him then, I thought he was a girl. His body is small and noticeably underdeveloped for his age, with delicate little arms and fine bony fingers, and his face is round and cute, framed by pretty bleached-orange hair in a distinctly feminine cut. What gave it away was two things, firstly that seeing a girl or woman on an airship is exceedingly rare, and secondly that he is simply too pretty to be a girl. There is a sharpness to his face and a broadness to his chest that are too good to be true, giving him a sort of otherworldly androgyne beauty, like an angel had hopped off of a mural and put on a mechanic's apron.

If anything I'm a little jealous - it's all much nicer than what I've got. My frame is lanky and lean, and my long ash coloured hair is too easily tangled to sit in anything but a messy pony-tail. I look rough and wild in comparison to him, though I suppose I should count my blessings. Being small and weak in a place like this gets you picked on; in absence of a girl boys will usually make one, and he's easily the right combination of weak and unpopular to fit the bill. Really it's not surprising that I am his only friend - if you can call what we've had for the last month or so "friendship".

He's sat there expectantly next to his now-folded apron, looking straight at me. The red light is rather flattering to him, smoothing over any bumps and cuts, and making his hair and lips glow like hot metal.

"What is it?" He asks.

It's all too much to just look at; I move myself over to him, reaching over his small frame to pluck his little round glasses off. Then I tilt my head and lean forwards tenderly until my lips are a breath away from his, but I find myself only touching air.

"What's that supposed to be?" He says bluntly. I open my eyes to find a scowl on his face. From this close I can see the faint streaks of soot and black oil on his skin.

"A kiss?" I respond like it's not obvious.

"Don't get ahead of yourself."

"Sorry princess." I hold before the last word to give it emphasis, and I hear a tired sigh as his eyes roll to the side in frustration. He hates it every time I call him that, but I can't help myself. The crimson glow of the lantern makes it impossible to say for sure, but I swear I see some colour rush to his cheeks.

"So what'll it be this time?"

"What do you think?" He asks sarcastically.

"Okay, fine." I say, starting to unbuckle my belt. "You're so abrasive, you know? It isn't cute at all."

"You think I'm trying to be cute?"

"I mean," I gesture towards his body, the skin on his delicate frame is partially exposed as he undresses. His pout only makes him more adorable.

"I didn't choose to be small."

"I know, but you choose to hold yourself like that. And I know that's not your natural hair colour either."

He brushes a hand through his dark roots, seemingly by impulse. I don't know how he keeps it that shade. Before he'd told me it's easier than you'd think, using a few cheap ingredients from an alchemist whenever we get a moment of shore leave. The boy seems to know a lot about alchemy for a mechanic.

"I just think it suits me, that's all."

"Yeah, but that's what I mean. Nobody else on this ship even thinks about what suits them except for you."

"Look," he says, looking like he's searching for a retort. "Stop fucking around. We haven't got that long."

"Hey, it's the longest we've had in a while. You got yourself ready before, right?" I say in a measured tone, careful not to sound patronising.

"Obviously."

My trousers are around my knees, and he's naked from the waist down now, sitting with his back to me. I uncap the little vial he brought, drip some oil onto my hand and reach between my legs. I can see him staring at it over his shoulder. I can see the heaviness of his breath, rising and falling in time with the movement of his ribs.

"We're going to run out of this stuff eventually." I say. "What will we do then?"

"We'll both kill ourselves I imagine." He says in a worryingly sincere tone that almost makes it sound like it's not a joke. There's an awkward pause and he turns to look at me again, then a self-conscious expression appears on his face and he flops onto his side.

"What?" He asks.

"Nothing, that's just uncharacteristically romantic of you."

"Romantic?"

"Dying together because we can't share in our passion?"

"Ha." He laughs once and then he's quiet again. This happens every time: once I've gotten some of his clothes off all the sarcasm bleeds away and he gets all sensitive, even a bit shy. It's cute but it makes me worry. I can't tell how much is insecurity and how much is just raw anticipation. Whatever this mood is, it makes me change too. Suddenly I lose the will to tease or irritate him. The thread between us feels so delicate in this state.

He looks unusually sad, and I want to ask him if he still wants to do it but I know exactly what he'd reply with, so I don't bother. He seems to interpret any hesitation as disinterest - quickly giving up and shutting himself away if he senses a trace of it. So instead I make the decision for him; grabbing his little hips and tilting them into position in front of me.

