THE SPACE NAVY AU (18+)

- NIGHTS IN THE FUTURE, BUT NOT MANY -

You hate to admit it, since Aspera forced them on you to humble you, but you actually kind of enjoy these kitchen shifts. You wish you could afford to schedule yourself in for them regularly. Maybe you could manage once every two weeks, that wouldn't be too much time away from your paperwork, right?

It's always stressful being in crowded rooms with lots of people talking; you can't pick conversations out of the chaos. But most of the crew seem to take your failure to join in the general banter as some kind of halfway-cute ultra-focus on your work, rather than a snub, and when there's something you need to respond to they'll say your name a few times, come stand next to you, wave a fish in front of you or something. (The food shipment Murfey wrangled contained frozen fish -- recognizable fish from a reputable grower. There were literal cheers the night those landed on the lunch table.) People also warmed up to you noticeably when you started asking around about the captain's favorite dish. A couple people were skeptical of your motives -- the news about your black flirtation's gotten around -- and warned you that poisoning him, even nonfatally, would get you on a lot of people's shitlists. You confessed you were thinking more along the lines of impressing and intimidating him with your skills and competence. You were informed his favorite dish is meat stew.

You were delighted to hear it. You didn't even have to pester Pancho for a recipe; you've had her Herdbeast Meat And Root Vegetables With Grains In Yeast Extract Augmented Broth recipe memorized for sweeps. Getting the ingredients together isn't easy, and you have to buy the meat with your own money because it's absurdly expensive in space. But it's worth it for the showoff value.

And then, when it's finished, and everyone is drooling at the smell, Aspera is nowhere to be found.

"Did someone tip him off?" you demand, glaring around theatrically. "Anyone who tipped him off is getting butter in their ear."

Everyone swears on Her Imperious Condescension's flawless rack that no one tipped him off.

"Well, he's going to eat this, and he's going to love it, even if I have to sit on him, hold his nose, and pour it down his throat," you grumble. You captchalog a tray complete with buttered toast and cocoa, to the accompaniment of whistles and encouraging suggestions for things to do while sitting on the captain, and stride off in search of your victim spadecrush commanding officer.

 

You awaken to a strident banging reverberating down the maintenance shaft you've dozen off in. Obligingly you pull yourself along to the source of the disturbance and pop the hatch.

"Oh, Kadros, hallo! I found out why all the assorted filters in the outer starboard aft section keep piffling out, someone's lusus has been getting into the area's conditioner to spawn. I cleaned the mess out and installed a few latch-grates so it shouldn't happen again. "

He doesn't look pleased to hear it.

"Goodness, that's a sour face. Who's pissed in your grubflakes this time, Commander?" you enquire. It's probably you, but you want to know what to take credit for.

 

"You did, sir," you say, arms crossed sulkily. "Its the night I promised to cook something special from Pancho's recipe and you skipped lunch."

 

"It's past lunch?" you ask— not even to tweak him, honestly confused. "I thought... but I—I didn't—I must have been out for longer than I meant to." You peel yourself stiffly out of the maintenance shaft, embarrassed by your clumsiness, inattention, and patchy coating of jellyish spawning-slime. "What was on the menu? Did everyone like it? You're a good cook, you know."

 

"I'm not really," you confess modestly, "but I'm good at following instructions, and Pancho is a good cook. Today's main menu item was herdbeast meat stew. I gather that's your favorite? Everyone loved it, but it's gone now." Beat. "Fortunately for you, sir, I saved you some." You produce the tray.

 

You laugh and acknowledge the point scored— your face and fins and fallen utterly when he said it was gone. You take the tray from him eagerly, and, not wanting to drop anything, sit down right there in the hallway and balance the tray on your crossed knees.

"Thank you," you remember to say, belated but extremely sincere. "This was—is— wonderful of you. Absolutely grand. It's delicious."

You can't be more than halfway through the bowl when your phone rings. You hesitate, torn between duty and the first meal that hasn't come out of a packet in at least two nights, then answer.

