Work Text:
You take a long moment to compose yourself before the polished durasteel gate, naked hand inches away from stumbling rear-first into the identification panel.
Oxygen is painfully stolen from your lungs and then expelled with sharp and loud wheezes, boxed at the end of the empty hallway; the act is noticeable to the point it embarrasses you to hear it. Though you’re glad you have, for the sound serves as a reminder that you must allow yourself time to learn how to breathe—a deceptively difficult task to accomplish, after sprinting up all five levels separating your respiteblock from the command’s quarters.
The S.S. Pandora is a galactic behemoth of a ship, alright? Elevators can only take you so far, and even then, the mechanism only works vertically. You had to cross the distance of roughly half a campus in your mad trek upwards, dashing through hallways and trying to not stumble on the small number of crewmen hanging around altercations. And you had to do it while in the middle of feverishly reading and re-reading your papers for potential typos, since you'd be fine with reprinting this thing, if it came down to the indignity, but handing a late summary that is also riddled with grammatical splurge and vomitous syntax would be more than enough to make you want to kill yourself.
You wouldn’t go through this whole song and dance, usually. Hell no. But it’s also not every day you forget to hand in your goddamn monthly report, and you're ashamed to think of how this incident smears a greasy mark all over your otherwise pristine record.
It’s hours past the crew’s allotted bedtime, there is nobody but graveyard personnel roaming about the ship, and instead of sleeping, you’ve been personally intimated to pay a visit to the principal’s office; as if you’re some kind of stupid fucking wriggler.
The red notification had sat ominously on the screen of your datapad, like a glowing, ticking time-bomb:
|| SUBJECT: URGENT ||
|| VIA: COMMAND ||
|| MESSAGE: GREETINGS, LT. D.S. YOU ARE EXPECTED TO PRESENT YOUR ASSIGNED ROUTINE DEBRIEFING TO COMMAND BEFORE THE CONCLUSION OF THE CURRENT NOCTURNAL CYCLE. IT IS MY OBLIGATION TO REMIND YOU FAILURE TO ACCOMPLISH THIS TASK MAY RESULT IN THE APPLICATION OF LIBERAL PENALTY, UP TO & INCLUDING IMMEDIATE TERMINATION OF SERVICE CONTRACT. MAKE HASTE. - ADM. ||
It was an unusual request, to say the least. This is the kind of data best suited for paperwork, where information can be jotted down quickly and efficiently, so it fits neatly among the rest of the log archives. It didn't require declamation. The commanding officer aboard the vessel could launch the file for approval in the comfort of his bedpost, if he so wished. It would be just as tasking as reading any regular old email. Point being: you don’t usually need to come here, face-to-face, for the sole purpose of reading your report aloud like it's a shitty qualification essay.
Which leaves you contemplating the ONLY other plausible explanation: you are about to get chewed out within an inch of your life.
You swallow down your pride in a rigorous gulp, fixing your expectations, since you ain't ever gonna let yourself be called a squeaky bitch. It’s out of your hands now, anyway. Whatever happens, happens; fuck it, every second wasted in hesitation only counts against your form. You push your right palm down the ID scanner and watch as it glows briefly black and green, clearing you for entry in less than a minute.
The gate parts in half with a clunky mechanical noise you're well accustomed to hearing. A gust of climatized air is pushed out into the hallway like a fine mist, paving the way to a broad, luxurious front room, and the sounds of people talking through the fuzzy audio filter of early 2000's era television.
"Lieutenant Strider!" The captain entones amicably from behind his busy white desk, shutting off the view of his airscreens with a deft one-handed click.
You don't get a chance to peek at what he's watching, but his preferences are no secret. Earth video, this far away from home? It's a rarity. Everyone and their mother has made the jump to Holofilm, the all-interactive grandson to a wrecked Hollywood, but the man isn't shy about enjoying his odd vintage. He certainly seems to be enjoying a choice Vintage, too.
A tall glass of extravagantly dark wine stands by his desk, colored in a shade of red that gleams as deep as fresh blood. It's half full.
"Chief Admiral English, sir." You give a courteous bow, nodding your head at him in customary greeting. This part always feels stiff. "I hope you can forgive my lateness; I've taken all possible measures to get the service report done stat."
Only then do you breathe. Your vision adjusts to absorb the environment as you pull your head back up and finally face him. The room suddenly clears. The truth is: no matter how many times you've stepped past the threshold of these doors in your day-to-day life, you can never find yourself quite getting used to the sheer majesty of the view.
His head is framed by a halo of stars. The galaxy swirls in a slit of glittering black behind his shoulders, a solid square of obsidian, and its color bleeds into the salted charcoal of his hair, the groomed dark of his mustache. Muted light dances off the grooves carved into his discerning chest badge. Deep shadows stretch tall and pointed beyond the rim of his work table, occasionally taking on the shape of a many-limbed monolith, as though they serve as a supernatural extension of the man himself. Save for the adorning arrangements, the Admiral's office is sparsely decorated— but it is built out in a solid foundation of sleek shapes, polished surfaces, and mega-wide motherfucking windows. He sits on a high-backed chair at the centre of the immaculate ensemble with a relaxed, eerily casual posture, politely bringing a napkin to his lips. The Admiral faces you, though his gaze does not.
