THE SPACE NAVY AU (18+)

Still vividly flushed over the compliments, Galley manages a wicked grin. "I can come up with one or two reasons, Commander Pretzel-sobs!" He puts a hand on each of Bel's butt cheeks and squeezes.

 

"That's -- eep! -- a terrible nickname! You stop that." You are not very vehement about him stopping that. "Okay but for full disclosure, I was clumsily trying to find out if I can give you wearable presents."

 

"Commander Snack-cry. That's eight letters," Galley says, pleased. "Uh, I can't promise you anything, and I'm definitely not going to be lounging around in a tux or anything, I'd get helmsgoo all over it. But, uh. You could. If you wanted to. We could see about jewelry, some time."

 

You hadn't been thinking specifically of quadrant comittment jewelry, just some little trinket for Quadrant Day, but suddenly you're thinking about that ring of your Ancestor's you've still got in storage, and your ears are on fire. That sapphire heart would look so sweet on his thin fingers -- you catch yourself studying his ring finger and make yourself look away. Too early, Bel. Don't be That Guy.

"What about other wearables?" you say to cover your awkwardness. "I bet it gets chilly in here, what about fluffy slippers? Or wooly socks, now that Jethro's aboard I could commission you a pair -- here, what size are your feet?" You prop one of yours alongside one of his to compare.

 

Galley's lost again. "The temperature in here is optimized to sustain my body's metabolic processes at peak efficiency. If I got cold feet I'd order repairs for my infrastructure, not socks." He wiggles his bare toes, then presses them to Bel's cooler, wider set.

When Bel looks disappointed, Galley tries to think of non-flight-suit items that might be useful to put on his body for some reason.

"A scarf...?" he guesses hesitantly. "I could... have it...?"

 

"Would you like a scarf, dear one? Something soft for your pretty neck?" You kiss his pretty neck. "I just. Want to give you things. All the things. Suns and moons and horn jobs and cake." It is a very kissable neck.

 

"O-oh." Back to blushing. Galley squirms a little under the attention, but he's still not trying to get away. "I think some of those— ah— things might be easier to provide. Than others. Nnnh."

 

"I suppose you could go get your own suns and moons." Kiss. "But I could pick out extra nice ones for you." Kiss. "How about a binary system in flushcrush red?" Wow, you really like those little sounds he's making, and the squirming is excellent. You'd have thought you were too fucked-out for a second round, and half an hour of snuggling wouldn't be enough to restore your stamina, but he is delicious.

 

Galley interrupts his own ticklish whimpering with an impatient growl, grabs for the sides of the hammock, and rolls Bel under him. The rocking this sets off makes it easy for the helmsman to grind against him, attacking Bel's throat in return.

"One for each of us," he mumbles. "How's that for hemoequality." A wincing shudder goes down his spine from the seditious infraction, but it's quickly ignored in favor of licking every delicate curve of Bel's ear.

 

"I would -- ah -- love to share a binary system with you, sweetness. An eternal dance of gravity and fire... ah..." Your fingers curl in his hair, trace the glossy arcs of his horns, while you roll up against his grinding, easy and instinctive.

 

"Poet," Galley accuses. "Romantic. Give me a hornjob, Commander Fluff-fic, I never had one, we can work up to throwing red giants around afterward."

 

"I've had dreams about your horns," you confess as he ducks his head for you. You begin with the graceful crescent of an outer horn, mapping its smoothness with your lips, while rubbing the base of an inner horn with your thumb.

 

Galley makes a sound like "asjgfskl" and leans into the attention, nearly buzzing with surprise and eagerness.

"Tell me about them," he says roughly. "Except don't stop."

Bel complies, at great length and enthusiasm. Things proceed messily from there.

 

You wake slowly— so slowly you're not, actually, sure if you are awake. You're cold. There's ticking and chirping noises from far away, you think. It might be your heartbeat. Or something you're seeing that isn't coming through right. Or someone's tapping you.... your sense of touch is gone, now, too, everything slimy and slick and uncertain. You're cold...?

Your arms hurt. There's cords. They're cords? Your leg hurts. It's gone. Your head hurts but is still there, maybe. Maybe every part of you is going to be taken away, leaving only a little jellyfish of pain left to be yourself. It's a horrifying thought. But you think it. With everything so indistinctly slimy there's no real way to be sure it's not going to happen.

There are walls. Or objects. Or cords. You come to a limit. Pressing hurts.

You're so cold.

You curl the shivering, scared remainder of yourself against the wall, and wait for whatever comes next.

 

==> Be the olive-blooded physical therapist.

You're a writer now, actually, you've been making a living at it for a while. You were training to be a physio before your work started selling, though, and your matesprit needs someone to take shifts with his patient, so here you are. Looking down at this complete wreck of a seadweller huddling in a gel tank like a rained-on kitten under a porch, and trying not to develop a pale crush. You didn't know what to expect, but... not this. You were told Bel's kismesis and Captain of the Sunslammer and sabotaged with bad neuroware and imagined some big, gruff, unstoppable troll, some political player suffering a temporary setback. Instead, he's like something out of a diamond porno.

Sigs warned you that his senses are already badly scrambled, so you're very careful as you reach into the tank to put the neural headset on him. Ready to shield yourself with your weak psi and jump back if he lashes out in confusion. He only twitches and whimpers. His unseeing eyes dart around as if looking for something solid to settle on, and finding nothing.

You pull up a stool beside the tank and secure your own headset. There's a moment of disorientation as you switch the connection on, and then dark text appears on a pale square, overlaid on the room like a hallucination. You close your eyes to see it better.

NEURAL LINK OPEN
Headset 1 [HS1] operational
Headset 2 [HS2] operational
> |

It takes a few moments to remember how to mind-type, but it comes back to you quickly.

- HS2 has changed their handle to armchairDesperado [AD] -
- AD has changed their text color to 416600 -
AD: morning, captain. i'm your new physical therapist, jethro makwaa.
AD: you look pretty uncomfortable, can i help you get settled?

 

You grab for the page that appears in front of you— you can see it— but your hands pass through. Is it there? Ar your hands?

It makes words. You can see each letter. After ages of incoherent blindness it takes awhile to stop admiring the contrast of colors and shapes and start putting it all together into language.

AD: you look pretty uncomfortable, can i help you get settled?

You try to talk but everything's still slimy. Still nothing. You're still not even sure if your head's on. Can you... write back...? Can you sort of— reach, and—

HS1: ajkacn;;;;;;;;;;;la
HS1: a
HS1: ab c d e
HS1: FG H I
HS1: CO L d

 

AD: i'll turn up the heat in the tank, just a second.
AD: there, it'll start getting warmer now.
AD: also the way you're hunched up parts of you are sticking out of the gel, you might wanna relax a little, boss.

 

HS1: Gel>?
HS1: ? wher a m iI
HS1: Am I here
HS1: Reeal ?/aliev

You nose slowly along the wall. The white square is there wherever you look, even though nothing else is. It's reassuring.

 

AD: dude. yes you're alive.
AD: you're in a sterile gel tank so your leg don't get infected. still on your ship, boss. you're safe and everything's ok.
AD: i'm sitting next to the tank typing @ you on this headset dealie that lets us communicate past the sensory static that bad bioware's giving you.
AD: with me so far?

 

HS1: !SHIP!!!
HS1: HOW IS SHIP?! IS ALIVE??!? SHIP OK? SHIP
HS1: help ship
HS1: !!!!!!!!!!!!