You're needed down in the cargo bay. A load of volatiles fell on someone, labor units would crush either the troll or the volatiles, and the big troll-controlled lifting machinery would crush everything. You let your head rest back against the wall and growl tiredly, then tuck the meal in your sylladex and do your best to gain your feet. You're so tired, it takes an awkward number of attempts. Your little interlude in the maintenance shaft hasn't cleared your head all that much, and it's stiffened you up besides.

"Emergency," you explain to Kadros. "Down in the cargo area. No rest for the wicked, eh? But— it was very good, Kadros, thank you again."

((this would be the point where bel sits on him. tealbloods with levers would probably work just as well, everyone's just too used to calling erskin as a quick fix instead of a last resort.))

 

You spread your hand on his chest and push him back down to sitting. "I'll go. You're no use to anyone if you don't eat. I can handle it," you insist when he looks about to object. "Trust me a little."

 

"I eat," you say uncertainly. But you certainly don't eat hot food someone cooked —and brought over— for you nearly as often as you might. And you're fairly certain it's going to be a humiliating ordeal trying to get up again just to have him push you around, again. At his stern look you pull your tray out again, feeling like a little wiggler.

"Fine," you huff, "But not because you told me to." To complete your descent back into the land of diaperstubs and temper tantrums, you stick your tongue out at him.

 

You grin approvingly -- hesitate, blushing -- turn on your heel and stride off toward the cargo bay before you can weaken and kiss his stupid adorable face off.

The problem in the cargo bay, it turns out, does not actually require the captain's attention. It probably needs your attention this one time, because no one has had the bright idea to unload the volatiles canisters one at a time from above until the load is light enough for midbloods to shift with jacks. Once the poor bastard who got pinned under the load has been taken to Medical, you take the shift leader aside for a quiet scolding on the topic of not calling in the captain at the first sign of a problem.

"He'll always come, because he loves you guys," you say, "and that's the problem, isn't it? There's only one of him. He can't be everywhere, but he'll try to."

 

"He's always done well enough," the shift lead mutters, looking sidelong at the Commander. "Just because you don't think he can manage his horns out of a hole in the ground doesn't mean the rest of us share your, uh, studied opinion. Sir."

((this guy has some Opinions on bel's crush))
((when bel finds erskin again he will be dozed off in whatever warm corner is closest to where he finished lunch))

 

"Oh, he's always done well enough jumping to your beck and call, has he?" You raise an eyebrow. "I know perfectly damn well he could've managed this as well as I just did, and so could you have, if you weren't in the habit of crying to schoolfeeder every time you skin your knee on the playground." When he looks about to argue further, you cut him off with a sharp gesture. "Save the sass for the noncoms' wardroom, Crewman. From now on, make some basic attempt to solve problems yourself before dumping them on the captain, and yes that is an order."

You stride off feeling fairly good about the night's work. Even the shift lead you just bitched out probably won't hold it against you too badly, because you implicitly gave him permission to complain about you, and by making it an official order you've taken responsibility for any downsides that might occur. That satisfied feeling takes on a rosy glow when you return to Erskin and find him curled up on a heating grate like a purrbeast, fast asleep again.

Delicately, so as not to wake him, you take out your toiletries bag and begin decorating him with tissues, antacids, and horn polishing foam.

((if erskin doesn't wake up soon, he will look like a cake. there will be photos on the ship wiki.))

 

You wake up to a sharp, floral reek and the sensation of something unpleasantly chemical sliding across your fins. You grumble, rub your face— and sit up sputtering.

"What?" you demand. "What."

What is Kadros has covered you with something like an entire washblock's worth of foams and fripperies, and you now look like a sodden yeti. You give a burbling roar and tackle him, nuzzling his shirt and face all over with frothy vengefulness.

"Saboteur!" you yell. "Backstabber! You vile, treasonous miscreant, have at you!" Oh, there's the foam thing he was using. You wrench his shirtscruff away from his back and spray foam down the gap.

 

You squawk with laughter, wriggling like a heap of worms because damn that's cold and it tickles. "I got pictures!" you crow. "You looked so cute! Like a little seafoam imp!"

Clamping your thighs around his hips, you twist and pin him, so you can wipe colorful ablution goops all over his grimy uniform. "Do you feel daisy fresh yet, sir?" you grin.