You forcibly quell the urge to peer further into his rooms. An unassuming gray sofa is placed just before the arch that leads into his designated social area, one of the many luxuries your rank cannot yet afford. Further still lies his private bedroom, obscured from your sight.
You know this. Pay attention, now.
"There's my good man." Admiral English hums in his thrumming voice, emerald eyes finally settling onto you. His jaw shifts slightly but his mouth remains closed; as if he's licking something from between his sharp teeth. A singular porcelain plate stands before him, holding a tempting cut of steaming fat steak, not neglecting its proper accompaniments. It glistens, solid on top, bloodied at the edges. The scent is a delight to your senses. "Seems like I ought to ask for your forgiveness myself, judging by the way you have caught me mid-chowing my dinner." he says, not without humor. "Such poor form."
"It's no problem at all, sir.” You promptly shake your head, buttering him up a little. “There's no need to stop on my account, I would hate to impose on your downtime."
English smiles momentarily at you. It's tight, but enough to make the tips of his eyes wrinkle. You feel warm.
"Right, then, you may get on to it."
You pull the rolled stack of papers from inside your standard uniform jacket, smoothing the crinkles out. The Admiral's attention has already shifted away from you. Instead, he dedicates his time to cutting another supple bite off the grilled chunk of meat, and you can't help but watch him. His movements are gentle but precise. His skin is dark and glowing, as if he somehow carries a small piece of the island he grew up in wherever he goes. (Perhaps a reflective shell hides in his breast pocket, appropriately mythical. You've thought of this more than once.) The lapels on his vest are hanging loose, his shirt somewhat askew. His hair isn't wet, though it vaguely shimmers. He wears his uniform in the slightly undone way of someone that has just showered after their shift, and is all ready to pack it straight to bed if not for— well, you. Oops.
This is nothing new. You must confess you've watched him for a considerable while now; your eyes have followed him around ever since you first got assigned to a post in the Pandora, more or less a sweep ago. And really, how could they not? His presence can commandeer a room full to bursting with skittish, hormonal trainees. The sort of hard-earned awe and appreciation you can only extract from a classroom after subduing a smug cadet within the bounds of your own personal arena, with deliberate and merciless quickness, snuffing any doubts of your prowess. (An act which preferably involves the flat sole of your foot perched upon the crown of their head, digging their nose flush into the mat. The taste of defeat has proved to be humbling.)
English had even been the one to promote you from Instructor to Lieutenant a great many moons ago, based on your shining efforts to properly educate the heaps of green novice cadets you usually travel with; though if you're being perfectly honest, you were mostly making an effort to impress him.
Something you still can't believe you've managed to pull off, even now. You'd heard of him before you ever met— Commanding Admiral with as little as twenty years of field activity. An unusual strife deck for a human. Whispers of unclassified, cryptic majyyks. An oddball, with a mind far more focused on unraveling every single mystery it happened to come across than it was to adhering to fleet protocol— and he got away with it, somehow. He made a show of getting away with it, every rescue and scrap and tussle.
Shit, you've been staring now. Great going, jackass. Wanna just throw a few more minutes away into the empty well of reminiscence, while we're at it? Dump out all your tragic childhood backstory?
You clear your throat and take a readying breath. Time to get this right. "Monthly routine debrief for the Class-A Research and Training Vessel Pandora, year—"
"Stop."
You clam up. An interrogation rises in your throat, despite your best instincts.
The Admiral looks at you like you've missed a cue for something unspeakably obvious.
"What are you balking at me for? Don't just stand there all stiff, you look like you're going to lay an egg." he gestures at you with the prongs of his fork, visibly displeased. He sounds like he's talking about a server getting his accoutrements wrong. "Should have done off with your uniform five minutes ago, Lieutenant. I'm getting damn well tired of waiting."
You swallow, blinking. "Sir?"
"You're three whole hours off my final deadline." English states, his voice maintaining the even, reproachful tone. He's nothing if not educational.
You fail to swallow a protest. "I only got your notice one hour ago, sir."
"Did you? Amusing, that." his brow furrows. "I'm certain you wouldn't have needed a notice at all if you actually paid attention to your set schedule, instead of whatever it is you've been doing— if you've been doing anything besides slacking all month long, that is." the Admiral impatiently taps a nail against the glass surface of his watch. His eyes don't wrinkle this time. "Strip. Now."
"Yes sir, of course— right away."
The bundle of papers feels startlingly alien in your hands. You nod aimlessly, keeping your teeth shut. A disorienting heat crawls up your ears as you zip off your black-and-fuchsia jacket and slip out of your shoes. You try not to make a show of wiggling out of your pants, folding the collection of your garments on top of the empty sofa. You only begin to hesitate when you reach the rim of your turtleneck, suddenly flustered by the thought.
