THE SPACE NAVY AU (18+)

"Ah, just like that— yes—" you gasp, letting Murfey have at you. With his rough hands on you and his thick bulge inside of you you're entirely content just to ride him, to push your face into his shoulder and lose yourself. You spill, at some point, you come all over his hand but when he makes as if to stop you snarl at him, pull his hair and his horns, not ready to call it quits. It isn't until you're sore and nearly senseless that you think to let him go.

Getting off him sends a sweet ache all through your thighs and shoulders. You'll be feeling this tomorrow, certainly, and for now you feel nearly used enough to come apart at the seams. Your pulse hammers in your head, your horns, your legs won't hold your weight. You flop on your side on the smooth wet rocks, stretch, pet at your retreating bulge.

"Pail," you mumble. You're stupidly full— how many rounds did the two of you go? Well, no matter, nothing particularly matters. You purr and pat vaguely at Murfey, completely pleased with absolutely everything.

 

"What-- where--?" You giggle, patting at the absurdity. It looks more like an obscene surrealist art piece than a functional tool— you half expect it to pop like a bubble when you touch it, but it's sturdy enough. Murfey has to help you get to your knees and situate the thing, you're too wrung out and giggly to manage on your own. You calm, a bit, after you've done your business and don't feel quite so sore and urgent, but with the calm comes a wave of sleepiness. You are wrecked.

"'M wrecked," you tell Murfey. "Tha'— that was good. 'S good. Good job."

 

"Aliens," you say with delighted horror. You've never had the chance to meet any. On further examination it does seem the sort of item aliens would use, if a bit improbable. Aliens in shows always look like trolls with their horns painted a funny color, and with, say, baskets or cans or whatever instead of pails.

"Bet this's from, hm, fr'm a Vulcan," you say. "Bet they're total, what, total freaks. In the. The consupicsent arena."

 

"Good lord, human wigglers, we're gonna— we're gonna get, hmm, puppies. Foals? They're, they're— humans, sort of a biped livestock? Right? Or, or maybe, maybe they bud. Maybe they carry the, the, er, the budlings. In the pails. Carry'm around. Ha."

 

"I think, that's, that that, is enough. For right now," you decide. You roll over, attempt to get up, but it's no good. "Carry me, Sergeant."

 

You wake up. "What? Hm? Oh— oh, there's. Um. My. Sleep over. Sleep over with me. I gotta block."

You doze off again.

 

You limp cheerfully into Medical the next aftermidnight. It's your scheduled maintenance night, and while you're fairly certain Kadros's still remaindered there for supervision while his brain knits back together, you had a splendid day and a pretty damn pleasant evening too, so Kadros can go get fucked if he even thinks about pissing all over your good mood. Let him enjoy the show.

You poke your nose carefully into the block. Perhaps Sal won't be here? Perhaps Kadros won't be— no. There they both are.

"Check-up today?" Sal asks.

"Tonight," you say. "We could reschedule if Kadros is giving you a hard time—"

"No. Sit."

You push yourself the rest of the way into the block, and give Kadros a little wave as Sal ushers you to sit on the second cot.

"How's the horn, Commander?" you ask. "Equipment malfunctions can really lay a troll out, I've found. No shame in keeping your heels up for a bit, eh?"

"Deep breath," Sal says, perfunctorily, then starts to unclip the catches of your prosthetic. Like every quarter-sweep this is— this is an event— you're breathing hard through gritted teeth, fins pinned, sweat prickled across your face and shoulders by the time he's got the last bit worked loose of the mess that builds up. Then he's got to pull it off— he never fucking warns you and it hurts and he knows just where to duck to avoid your involuntary lashing-out of claws.

"Hell," you finally gasp, suddering. "Shit buggering scum-bucket spawn of all dark STARS, fuck!"

You flop on your side and give Kadros a somewhat sweaty, wincing grin. The first bit's always the worst. Sal tosses you a set of scrubbing pads and cleansing wipes as he takes your leg over to the sink counter to work on.

 

"Captain," you return, grinning enough to show one fang. Things you could follow that with run through your mind, but you sit on them; not resentful and distrusting your control, as you have so many times in the past, but like a dragon enjoying its hoard.

When Murfey came in to check on you this evening, you were upset that he'd had sex with Aspera. Jealous, yes, and he laughed at you for that, but also dismayed at the fact that Aspera is the free love type who won't be tied down to long-term quadrants, that even his adorable matespritship with Lainey is open and Arguus is hers, not his. If there's anything worse than falling for your boss, you thought at the time, it's falling for your flighty, promiscuous boss.

But Murfey is used to you. He has no problem telling you to your face that your sulks are boring and stupid. He wanted to talk about plans for his bar, and by damn you were going to talk about it too, no matter how many times he had to flick your forehead or punch your arm. Since his bar plans are pretty great, you found yourself getting interested before long, and the Problem of Erskin retreated into the background. Once Murfey left to check on your lusii, you trolled Pancho, and by a happy coincidence she had fairly reliable internet access at the time.