"You need warming up this time?"

"No." That sappy tone has entirely fled from his voice.

"You sure?" I say, squeezing on his thigh and lifting his leg off the ground. "I wouldn't want you to get hurt."

"Yes, you idiot, I know what I want, just put it in."

I sigh, and place my hand over his entrance, rubbing slick oil into it and making him squirm a little. Then, slowly, I pull his hips back to meet mine. Deciding that I'm not quite finished playing with him, I press myself flat against him and thrust gently, sliding between his cheeks without ever beginning to enter.

"That's not- mmmh." He grumbles. "Put it in."

"What was that?"

"Put it in."

"Ask nicely."

"Please put it i- aahhh!" Before he can finish saying it I draw back, line up again, and force myself halfway inside. "Ahh." There's a mix of pleasure and pain to his voice. "Ahh. More? Please?" I can tell how much effort it's taking for each word to come out. Steadily I push myself deeper until I'm hilted, and the boy lets out another long, weak moan.

I'm not even moving, yet he's already panting and curling his toes. When I do start to thrust again - slowly and deliberately to start with - I see him screw his face up and reach instinctively between his own legs. His insides feel warm and inviting, already loosening to fit my width. I lean my body over his and keep the pace up.

Suddenly I can feel the boy stop moving his hand, and he lets out a loud whimper. It must be something about the angle. For a moment I think he's already finished, but even for him that would be remarkably quick. I stop my movement, grab his hips, and thrust again deliberately.

"That spot right there?" I ask.

He nods desperately in response, and I rock my hips into him again, trying to keep him in place. It's clearly working because his whines have grown even louder and I can see his arm at work again. Feeling rather selfish, I grab that moving arm and then take the other wrist into my hand too, leaving him helplessly unable to touch himself.

"Hey!" He pleads. With nothing left to brace his body, his head slips to the floor and his face smushes against the hard ground. "That's not fair!"

"But you look so cute like this."

I don't stop thrusting. Holding his arms behind his back like this makes it very easy, and I slam into the boy even harder and faster than before. It doesn't actually feel that great for me, which is sort of the point - taking it slow at the start wound me up a little too much and I don't want to be done with him just yet.

"Please..." He begs between moans. "Please, please, please..." I have no idea what he's asking for, but this adorable sound is exactly what I was trying to get out of him.

He's being loud, so loud I'm almost worried the sound will make its way out. My mind races at the thought; I know we're safe in here, but what would they say if they saw me like this. Or more pressingly, what would they say about him? Rumour spreads quickly on this ship, and the idea of our girly little mechanic giving himself up to his fellow crew would turn a lot of heads. I wonder what they would say about it, about me laying my claim on him time and time again. I wonder if they would talk about him as if he were mine.

"Mmmmmph." Just as I think my hips can't take much more, I hear a long, drawn out whine from beneath me and the boy collapses to the ground, all his muscles totally limp.

"You finished?" I ask. He nods his head, ginger curls tumbling in front of his eyes.

"Not done yet." The boy demands in an almost childish voice. He's never happy with just himself finishing, it always seems secondary to him. On the days when we have less time I like to be selfish; I'll do what I can to get myself over the finish line and very often he won't make it. I had worried once that he felt neglected by this, like he was getting the short end of the stick, but he almost seems to feel guilty about his own pleasure, as if only mine should matter.

I slide myself out for a second and the boy starts pouting and whining again, clearly not ready to stop. Ignoring his protests, I flip him onto his front and slide his thick folded apron underneath his hips to prop him up.

I don't ask if he's ready. After this much he's so stretched out that it just slides right in. He looks so cute like this, with his legs pressed up to his chest and his face all red and panting. There's a layer of sweat covering his body, and a small dribble of thick clear fluid dripping down his thigh - about the most he ever seems to make. I use a hand to hold one of his legs up, and place the other underneath his armpit to steady myself above him. The way his body reacts to my every movement makes me feel warm and sappy. And deeply aroused.

This is for me now - he's had his fun. I thrust into the boy with deep, slow movements, pulling myself almost all the way out with each stroke before hilting again. I move one of my hands onto his waist, sliding it up across his thin belly, up further still under his shirt, which I peel back to reveal the soft little buds on his chest. He doesn't always let me touch them, but they look and feel a lot like a girl's, only smaller and a bit firmer. When I rub them he reacts like a girl though, panting and whining and screwing up his face.