"Do you mean—"
"Why I do think I meant all of it, yes." You don't look at him when he answers. You can hear the porcelain creak under the pressure of the Admiral's knife.
A chill runs up your bare legs. The air current that flows about the room is making itself much more pronounced now that you're sorely lacking in extra layers. You wind up shimmying out of your underpants with a regretful lack of grace, praying the middle of your thighs isn't already holding a visible slick surprise. (-safe, for now.) Your shades are carefully wedged in a plush corner. The shirt soon follows suit, though you're careful to prevent its fabric from getting caught in the sleek trappings of the metal collar fastened proprietarily around your neck— where it usually tends to remain hidden, among the many discreet folds of your uniform.
That's the only piece you don't move to take off when you're done.
He was the one who gave it to you, after all.
You pick up the papers again, and roll your broad shoulders until you hear a pop; feeling the weight of it shift freely against your naked skin, padded corners pressed securely to flesh. Its slim but ostentatious technology. Figures the fucker would want to see it, now. Well, you hope he gets a good look. Your breath comes out unsteady under the light blow of the AC as you briskly rise and walk back towards your starting place, reassuming a speaking position.
It feels weird to walk, under the assumption you're bared for display. It makes you forget what 'natural' is supposed to look like. You feel as though your every move is being silently dissected and evaluated— from every perspective, every angle— and attached to a score beyond your jurisdiction. The ground is icy under your feet, and the hairs on your legs have risen like you're entering a state of perpetual goosebumps.
It's not like the thing is set to be unnervingly cold, but— it sure fucking feels that way for you, alright?
You lick your lips before speaking, something overly vulnerable stuttering inside your chest. You have to push your voice through to make it heard.
"Monthly routine debrief for the Class-A Research and Training Vessel Pandora," you begin again, and are relieved when this time he doesn't interrupt you. "Year 4059, 5th consecutive year of operation, reported by Acting Lieutenant Dirk Strider, under the direction of Command."
English hums a little. It sounds pleased, honeyed to your ears. Your eyes flit between him and the printed letters, and your pulse skitters when you catch him watching your form, gaze trained dead on you.
The Admiral makes a calm motion for you to continue, but amends it with "Let's try to employ a little less hunching. Quit trying to hide yourself, it's not going to work." His lips almost curl into the shape of a smile.
"Yes, sir." Your cheeks clash against the room temperature, prickling with heat. You try to square off your shoulders, to stave off the instinct to flinch when the cold settles in the middle of your spine. Jesus fuck are your goddamn nipples hard. You curl your vacant arm behind your back as the other one holds up the paper, and keep reading, trying to maintain your cool. You can't brush away the feeling of his eyes drinking you in.
“Vessel has left station six months ago under the supervision of Command, headed for the Prospit academic outpost, where it will be briefly stationed for exchange before a planned takeoff. Expected arrival date is in twelve days, no delay." — English takes a long, satisfied sip of his wine, nursing the bottom of the glass with his hand. His knuckles are accentuated by precise strokes of dark hair. When he shifts, his loose shirt moves to reveal inklings of fur covering his chest. You know from experience that it feels soft and full under your fingers. Good to touch. Greater to kiss. And by noticing it, you're become keenly aware of the places where your own hair starts and finishes. Where it stands upright, where you've cropped it short out of vanity; the titillating line that trails down snakelike from your belly button.
It's hard to not squeeze your legs together.
"The Pandora’s mission statement is to integrate newly certified and/or inexperienced cadets into a microcosm of the regular work executed by the rest of the fleet, by providing them with the chance to acquire real field experience in controlled mission environments. That much remains true to this day.” The Admiral nods. That last part was his personal addition to the statement, a little bit of flair infused into every log provided for record under his care.
You hold a memory of him joking once, as the blunt tip of his training staff made a sweep for your unguarded calves right in the middle of a friendly match; that 'If a mission truly went belly-up, someday,' he'd personally make sure to cut out the part about controlled environments himself. You frankly don't recall if he's ever had a reason to do it before. He pinned your head on the crook of his arm after the words left his lips, having tackled you down to the tatami, and you happened to hold a particular set of top priorities in mind. Things that involved legwork and thigh-locks, not to mention a good deal of pantless straining against each other. (You had to thoroughly clean the mat, after.)
The chill permeates your body scars-first. All your stupid little nicks and zagged combat wounds, a fresh shaving accident, the neat procedural lines surrounding your flat pectorals. You manage to recite a precise count of Pandora's food stock, fuel levels, hull stability and any logged complaints on the health of the vessel currently scheduled for repair before you're forced to push the first uneven exhale out of your mouth. Your body is foolishly trying to manage its own temperature.
English finishes his meal. He takes his sweet time rending it asunder, so much so that by the end of the plate you're almost convinced it's you he's eating, with fixed eyes, bite after bite.
"And the errand report?" He prompts, wanting to know how exactly your crew's latest escapade is going to be immortalized on paper, for legal reasons. Heat flickers in your core.