 

"I feel like I'm going to kick your insubordinate rump from one end of this godforsaken heap to the other!" you spit, swatting at his face and horns. Your fins are clamped tightly back but it itches— growling, you get a big chunky glob of soap and do your level best to stuff it all in one of his hideous pointy ears.

"Galley, delete the wretched things!" you snap.

"Error," Kadros's phone says in the pissblood's most obnoxiously self-satisfied tone. "I do not understand the command, Captain. Beep boop. Photo upload to local public interweb complete."

You open your mouth to yell at him and your vile abomination of a Commander takes the opportunity to lodge a bar of soap between your fangs.

Your pupils contract in berserker rage. This is war.

 

You are so delighted you actually say "Hee!" out loud like an idiot, and in quite a high register too. When he knocks you over, you're giggling too hard to resist much, but then you rally and discover that being so slippery gives the advantage to the larger combatant -- which is you, of course. The things you learn!

On the whole, the business is more silly than sexy, but feeling his wiry strength as you wrestle is extremely pleasant nonetheless. "If we could get someone to turn a hose on us," you pant between slithering attempts to pin each other, "we could wash our uniforms this way!"

 

You look him dead in the eyes and then rake your claws down his precious uniform, scattering buttons and shredding fabric. He looks so good roughed up, shirtfront ripped apart and blue lines scratched across his chest. You grin up at him in savage triumph.

 

"You wasteful jackass!" you gasp, happily furious. "See how you like it!" Your claws make short work of his shirt. The way he hisses and tenses at the sting of soap-in-scrapes is a lightning bolt direct to your mating parts. You lean in as if to kiss him, but stop just short of his lips, panting softly. Waiting; teasing.

To your surprise and disappointment, he backs off instead of closing the distance. Before you can lose too much momentum to self-recriminations, though, he grabs your hand and hauls you to your feet. Curious, you don't resist as he drags you through the corridors, to the residential area, to his hive, to his ablution block. Oh, hell yes.

He bends over the sink to rinse his mouth out. You grope his butt. He spits rinsewater in your face and shoves you into the shower. There's a brief altercation under the spray while you get your faces de-soaped, and then you're kissing, and it's even better than you'd hoped for.

 

You kiss him with fierce enjoyment— he's not as experienced as you'd thought he'd be, but more than enthusiastic enough to make up for it. Stripping his trousers down around his thighs you give everything you find a good grope, shoving him around with your other arm to get his front cleared off. In close quarters your superior strength gives you the advantage and he's as easy to push around as a kitten. And he's so warm, up between his legs, the slick mounting pressure of his bulge against your palm through his briefs.

"I want—you stay there—" you gasp, and drop to your knees. You get both hands on his hips, pin him securely against the wall. Mouth his bulge through the sodden fabric. You look up at him, challenging, but still— waiting— is this too much for him? Can you go at it?

 

"Yes sir," you pant, hands on his horns, gaping down at him in amazement. Ever since you got into that shower stall, he's been overwhelming you -- clever mouth, clever hands, pushy, demanding, so strong -- and now there's nothing between your ears but roaring need. You cannot handle his gorgeous eyes looking up at you like that. "God, you tease, yes."

He frees your bulge directly into his mouth, and you give a hiccuping yelp of shocked pleasure that you'll probably be embarrassed about later.

 

You choke a laugh out around his length— it doesn't make the best sound— and swallow him down. He's long, you're going to have to ride him, sometime— there's going to have to be a sometime, another time, this is glorious— work your tongue around the base, purr with wicked pleasure at the wonderful noises you tear out of him. You spare a hand from his hips to stroke his dripping nook, petting at it. You're going to wring him out like this, just your fingers rubbing at the very softest outside bits, leaving him aching and empty and fuck does he ever sound good like this. When he curses at you, you let his bulge slide out of your throat, your mouth, you rest your cheek against one ridiculously sculpted hipbone.

"I didn't catch that," you say hoarsely. Kiss the side of his bulge right at the base, lick his fluids from it. Press firm up against his nook. "What did you say to me?"