Usually I don't get to see that face when we're together; this position rarely seems to come up, and when it does he tends to keep his head to the side out of embarrassment. But today he's staring right at me, even as I touch his chest. It's kind of unnerving, until I realise he's not looking at me exactly, he's looking at my lips. Only now do I notice how close our faces have become - I can feel his breath on my cheeks. Probingly I lean forward, and as if taking it as a cue he presses his lips into mine.

Like everything else about the boy, they're small but impossibly soft. Not waiting even a second, he kisses me again with wild desperation, and I find myself intoxicated, kissing back with the same fierceness. The hesitation he had shown before is gone as my tongue slips between his lips, licking his teeth and sliding against his own tongue, which feels like warm, soft jelly. I squeeze tighter on his chest and speed my thrusts back up, and he only seems to melt more.

"You're mine." I say in a breathy voice between wet kisses. I don't know why I say the words, they just feel right.

"I'm yours." He echoes back without hesitation. "I'm yours I'm yours I'm yours." His voice is almost panicked.

He kisses me again and again. I can feel the strands of saliva dripping from our mouths when they separate, pooling in a gross warm mess on his little chest. It's too much; I feel a hot swelling between my legs and my pace speeds up wildly. The feeling of his lips against mine tips me over the edge and I pant ragged breaths against the boy's mouth as I fill him up from the other end, before collapsing on top of him in lust-drunk bliss.

I lay there panting, keeping myself buried inside, still twitching slightly as my breath slowly comes back to me. We're both caked in sweat, but I don't care, and neither does he. He whimpers slightly under his breath, nuzzling into my chest affectionately. Gradually I pull myself out, hearing a quiet squeak from the boy underneath me the instant it leaves him. I'm about to sit down when a small hand reaches out and grabs my arm.

"You okay?" I ask, but clearly he's not. He doesn't need to say anything for me to notice the way his body trembles.

I look around in confusion - this is new. Just a moment ago he was blissed out, but the moment passed and he's still clinging to me.

"Hey," I say. Unsure what to do, I reach my hand over to brush the hair out of his face, only to see tears streaming down his cheeks.

Without warning he throws himself onto my chest, wrapping his arms around me with painful tightness. I can feel him trembling and shaking and I get the gut-wrenching feeling that I have done something horribly wrong. He keeps sobbing, louder now that he's embracing me.

"What happened?" I ask. There's genuine concern in my voice - more than I'm used to feeling.

The boy shakes his head.

"What's wrong?"

"I miss him." He barely makes out the words between loud sobs.

"Hey..." I'm not sure what I'm supposed to say. I'm not sure what I can say, he never talks about himself.

"I miss him." He cries loudly again, he's weeping like a kid. All I can think to do is draw an arm over his back and cradle him, but he just keeps on crying.

"I miss him so much." I have no idea where this is coming from, much less who he's talking about. I wrap my other arm around him in a hug, stroking him slowly while I nuzzle my head into him.

I can't tell if it's making things better or worse. He can't seem to talk right now, only cry onto my shoulder. They're ugly tears, his nose running and his mouth wide open and drooling - the humiliation of it only seems to distress him and make him cry harder.

"I'm sorry." I say. "It must be hurting you so much." It's a fair guess, given the circumstances. Not that I could possibly know. I can feel him weakly nod and I pet his hair.

"I miss him."

"I know."

We stay like this for a few minutes as his weeping slowly calms down; he stops trembling, and his grip on me loosens. He's all wet and sticky when we pull away, still half clothed from before. There's a shameful look on his face, his eyes unable to meet mine.

"I'm sorry." He says.

"It's okay, really, I-"

"I didn't mean to- pretend I didn't say anything."

"I wasn't going to probe."

We sit there in awkward silence for a moment. His tears have mostly dried up, and his breathing returns to normal. He keeps making these guilty-looking glances towards me before averting his eyes again.

"You should probably go in a moment." He says, looking at his little pocket watch on the floor.

"I should." I give a little half-hearted smile. "Same time again tomorrow?"

He nods.

We remain in silence as I put on my clothes and he cleans himself up with the cloth he brought, still looking away. I'm about to leave when he interrupts.

"Wait." The boy, still half naked, crawls in front of me and wraps his arms around my neck. His eyelids shut before he leans in and presses his soft lips onto my mouth. It feels just as good as before, I return with a deeper kiss of my own.

"See you tomorrow." He says.