You breathe in, doing your best impression of a man with composure. It's surprisingly harder than expected. The middle of your legs feels alert and swelling in spite of the unfriendly weather.
"Currently, Pandora's main errand consists of transporting unidentified alien artifacts for the benefit of the Culture, Biology and Technology Departments," you bring up in citation, eliciting a rumbling laugh from him. It rings with the approval of some good bullshitting. Your cheeks blaze further.
God knows what you must look like; shifty and flustered in a room a thousand times more clothed than you are, a flash of golden-rimmed brown skin standing out against the dull backdrop of inlaid steel. On occasion, Jake has affectionately referred to your eyes as a couple of twin suns; right now you can only picture them as a couple of shitty carrot stubs set alight.
"The artifacts were retrieved from a Class-D roaming dwarf planet that came in contact with the vessel's path. Most notorious among them is a sizable gate carved out from what appears to be solid jade rock— it looks green, in any case — into the ouroboric shape of two giant, interlocking serpents. It is assumed to have held primarily ritualistic importance in its prime, though its technological prowess is not to be denied. Further tests can be performed by equipped personnel at the station. The crew presumes no legal objections about its acquisition will be raised to the Board, as the dwarf planet seems to have been vacated a long, long time ago. Attempts to locate present inhabitants were unsuccessful. Strangely, attempts to locate any burial sites belonging to past inhabitants were also unsuccessful. We have essentially discovered an interconnected system of empty tombs that may have not been tombs at all."
You lick your lips, and proceed to walk the Admiral through your summary of events.
The place was in ruins.
Sand and cracked rock, as far as the eye could see. A vaguely hospitable weather for an inhospitable place. Some of your cadets (and the most flighty of your coworkers) brought up the possibility of a 'recent extinction event'— in that awestruck dooming tone known only to cable televangelists and movie trailer narrators. You had rolled your eyes, knowing full well what dust and rot looked like. It didn't frighten you.
A few of the damaged jade constructions depicted bipedal figures, their bodies dotted with long wings and noticeably skull-shaped heads; others dedicated themselves exclusively to the portrayal of celestial snake-gods. Red and green. Their labyrinthine bodies swirled in loops and knotted unto themselves, taking up the length of whole intricate murals, at times segmented into further walls and deeper crypts. They possessed no horns, which was of great interest to the troll members of your team. Your crew spent the best of three weeks there, taking pictures, studying artifacts and searching for signs of nearby life to no avail. But they were good weeks, made up of calm and overlong days spent in the company of shade and lamplight, under the cloak of a perpetually nebulous sky.
Then the weirdness started. Earthquakes, disappearances, sandstorms. Someone set off a deadly spike trap. Someone else found their tent eaten by a large hole growing on the ground. Trails erased in the dust. Headaches and voices.
"Ten injured, non-fatally." you sigh, a little displeased with the taste of the subject. The chill keeps you grounded on the moment. "No losses reported at this time. Cause: ambush by giant sentient worms. We bring forth the possibility that the creatures laid dormant under the crust of the system— for months or perhaps years —but were alerted by prolonged signs of life on the surface of the planet. Our landing was not quiet, nor were a great deal of our early explorations. We possess records of ancient locals hunting them on occasion, files attached, and have dealt with the situation accordingly prior to takeoff. Three Discharges for medical reasons have been petitioned. Five Desistances among the affected, and one undefined. Pandora has been back en-course for Prospit for the duration of the past week, concluding our monthly happenings."
You flip to see the blank back of the last page, sighing in relief. You do so hate writing in corporate standard-speak.
"Very good." says the Admiral in soulful praise, looking a little lost in thought. While you spoke, he sprawled upon the length of his chair; his big arms draped around the armrests, head pressed back in consideration. Maybe his eyes are closed. You can see his adam's apple bob when he swallows, trace the outline of his maintained stubble with your eyes. His legs are crossly spread apart, accentuating the wrinkles around the middle of his pants in a way that… you decide you'd best avoid dwelling on too much, and snap your head back up. "I especially enjoyed that thing you did in the middle, there, upping the ante. I mean, I most certainly knew where it was going, having been present for the colossal ruckus, but it still felt new. Wondrous sense of suspense and whatnot," He muses. His knuckles dip for a quick sip of the refilled glass, tendons flexing, and you hungrily watch as he wipes his mouth using the back of his hand. His movements carry the heavily kinetic elasticity of an animal god. "Full marks! Riveting stuff today, Strider."
"Thank you, sir." you briefly bow your head. The gratitude is all honest. You could do a fuckin' curtsy.
"Now, about those discharges you mentioned,"
"They have all been adequately filled and logged at the moment of request, sir. For ease of processing."
English lifts his eyebrows in rhetorical delight. "So proactive for some things, aren't we? Say, now, what was the name of the… what did you call it?" He smacks his lips, pulling at the memory. "Undefined discharge? Who are we sending off for that? I don't remember signing the bloody thing at all."
He didn't.
But you sure did.
Shit. Your breath catches in your throat, and you try to play it off, as smoothly as you humanly can.
