THE SPACE NAVY AU (18+)

His poetry being so awful nixes your embarrassment over him looking at yours. You know you're not the Empire's greatest wordsmith or anything, but you're competent. The occasional doodles in the margins of your journals are as bad as his poetry, but you haven't pinned any self-worth on drawing, so that's fine. It's just a pleasing symmetry. You stack the journals on the floor and lie down on the couch, legs hooked over the arm of it and head on Erskin's thigh, to eat a tub of yogurt and leaf through Erskin's drawings.

After a while you poke him in the sternum with your spoon. "Hey. These are really good, can I keep one?"

 

It's been years since an unexpected touch meant death but the voices aren't Lainey's or Arguus's, so you fold up around the poke and snap your teeth around the first warm thing you encounter.

 

You go very still and let him keep hold of your forearm. "Ouch," you say calmly. It's oddly lucky you're wearing your Marines uniform, it's a tough enough fabric that he's only bruising you instead of ripping a chunk of flesh out, but it'll still tear if you try to pull away. "Erskin, wake up, you stale donut, biting does nothing for me when it's not sexytimes."

 

You blink a few times, then slowly release your catch. That's familiar, that's your crew, you're alright.

"Kadros," you say, groggily. "Hallo, you're back." You adjust so as to be more properly curled around him. Nip his ear. There's a lot less space on this couch now that he's sharing it.

 

"I'm back, and all's well. I gave Carmin a hundred hours' extra duty instead of chucking her out an airlock, I kept a stressed-out admin from earning an assault charge, Galley liked his pancake and kissed me and was super cute, and these drawings of my lusus are fantastic. Can I have one? I'd like to hang it up. Right there, between the bookshelves, above the lamp."

 

"Mmm. Fight me," you tell him. You understood about half that, you think, but he's asking for a favor? Possibly? You tug his hair.

You're still tired, and your senses haven't managed to sort the proverbial ass from their elbow. Elbows. Downing the entire first aid flask while patching up your leg was possibly not one of your cleverest notions. But it's safe, here. Even the big thunderbird's a softie.

 

"I'm about as up for a fight as you are. Which is: not at all. We could have an embarrassing wiggler slapfight." You sniff at the air. "Been getting drunk without me?"

 

"Mmhm. Meds-- medicinally." You start to comb his hair with your claws. "Get your own."

A thought occurs. "Fed your lusus. He's alright."

 

"He likes you. I bet he totally hammed it up when he noticed you were drawing him, he's so vain." You set the sketchbook aside and turn your grin to Erskin's shoulder, relaxing against him. His hand in your hair feels so nice. With that, and the dark of closed eyes against his shirt, your headache is fading a little. "Just a little nap, then I'll deal with Whitey."

 

You shiver a little, before you can stop yourself, and a forlorn, humiliating little peep works its way out of your throat. To have a lusus again— well. To have a reprobate mutant of a troll for a lusus. It doesn't bear thinking about. But tired as you are, and after a night spent watching someone else's custodian hop about and feed and preen himself, it's hard not to feel bitterly lonely. It's not like near-tyrian lusii grow on fucking trees.

"Well, you've my full authority to throw him out on his ear, if he kicks," you say, harshly, trying to compensate for your inappropriate feelings. "We can't have him hanging about causing trouble for any of the crew. Murfey intimated he wasn't to be trusted, ran drugs and, and— slaves. Concupiscent ones. If he's flogging any of that business around here I want him fucking castrated before we see him off."

 

"Okay," you say simply. You're not remotely equipped to go diving into the conflicting emotions Erskin's displaying, and that's more Lainey's job anyway. But you can distract him from them, maybe. "Who's the big, grumpy female Admin with the horns that go like --" You gesture by your head.

 

"Oh, Samara-- tall horns? Fightey? She's got, mmm, you know, that. Social... Heirarchical meticulous. Meticulousity. Think that's how Lainey calls it. Needs things organized, so. Everyone's got to stay put in their own little box or she gets tremendously anxious. Doesn't even like her pens out of order."

You hum thoughtfully. " This last week must have been a right terror for her, poor thing, all the brass down and the mids in security calling the shots."

 

"Guess I can understand that," you muse. "The chain of command is important. And I don't blame her for not wanting Carmin just let off the hook -- when officers start letting favorites get away with whatever, things break down. So. Extra duty. Carmin didn't seem to mind, said it'd be nice to get back to work. Also, you have to punish me for kidnapping you from medbay."

 

"It will be nice to go back to work," you say. "I don't know if I'm cleared, yet, even."

You scritch his head. "Hundred hours for you, too, Commander," you say, then give one of horns a good squeeze. "And a spanking."

 

You snicker, tossing your head as if to try to jerk your horn away from him, but not hard enough to actually do it. A token resistance. "An official spanking? You going to wear your dress uniform while you deliver it?"

 

You've never been one to abuse your position, and only really wear your uniform while romping about with other captains, where it's decorative, or funny. Rank-play isn't one of Lainey's interests, and it upsets Arguus. But the thought of indulging in this sort of scenario with Kadros—making him take whatever you'd like to do to him and thank you for it after— stripping him down to the raw meat while you're still armored, gilded with power— it sticks your breath in your throat, it heats your blood.

"Yes," you say roughly. Your fist's tightened around his horn. Yes, you'd like that.

 

Your eyes go dark and your cheeks go blue. You were teasing. You didn't know you wanted it. But god, you really do. "Yes," you echo. Swallow loudly. "But save it until we're recovered. Sir."

 

"Mm," you agree. "All the more reason to rest up." You pull his head to one side, press a hungry kiss against his throat. You've spent all day and night asleep, or nearly, it's not fair that you should have something so pretty leaned up against you and still be struggling to stay awake. You let his horn go with a regretful huff. He's going to call you sir like that at the most importune moment he can find, you just know it.

 

Scrunching his messy hair in your fist, you pull him into a so-there kiss, then rub noses with a grin. "Be a pillow," you command. "I'm commencing recovery immediately."

 

"I'm not your pillow, you're my blanket," you retort, putting your arms around him as he settles. He's heavy, but the couch is squashy and once you shuffle him away from leaning his weight on your bad leg the arrangement manages to be entirely workable. You think it might take him awhile to drop off, but you fall into sleep just as soon as you stop fighting it.