THE SPACE NAVY AU (18+)

"If I manage to jump anywhere, you'll be the first man I inform," you tell him. He bustles off and you feel oddly abandoned, you wish you'd gotten a goodbye hug. But that's fairly ridiculous, he's your... therapist, your support... professional... sort of fellow. Something like that. You probably shouldn't be making any kind of demands on him. This isn't that kind of ship.

Lainey goes and pushes you out the door, and Arguus pulls on one of your horns as you attempt to gnaw her hands off for it. You're thoroughly distracted from the whole subject of Jethro until you're back at Lainey's and getting bunged into the scalebeast lusus pile, warm and safe and very nearly whole. Lainey makes you some toast, and you fall asleep halfway through your second slice, bundled against Arguus's stomach. You really love your friends.

 

You stay at Lainey's for the night and of course overday, dozing and eating, alternately, and occasionally playing a bit of grab-ass before you doze off again. You were so much more alert in VR, though you suppose you might have just been... entirely asleep...? Still don't know how that works. You call each of your department heads back in turn, accept their congratulations on not being dead or some kind of tumorous helmsbeast, and get caught up on the state of the ship. A few work accidents, one stupid death due to some bit of equipment that hadn't gotten the right replacement parts in time (or ever) and blown up, a handful of serious behavioral infractions, some petty theft, a case of scandalous pitch infidelity that three different departments are entertaining themselves with. Life goes on and so does the Sunslammer.

Finally, you're free enough to address this bit of business from your kismesis, who you've saved for last, for a number of reasons.


CH: * Congratulations on no longer being a floating fruit in the jello mold of medical science.
CH: * I am taking a double shift so lainey can coddle you. You're welcome.
CH: * Also there's a gift for you in your quarters. I promise it doesn't explode. No need to bring in bomb sniffing droids.
CH: * <3<

FG: <3<

You nap, have another snack, heave yourself back into your chair, and go wheel over to your hive. Thank goodness you and Lainey are neighbors. Bel's off shift tonight in something like an hour, you're probably going to need it just to make it down the hallway.

The gift makes you laugh: he's packed you a glitter bomb, the big liar. It goes everywhere, absolutely trashing your mudroom. It looks like a pack of particularly agricultural fairies had drone season in here now.

Inside the layer of glitter bomb, though, is an even more significant monstrosity. It's the remains of a beautiful and expensive prosthetic leg, now thickly calcified under layers and layers of bright plastic dekora kei artefacts, flowers and bows and pearls and kitten heads and hearts. You send several dozen pictures to Lainey— you wouldn't be caught dead a fraction of this much ornamentation, even the traditional gold and gems befitting your status, let alone that of such an ostentatiously aggressive fashion subculture.

You text Bel:

FG: My apologese, Commander
FG: If I knew your taste in pitch partners ran toards the Hardcore
FG: I would have ripped you a new asshole ages ago

 

CH: * You're the only asshole I need, Erskin. <3<
CH: * I want to see you wearing it.

 

FG: You'l regret this

But you're smiling. Still, though, a pang of unease goes through you— you're still so shaky and weak, so tired. You're not sure if you can pull off any kind of convincing swagger, let alone follow through on a threat display.

You want to look good, for your kismesis. You want to show him up, push him around. It's not going to be particularly appealing if you keel over halfway through.

Well, nothing for it but to try. You fit the leg on— carefully— but there's hardly a twinge when you get it all connected. You're not supposed to be doing this for a few days, Sigmah said, so you don't try to walk on it— it'll be decoration, only. Time for a trip to the wardrobifier, you don't carry the kind of clothes that would match this in your sylladex.

There isn't much even in the wardrobifier— skimpier versions of your uniform to wear for the Admirals who don't mind pinching your ass— which you know Bel disapproves of— a whole pile of chunky painful jewelry, some lingerie that's only going to hang on you pathetically now you're like this. Hopefully you can pull off slim, with some makeup and the right attitude, or whip-sharp. Stranger things have happened.

Didn't Bel admit to having had a goth phase? You're fairly sure of it, and certainly the frosted monstrosity hanging off your thigh indicates some sort of bright and sunny proclivities. Your wardrobifier's a clanking, stupid old beast, but it can at least manage to bleach a very old set of your uniform— the size you wore when you were nine, sigh— a blindingly pure white. You swap out the gold jacket buttons for hemochrome enameling, but across the spectrum in a rainbow, and pull the same trick on the waistcoat. At least you're already covered in glitter... The only set of frilly underthings that doesn't look like a lace tablecloth on you is actually some stuff printed for Arguus's skinny butt, which he refused categorically to even touch, and which is a hilariously pale and frothy pink.

You apply makeup with a fairly heavy hand, stick a small spade-shaped beauty mark high on one stark cheekbone, ring your eyes in dawn shades of pink and blue and gold, comb darker metallic eyeshadows through your glitter-choked, overgrown hair until it looks like a fucking nebula. Jewelry: pearls, and lots of them.

The troll in the mirror looks like he's three seconds away from participating in an anime music video, and four seconds away from tragically expiring of an extremely romantic wasting disease. You snap a few pictures, contriving to look languorous and slouchy since you're sure as fuck not getting out of your chair, and send them off to Bel with a grin.

FG: I feel pretty.