"Zebruh Codakk." Unblinking. Unflinching. You are being, like, perfectly inscrutable right now. "Half-sweep transfer. Registered through the blueblood academic scholarship plan; famously evaded most of his assigned tasks. You should remember him." you wince inwardly in self-reprimand, and then, "-sir."
"I see. And did he ever come to explain his rationale? We don't have a need for that in the file — not formally, at least— but surely you understand how I have to keep a tight lid on such matters."
"He claimed indisposition, sir."
"That's quite odd. I remember him being rather sprightly and mercurial, myself." The admiral taps the tips of his fingers against the surface of his desk. They move in a ticking wave, from right to left, then back again. "Perhaps a little too much for our liking."
"I suppose so, sir. Still, order's been signed and dispatched. But if you allow me a word…"
"Sure thing. A word."
"-Prospit has a reputation for its accommodations and growing entertainment industry. It's not hard to imagine how a young guy like him could be angling to score a lucky vacation. An official discharge would make him exempt from permit mandates for at least a year. Clean and easy." You grasp onto the opportunity to make a case and unveil your tale. “Almost like he planned it.” It's a small, tight lie. Tight like you wouldn't believe. You like it so much you could kiss it. You like it so much you almost want to pretend you believe in it.
"Mmhm. Interesting bit of theory." his knuckles shift from left to right, tap-tap-tap-tap. "Is there a particular reason why crew complaints towards Mr. Codakk have been omitted from the overarching record, Lieutenant?"
"Crew complaints?" You mirror, blank.
"It is unwise to answer my question with another question, Dirk."
You bite your tongue. Shit.
Of course you remember the crew complaints. The whole grueling slew of them, sloped atop your metaphorical desk like a heap of manure. Separate, anxious, disordered complaints. Murmurs and worried gossip. They all summed up to indicate the same sleazy, indigo-smearing douchebag, pulling at his rank whenever he deemed it fit and crying foul when it didn't.
Mr. Codakk was… there's no better way of putting it: a trust fund wiggler. A greasy, slimy, worthless sack of tax-evading shit. You remember all the infractions you could have possibly charged him with, along with their severity and number. The memory is still fresh, in perfect clarity, at the forefront of your mind.
- 1. Incitations of casteism at a neutral zone.
- 2. Food tampering.
- 3. Leering at fellow crewmen.
- 4. Skipping assigned duties.
- 5. Attempts of psychological manipulation.
- 6. Emotional coercion.
- 7. Inappropriate advances toward bunkmates.
- 8. Use of unnecessary force.
- 9. Abuse of rank.
- 10. Repeated infractions.
- 11. Being an all-around pestilent little prick.
You thought you could workshop this into an airtight case, once. A premature idea you were ultimately forced to pull back from, bearing the ample understanding that his team of hired legislacerators would come a-knockin' for any members of the crew associated with the accusations, ready to deliver a fat slander & libel intimation as a swift rebuke to all parties involved. Soon enough, legal hell would undoubtedly ensue, sweeping all manner of bystanders into the tragedy. The Pandora would have to reroute for courtroom duty —the crew would be implicated in investigation and the remaining cadets transferred away for the duration of the trial, successfully interrupting all of your lives, and accruing far more universal stress than your run-of-the-mill asshole was worth.
The question of what to do about Codakk plagued you for a couple of miserable evenings. On one hand, he was an obvious liability, infecting the enclosure with his poisonous toxins. On the other hand, he gleefully displayed the golden cross of a bourgeoisie saint; milking the drama of posing as a colorswapped second sufferer for all the pathos and bitches it could possibly fucking yield him. (Zero. He managed to sway precisely zero bitches. Negative bitches were involved, if such classification exists.)
The ‘official’ termination route was always going to be too easy, too tender on his skin. It would be akin to wrapping yourself up nice an' cozy, falling like a birthday gift into his lap. Feeding into a manicured narrative of oppression.
You needed something a little more hands-on.
So you stalked him across the Pandora, keeping a trained eye on the cut of his neck; as silently as a leopard tracks a slovenly stag. You followed Codakk's schedule and made note of his duties, looking for an opening, painstakingly watching from the corners as he hemmed and hawed around your ship — without any pretense of hiding yourself. And it took a little while, but you eventually found one.
Night came.
With the aid of a few willing hands, you had him pulled out of his sopor slime and dragged to the lower decks, down to the boiler room lodged among the innards of the engine, where the noise of rattling machinery verges on utterly deafening. His head had been bagged and his flailing limbs strung.
Once there, you instructed the girls to wrap their fists in rags; and they were free to box his guts with dirty jackets and solid bars of soap until he could hardly do anything but weep.
Crew morale improved significantly after the event. It was miraculous. You wrote it down as a spontaneous productivity boost in your report, though its exact origin was chronicled as the feat of a 'successful team bonding exercise'. No legal breadcrumbs would (or could) be lodged against any of yours; not by your hands. The brunt of your crew was busy on site, surveying a blind worm rodeo.