You were cagey about your problems at first. She knows how you are; she chattered happily about life on base, mutual acquaintances, her patients, about her lusus and her lusus's matesprit -- a weird, adorable little unattached lusus that had started following loggan around back on Alternia -- and their many strange and funny offspring. Pancho had somehow wrangled permission to bring the whole fluffy circus on deployment as 'therapy animals' for her patients, many of whom had lost their lusii, or whose lusii were injured right alongside them and couldn't be cuddled. They turned out to be surprisingly effective. The creatures were tiny tattletales, too, and let her know if anyone was trying to sneak out of Medical, or sneak a quadrant in, or was convulsing or vomiting blood or something. Only after she'd gotten you laughing about their latest antics did she ask about your business.

You told her everything. You bitched and moaned. You emitted defeatist bullshit about how doomed and terrible everything was. She heard you out, and then she reminded you that Murfey, one of your best friends in all the Empire, was now your next door neighbor. She pointed out that your interest in Aspera being requited was not a terrible thing. She brought up that there isn't actually any hurry to clinch the deal, since the Sunslammer's a posting for life, and it's not like you haven't got a list of drone-season booty calls for filling duty pails if it comes to that. Murf doesn't have a kismesis either, if things don't pan out for you with Aspera -- or if you take it glacially slowly to protect your tender peppermint heart -- he'll fill a black pail with you like he did two sweeps ago and you'll both have fun. So what, she queried, is in fact the actual problem here?

After a long pause, you had replied simply,

CH: * My head hurts and I miss you.
SL: miss me enough to get me transferred out there? cuz baby, you're hopeless without me.
CH: * Pancho, this is a punishment posting.
SL: fuck that, you think i care? like i have wet dreams of making sergeant major someday or something, i don't even want staff sergeant, too much paperwork and not enough blood.
SL: leverage your crush. make your captain ask for me by name. accept no imitations.
CH: * Are you sure about this?
SL: yeah, babe. i'm sure.
CH: * I love you. <>
SL: i love you too, you big blue goober. <>
SL: whoops, incoming, gotta go scrub up.

She signed off then, and you sat smiling at the screen until your throbbing headache returned and Sal gruffly ordered you to put your husktop away and take another painkiller. You've been in a great mood ever since.

Now here's Aspera, grinning through his pain. It's really attractive; should you even try to hide your reaction anymore? Is this the best time to bring up transferring your moirail here, or the worst? Start with neutral conversation. Something that won't get him riled up.

"What in the hell is wrong with your prosthetic, sir? Your stump looks like a swamp wyrm puked in a boot."

Nailed it.

 

You scrunch about like a caterpillar to inspect this quarter-sweep's damage.

"Better than usual then," you note. "Pretty gruesome though, what? Behold: the pinnacle of fleet medical technology, when the fleet doesn't particularly like you. One more botched surgery risks the contents of my pelvic bowl, and apparently you need that stuff, so Sal and I just try to keep it stable."

You start picking and scrubbing at the mess. "Oh, right, I say, Commander, if you're the squeamish sort I'd recommend you turn over and possibly hum. I've got to peel all the rogue lines out, and I am assured it is completely disgusting. Also I'm probably going to take my pants off."

 

"I'm more concerned with the pants thing than the gross business, to be frank. My moirail is a combat medic, I've seen a fair bit of yuck. That's pretty special, though." You wrinkle your nose in appreciation of the unique brand of yuck he's got there. "What even happened?"

 

"I lost a fight with a vacuum cleaner, they're very dangerous appliances, didn't you know? Protect your virtue, Commander, the pants are coming off," you warn, and strip— well, more like peel, with a very careful wriggle to get half your shorts over your stump without dragging. Then you throw the offending garment at Kadros anyway.

 

Rolling your eyes, you swat the shorts away onto the floor. He's still got underwear on. That's sort of disappointing. "I'm never going to live that down, am I? The worst thing is, I don't remember it. I'm not calling you or Sal liars, sir, but it really doesn't sound like me. My situational awareness usually verges on hypervigillance, how the hell did it sneak up on me?"

 

"Well you were doing some little hacker thing," you say. "I think? And trying to tease me at the same time, which apparently takes up quite a lot of cognitive capacity, you're not very good at it. The upshot is that Wavebane's upset with us and wants us to know it. I'd hoped the Admiral was only using Hardcase but apparently there was some depth of feeling— or, I suppose, Hardcase might have actually been competent at whatever Wavebane was using the ghastly little turnip for. Though that seems unlikely. Hold on—"

You pinch the end of a bioware tendril and pull steadily— too fast and it'll snap, but you're practiced at this by now. It comes all the way out in one go, sending a giddy, synesthetic tremor up your spine. The taste of lemons, the texture of chalkdust— the feeling of having your horn licked all of a sudden. Brrrlgh.

"—right, what?" you say, a bit nonsensically, and drop the wiggling pink tendril into the bowl Sal's left for you.

 

"Wow, that's disgusting," you say appreciatively, "and yet I have this weird urge to ask if I can join in. Like watching someone peel a sunburn." You make an effort to rally back to the topic at hand. "Wavebane. So it's my fault, isn't it? Several ideas immediately spring to mind for dealing with the situation, but I am 97% certain you'd hate them all."