THE SPACE NAVY AU (18+)

It sparks an answering laugh from you, at the thought. "Couldn't— nnh, th'f-fleet couldn't, c-couldn't manage. Handle. Me," you boast, riding out his latest round of desperate bucking, letting it snap up through your spine. You prop up on an elbow, fumble backwards for his hips, his slick thighs, it's so difficult to move like this, one blind gesture at a time. Instinct carries you through, slots you together. It's too much, after that, too good, the greedy clench of his nook and the noises he's making and the hands that come up to grab your horns, all of you pinned, possessed. You dig your claws in just to keep hold as climax takes you.

 

Everything is utterly and perfectly right for an immeasurable but noisy and messy time. The rightness continues after that with sweaty stuck-togetherness and snuggles, your hand on the back of his neck where the damp hair curls a little (careful of his ears!) and his breath washing across your chest like surf, rapid and then slowing. Imperfection finally creeps in with the realization that you are extremely tired, and you're lying on your patio with borrowed pants around your knees, and you're not altogether sure you have the energy to change this situation.

"Do you have to... go... do Captaining?" you venture woozily. "Or can you sleep with me?"

 

"Mmmn. Ffbmf. Wha'?" You jolt to some vague semblance of wakefulness. "M'th' cap'n. Pew pew." You bopf a hand on his face.

Your very important Spaceship Captain duties now accomplished, you drift triumphantly back to sleep.

 

Having spent the last half hour of your break in the bath with your headphones turned up loud, you emerge to find your moirail and your superior officer sprawled out half naked and fast asleep on the 'patio'. You take a few pictures, because you never know when that kind of thing will come in handy, if only for teasing Bel with. Then you drape a blanket over them and tuck a pillow under Bel's head.

You have some long hours left to go before you're confident the infection is eradicated from the ship, but you return to work smiling.

 

You wake up stiff, sore, and sweaty. It takes awhile to realize you're snuggled on top of Kadros, his big arms wrapped around you, but when you do a lot of your physical distress becomes completely worth it.

You muzzily kiss his face. All of his face. Very important. A phone is ringing somewhere, probably what woke you up, but it can just hold its hoofbeasts.

 

You wake up giggling from all this face-kissing. You're ravenous and thirsty, itchy in places, and kind of stuck to the floor, but none of that can damp your good mood. You grope around until you find his butt, and give it a good squeeze.

 

You yip, giggle like a pupa, and blow a messy rasperry against the vulnerable hollow of his throat. In the ensuing flaily distraction, you worm free, scramble indoors, and fall over so precipitously you actually skid.

"Ow," you say, thoroughly confused. "What?"

Your newest nemesis seems to be a rug. You bite it.

 

"Stop that," you scold, as seriously as you can manage while lurching around in a blanket cape, covered in dried genetic material. "Your phone is ringing and we need a shower."

 

"Grrmblfpleh," you retort, but let him scoop you up. You answer the phone while being hauled off to shower, because you are excellent at multitasking.

"Yes, what? Carm-- culling order? Hand the phone over. No, no culling no accidents, no airlocks, no nothing. Hold up until I get there. That's an order. I'll know if you get creative. Yes. Alright, be there in, er-- the hour. Sit tight."

You drop the phone on your sticky clothes.

"A few overly enthusiastic ensigns want to take care of Carmin in the, er, traditional sort of way," you snort, hanging on Bel's arm to navigate your way into the trap. "As if she could help herself any more than the rest of you poor sods. What a bloody headache."

 

"Let me deal with it," you offer. "My memory's still a little patchy but I'm pretty sure there's a regulation covering this. Extenuating circumstances, captain's discretion, something something." Oh, that warm water feels so good. "I'll find it. Quote it at people. Give her a token punishment like repainting the walls Lainey scorched, something that has to be done anyway."

 

"Self defense under a situation of extreme duress," you suggest. "The stickey bit's how few exeptions there are for a dirtblood who ripped a strip off royalty. Damn shame, I know any amount of captains that could use a couple million volts up the backside from their grunts."

You slouch against the wall and have a look at your leg: your fins have gotten steadily better from their frying over the last few nights, but your stupid tin stem's only been acting up more and more ridiculously. The rim around the prosthetic attachment's all swollen up and bruisey tonight... A bad sign. A very bad sign.

"If you can show up and shout at people instead of me, I think I'd actually be obliged just this once," you allow. "It's going to be tough to sell the crew on how I'm perfectly alright from a fucking fourwheel device."

 

"Yeah, no, that's the wrong angle to take -- give that here." You sit down on the rim of the tub to clean gently around his prosthetic so he doesn't have to bend and balance. "Don't try to prove she was right to do it or that it was trivial. Of course it was wrong, and now you have bacon ears. But shit was weird and you forgive her because of reasons. Which is your right as Captain. I'll find the relevant regulation." Your head is still stuffed full of soggy cotton, but at least you have the energy to shove at it a little bit tonight. "Don't just shrug it off, sir. Let her make it up to you. I bet she feels terrible about it, let her work it off." Wringing out the washcloth, you grin wryly up at him. "I should probably work off whatever mayhem I perpetrated while I was off my rocker as well."

 

"Well, I could, er, I might have a few thoughts. About that." You take one of his horns, gently, run your thumb along the ridges. Grin down at him through a rising blush. "Volunteer work, you could say."

 

"Oh," you say, beginning to blush as well. "I just remembered a thing I wanted to do. But not in the shower. Somewhere comfortable like the couch. Wash up quick, Troubleface."

 

"Would you respect the change of command, Commander Kadros," you snap at him. "That's Captain Troubleface to you."

With an air of impeccable regality and poise, you give yourself a soap mohawk.

 

"Sir, yes sir!" you salute, and boop a dollop of shampoo onto the tip of his adorable nose.

You finish washing first, wrap a towel around your waist, and go to start breakfast. You're certainly not going to attempt any sort of sexual volunteerism on an empty stomach.

"Galley?" you say with a glance at the corner you know contains a camera. "Do you have a moment?"

 

"Yes," Erskin's phone says immediately from the bathroom, almost before he's finished speaking.

Erskin toddles out from the shower in briefs and a towel shawl, hands Bel his phone, then picks his way slowly and carefully towards the couch with his cane. He flops onto it and starts snooping through every book and journal within reach.

 

You set the phone where it won't get grease spattered on it and carry on cooking, a soft little smile on your face now. Even just that one word... it's good to hear him, is all. "Is everything okay with you? I don't know how long it's been since we talked, my memory's muzzy still. I hope i wasn't dreadful to you. Oi, Trouble, don't drip on that, it's five hundred sweeps old!" you add to Erskin, sternly waggling a spatula at him.

 

Erskin daintily nibbles on a corner of the book cover. "It only tastes 450 sweeps at most," he says.

"We kept in communication for— a high percentage of elapsed time," Galley said. "You kept hold of your tablet until the night before your recovery and extraction. You abruptly dismantled it around midnight and ate a few of the pieces. I don't know why. You hadn't said anything to me in three and a half hours before then. You didn't vocalize again until pinned by Sergeant Pancho."

 

"Ah. Thank you for keeping me company. That was kind of you. I ate my tablet? Really? That sounds like something Captain Chews-On-Antiques here would do." You punctuate the observation by taking aim with a spatula catapult, and flicking a cold pat of butter extremely accurately onto Erskin's cheek. This is a martial art you have practiced.