All that remained were simple and crude facts— your word against his. Lieutenant vs Junior Officer. The implicit threat that had he not opted to leave your ship on his own terms, you would not hesitate to strike again. It was a play by navy rules, a small lesson in mutiny: if he ever has the misfortune of bringing up that specific odd complaint to the ear of any weathered old official, they'll know exactly what he's done, and will despise him all the more for it.
And thankfully, by that point, he will be far from being your problem.
"They seemed relatively unrelated, sir." You try to remain impassive, but you're pretty sure you're seconds away from having your knees rattling in the cold. The frost is doing a number in your unbreakable morale.
"Unrelated. Undefined. Very handwavy terminology, mind. That's the kind of story we're going with?"
"Yes. Sorry, I was— kind of in a pinch."
"Very well." English gives you a tiny little smile, betraying the extent of his awareness. "You know I tend to trust your judgement regarding these things. I really do." You breathe a premature sigh of relief, limbs going numb and popsicle rigid. You have an icycle core. "—But it’s hard to keep that confidence intact when you don’t talk to me, and insist on flying by the seat of your pants. Presuming the Lieutenant is already familiar with the rumors of favoritism attributed to his person — they’re kind of hard to miss, really— it should come as no surprise when I say it's all much more difficult to dispel without proper cooperation."
"Tough crowd, sir." you nod, shallow and self-centered.
"Right. If that's how you want to be." English huffs in response. Frustration drips from his tone. "What exactly do you suppose I should be doing with you now, Dirk?”
It's funny, you think. Do your job well enough in relative obscurity and they make you into a workplace martyr. But do your job well enough, shamelessly, passionately—and they'll all think you're fucking your ship captain red and raw.
Well, you are, but that’s besides the point. An incidental fact. It's not like there's any laws against it. How else could Command feasibly expect people to dedicate entire lifetimes to the force? Some of you have to fuck. Continuously. Just don't get all weird about it.
Your jaw clenches shut. There's no way the room hasn't gotten exponentially colder. The chill clings to your thighs, digging into your bones. You understand, quite clearly, how he's the one who's going to get prodded for this, if it comes to blows. As the leading official in charge of this operation, your actions are as good as his own. That's the kind of thing you plead an oath for, dammit, you wouldn't want to have been left in the dark either. The thought makes you feel a little bit selfish for your actions, perhaps even ashamed, considering how impulsive you were.
But wielding that power felt so fucking good, in the glorious spark of the moment. Like punitive justice raining from above. You're no stranger to the pull of your own inexorable ego; you are absolutely full of yourself. Always have been, always will be.
To tell the truth, you don't know why he puts up with you, sometimes.
"You know there’s nothing stopping me from leaving you planted there until I get you to say something." He prompts again, when you fail to answer. But you don’t get worried until the next part. “Hell, if you need hours, I could just as well take my leave.”
"— It’s not necessary, sir,"
There's a pause.
“It’s not?”
“I,” You look at the ground. Your hands stress around the roll of bundled up papers. “If you... chose to do so, I believe it’d be entirely within your rights to punish me, sir.”
Then he nods, gaze going somewhere distant. The Admiral does not deign your statement worthy of an answer.
That succeeds in rattling you more than an open threat. What else could he be paying attention to? Aren’t you here? Aren’t you—are you fucking failing this interaction? Is that it? Is he just going to leave you to languish a very dry and unsexy demise? A tremor rattles your legs; maybe it’s the cold. Maybe it’s the dampening shock of being denied. You need to find leverage, fast.
"Permission to speak freely, sir?" you pitch quickly.
"Granted."
Your urge to inhale in sheer relief is what ends up doing you in. "Jake," your voice twists into a wavering, splintering tracheal shiver. All your barriers crumble to mist. Your foundations are knocked loose, rapidly losing footing."—I feel s-so ffucking cold, dude."
English snaps a puzzled glance back your way. Shuddering from tips to toes, that's when you actually hug yourself, in what probably counts as one of your least dignified moments to date. A mellow look crosses the deep green valley of his eyes. Delusional as you are, you choose to read it as ‘pity’.
"C'mere, then." He pulls his chair back a little bit, then taps his left knee, making just enough space for you to fit in. "We can start by warming you right up."
You guess you immediately flashstep to his side, because suddenly you're there without noticing you have moved at all and the Admiral is blinking in befuddlement and clicking his tongue, a bit.
Yup, can't help it. There's 'touch-starved', and then there's this, this unspeakable gripping desperation to claw apart and shed your own flesh, a wave of deprivation you’re currently sinking balls-deep in.
Admiral English takes your hand, and you let him carefully guide you onto his lap. Your suspicions were right: he turns out to be ridiculously, deliciously warm. You might moan in stark relief. You could trick yourself into thinking you're hugging a heated blanket, if you really wanted to. His coat is insulated and comfortable, all silky black on the inside; his undershirt pleasing to the touch. His pants feel so gratifyingly sleek under your tensed-up thighs and you're most definitely going to smear your sex juice all over them, no regrets. You stuff your face into his neck and rub your cool nose against his collarbone until you hear him laugh, bewildered with your genuine burst of initiative. The scent of bath salts and seasoned meat and deep rich wine clings to your mind as your hands grasp needily for his ribs, his shoulders, his all-encompassing heat. You’re absolutely suffused in him.