 

CH: * lfkjdghdfgl
CH: * I still have a half hour left on my shift, you bastard.
CH: * Well played.

 

FG: Im not playing with anything yet!
FG: But don't laze around or Ill start without you

Grinning proudly, you meander out of the clothes block, grab some ration bars from your fridge, and go off to your parlor, a perfectly normal and well-appointed boring troll room for hanging about with other trolls doing regular troll things, rather than any of your biome blocks, which are difficult to manage with your chair. There are sofas and pillows and coffee tables and tasteful battlescapes on the walls, and only decorative plants in pots, which you're pleased to see someone's been diligently watering. You wheel to the biggest sofa, flop on to it, set your phone's alarm for 20 minutes, and promptly doze off again.

(if bel shows up on time, he'll find erskin very sleepily having another snack. if he's early he could catch erskin napping.)

 

If any of your subordinates notice that you're extra fidgety for the remnant of your shift, or that you keep looking at your phone and going blue about the ears, they have the sense not to mention it. When Lainey arrives to take over, you show her your favorite photo, Erskin all louche and heavy-lidded with his fingers to his mouth, and leave while she's still laughing.

Adulthood, you reflect, is having the self-control to stop by the nearest automat and pick up some snacks on the way, instead of charging directly there. Maturity would probably involve going back to your quarters to shower and change, but Erskin has never inspired you to act more mature.

You let yourself into his quarters stealthily, hoping to catch him in flagrante, but he's just gnawing a ration bar.

"Chuck that sawdust bar, Troubleface, I've got pie."

 

"Well, don't you know how to endear yourself!" You stuff the rest of the ration bar down in three big bites, then say thickly, "Hand it over, Commander Waitstaff," and make grabby claws. Damn, you should have painted your nails.

 

"Who's Commander Waitstaff? It's just us here." You hold the pie out of his reach.

He's covered in glitter. You feel a proud glow of victory, even if he did make you have to squeeze your thighs together while trying to focus on docking schedules.

 

Oh, damn, you'd hoped he wouldn't pull something like this, but you suppose you were fairly well asking for it. You shift your weight around, seeing if you could jump up, or pounce or climb him or something, watching him tense— then grab his hip with one hand and his leg behind the knee with your other hand, and pull hard.

You'd intended for him to be forced to kneel in front of you, so you could eat the pie very smugly and regally, but instead the pie topples off the plate and lands squarely on your crisp white jacket, and you burst out laughing.

 

Sitting on the floor in front of him, still holding the empty plate, you laugh until you can't breathe. "Damn, I missed you," you gasp.

 

"I missed you too," you tell him, feeling fond enough to float. You take the fork off the empty plate— he'd wisely held it with his thumb, so you didn't get impaled with it or anything— and eat some of the pie off your own stomach. "I'm going to have to talk to your manager, though, this is terrible service."

 

You kneel up between his knees to nudge the plate under the tumbled pie. "Does that mean I won't get a tip?" you ask mischeviously.

 

Oh, hello there. You sling the gaudy chunk of bling as constitutes your new leg over one of his broad shoulders, and nudge his ear with the scratchy knee. Then you take another critical bite of pie. It's pumpkin, and delicious, and definitely staining the white fabric a muddy brownish. This is why any sane troll who hasn't had his brains melted out of his ears through sunlight overexposure wears dark colors.

"A tip? Certainly not. You're going to get fired for this." You nudge his ear again, enjoying the little blue marks your leg leaves on his cheek. "You're going to have to pay."

 

"Hmm, what if I give you a free appetizer?" You lean in just a little more and breathe on his fly.

 

You laugh and squirm, grabbing one of his horns for balance. "Oh my stars, help me get my jacket off first or this pie's going right in your hair, you insatiable monster! I don't intend to call things off right at the start just so you can brush your beautiful mane out and cry."

 

"Oh, I'm not in a hurry, you can finish your pie," you smirk, and lick your lips. "I've waited this long already..."

 

"Hm. Polite." But you finish the pie. Your jacket's clean, anyway, and the sugar makes you feel very nearly awake— Kadros's ostentatious posing between your legs gets more compelling the less you want to just go back to sleep. Finally, you finish the last bite, stick the fork in his hair without licking it clean, and go to wrestle your jacket off while he sputters.

 

"Ew, Erskin..." You toss the fork over your shoulder and paw at your hair, but don't let that stop you for long from going after his waistcoat buttons. "Rainbow, nice. Where'd you get this? Did you make it? Clever Trouble..." You tug his shirt untucked and blow a fond raspberry on his too-concave stomach. He's gotten so skinny. You're going to bring him so much pie. "You're not a model, the camera just went off, right? I'm never deleting those photos. I archived them in three places. One's my phone background now."

You can smell his interest when you nuzzle his inner thigh, and it makes your mouth water. It's been too long.

 

It's like being undressed by a lecherous hurricane, and you laugh and hang on to both horns to keep from getting anything dislocated.

"Color-swapped an old uniform for you, you pretentious grimlight fanboy, don't think I'm not conversant in your shameful little fetishes," you say, and gasp a little when he presses a sharp, hot kiss to the crease of your thigh, just under the lace of your silly underpants. "Ahh. I. Could be a model. I've got many, mm, talents. Unlike s-some underachievers I could mention." You bop him again with your scratchy knee.