—and all the more satisfied for it.
Then English drags his nails down the length of your stiff back, and you think you finally discover what the term gooseflesh means, as your spine tries to bend and bring you both further into and farther away from the bulk of his chest. Being touched feels like pricking yourself with a wave of pure garbled electrostatic. You let out a sound so unutterable it's impossible to transcribe it for posterity with any shred of accuracy, as the mere attempt to do so would be enough to strike you dead right where you stand.
He thinks it's funny. The drag of his mustache on your neck shoots a wave of textile pleasure running up your shoulder. It's so light, like the tease of a paintbrush upon the most sensible spots of your skin. His body is hot in all the ways yours is nearly frostbitten. When he squeezes you close, handling you senselessly, your temperatures clash so abruptly you feel like squeaking. Thank god you have a hold on that shit.
“I can feel you hard through my shirt.” Jake touts in your ear, rutting his chest against yours, because your nipples are rock-hard enough to rub past fabric, apparently. "—But I think you've had quite enough." You politely disagree. You're nowhere near warm enough yet. "Be a doll and lean back against the table for me."
You squeeze him stubbornly in protest, conflicted about losing your firelight, but he tugs at the nape of your collar with decisive authority and you slowly retract your claws. The table must be as cold as the goddamn floor; you wince as you sit back, keeping hold of his arms. Your biceps flex like a lifeline.
English carefully undoes your grip, adjusting on the chair. You spot the wet patch you left on his crotch and almost grin with a sense of smug, petty victory. Well, well, well. Would you look at that? He doesn't seem so well-composed, either. You know a stiffy when you see one.
The Admiral reaches for a drawer on the bottom-right side of his desk, making you promptly forget about any smartass remarks you wanted to make. After some rustling, he retrieves a pair of jarringly pink objects from it; each item only big enough to fill a closed fist.
"Remember these?" In one of his hands he holds an adjustable silicone vibe. The toy’s rounded out extremities are built in a conch-like arch, like a curling tentacle; only one end is flatter, with a far wider top. In his other hand he holds a matching, squishy-looking controller. The logistics of this one aren't hard to figure out.
You nod in emphatic affirmation.
"Very good. Go on, then, get to spreading yourself out nice and useful."
You flush in ascent. There's enough room that you're allowed to lay your legs far apart without much issue, fingers making quick work of dipping between your folds and gently lubricating your dick with circular motions. It looks pretty gratuitous, considering the way your crotch is nearly angled at his face. He doesn’t make a move to give you any privacy. You repeat this gesture a few times, warming up with the slide and grind of each wet swipe, trying to rub where you're most sensitive. By the time you've got a few fingers pushing inside yourself, your eyes are closed, your hand steady on supporting your weight upon the table, and you sigh with wanton breath.
Jake eventually takes over, replacing your hands with his. Masturbating is fine— but that's all it is. It's just fine. His touch feels so much more thrilling than your predictable, practiced routine; the tips of his digits are shaped differently, not as rough or hardened as your sword-handling flesh. You want to feel a warm body that presses and takes. Your nerve ends are rapt with expectation. Everything sparks when he rubs into you, heightened by the sweet thrill of mystery, and you want him to do it more.
You grind back as you chase the friction, then his teeth come to graze the curve of your hip, and you have no choice but to falter, keening. You feel one end of the vibrator entering you as he bites in, the round tip heavy as it pushes you apart. The silicone is just as cold and blunt as his mouth is warm and sharp, digging into your skin. It's quick and teasing, a polarizing play in the senses. He licks the spot shortly after, adjusting the flat top of the toy so it fully encompasses your dick.
You get approximately five seconds worth of break before both halves start buzzing. A combo of internal and external pressure seizes your legs and sends them rattling; your thighs clench with how sensible the vibrations make you. The Admiral watches in amusement, gripping the control a little harder. Every time he squeezes the thing, the frequency of the toy peaks. He must do it a dozen little times. Your breath hitches with every one of them.
"Comfortable?" He purrs, in the unconcerned way a lion might. It takes a while for you to send a comprehensible verbal response down to your mouth while battling off a grin and biting down on your lip like an idiot.
“Yeah. Yeah— real fuckin’ positive, boss.”
You’re under the impression English smiles back at you, as he works his heavy coat off and rolls his shirtsleeves up his elbows. Then he pushes his hands around the sides of his chair, disengaging the armrests with a manual series of complex clicks and rolls, and the last shoe finally drops.
You understand what’s coming, now. Your heart hastens its pace.
“Come.”
You slide to the floor with unsteady, squeezing legs, worried about dropping your vibrator. (Experience chimes in to remind you it would make the situation far more difficult.) Careful, you climb on one the disabled supports from the left side, first on your knees, then lay down on your belly across the length of the Admiral’s lap, letting your arms fall above the other end. His hand ghosts the curve of your butt. You have lost a very dishonorable battle against the raging might of your blushing cheeks. You must look like a damsel worthy of a swooning book cover.
The admiral slaps you over the ass before you have a chance to steel yourself for the heat of the first blow. It fucking stings, and the vibe echoes its impact like a trained parrot, knocking the air out of your lungs.
“As punishment for overstepping,” he begins, with a punctuated SLAP “—acting with total disregard for a superior officer’s input,” SLAP “—and inciting unrest among unrelated crewmembers,” SLAP “You will pay thirty… no, that’s too good for you.” with the impression he's paused to shake his head, you suck in a deep breath. “Fifty blows, Dirk. And we’ve already begun.”
He hits you again, making it a searing five, and the hot-white flash of pain is so precise and steadfast in its landing you just know he’s decided to use his hope-bullshit psionics for the sole purpose of tormenting you, all while leaving his hand divinely unscathed. Your eyes bead with a swelling film of tears.
Hell. Fucking. Yes.
You think if you grinned any harder you’d be piercing your goddamn lip by trying to play it off.
"Out of all my commanding officers, you're by far the most thoroughly spoiled." you feel the smack land more heavily this time, now that your flesh has been made sensitive with the previous blows. You shudder, skin jumping. The cumulative effect of a spanking is the real killer. The next time English strikes you, you feel the hit resonate with the increasing waves of the toy, deep, deep in the pit of your belly; and your sex all but quivers. "It's frankly embarrassing." SLAP. You whine, wet and out loud, gripping at the seat.
By this point, the cold is a foggy concept from a time long past. Your body sparks like an incandescent flame, singing with electrostatic clamor. The impact is driving you fucking nuts. His fingers come to rest at the cleft of your ass, admiring the reddened warmth of their own work, but you're too raw to withstand the most delicate of touches without squirming. He grips and pets at you appraisingly, humming when a wail staggers out your lips.
You lose count of how many times he’s already struck you when his hand rubs down your folds, messing with the slickness of your pussy.
“You’re sopping wet.” an edge of mean humor blooms into his voice. He strikes a little lighter this time, from bottom to top, like he wants to watch it rebound. (And rebound it does.) "None of this even really works as discipline for you anymore, does it?" You feel the Admiral's fingers sinking in, burying themselves deep into you. Your mind— fuck, his hand is still emanating— your mind gets a little hazy. You feel every inch of phalanx and flexing tendon stretching inside you, pushing into the eager pulse of your cunt, adding to the overwhelming buzzing of the vibe. Everything about him is wide, unconcerned power. "You just love every ounce of it."
To his great delight, you can only respond with a very undignified moan.
English cups your jaw with his free hand, forcing you to look up as he continues to toy with you. One of his digits hooks into the corner of your mouth, like he just can't help himself. You think you’re going to drool. You don't even care if you do. You can only focus on the steady beat of his fingers fucking you open.
"Maybe you'd be happier if I went and took your rank away. You could just be— my pet." He posits sweetly, the edges of his irises glowing with that freakish off-white, almost dangerously yellow. He's incandescent with energy, and you mean that in the most literal sense. You'd only confess how horny this makes you under an execution oath. "Wouldn't that be good, Dirk? Better than you putting our workings in jeopardy because you're trying to get your dick wet." His right hand squeezes your cheeks, preventing you from retort. His left hand bangs relentlessly into you, deep and insistent. You feel the vibrator working itself into another timed peak, and your eyelashes flutter like you're not long for this world. Your head swims. It all blinks and boils and fizzles together, in an ardent sway of arousing ebullition— but thinking of him stringing you like a dutiful puppet over his knee is what sends you right over the edge. You come.
You come in shakes and you come apart, squeezing his fingers and failing to resist the urge to just fucking moan. Openly, passionately. He lets your mouth go. The rush of pleasure washing over you is only amplified when English pulls back and slaps you again, while you're still soft and trembling, and again, while it still burns like a jolt up your bloodstream. You hear him cuss, and it sounds like exquisite praise.
He runs his hand up and down your legs as you acclimate, but the vibration never stops; only lessens. You're supposed to ride it out, regardless of whether you're sensitive or not. He's not done with you, yet.
Fuck, you can feel his dick on your bellybutton. And if you're lucky enough, it won't be just there for long.
An immaterial warmth seizes you by the collar as you catch your breath. When you blink one watery eye open, you see the sparking light waves, the crest of tittering electric energy that surrounds your neck. Then you feel a pull tugging you backwards through it— slight like a loose leash.
"Stand."
You push yourself upright on wobbly legs.
Loops of warm solar light knot around the length of Jake's forearm. He holds the psy-rope in a slack grip, patient as you adjust. The tug only returns after he's taken a refreshing drink from his wine glass, looking about as parched as you feel.
His chest moves when he speaks. "Come undress me." You lean toward him, careful, and he tsks when your hands grasp a button. "Mind your training, kitten."
No paws.
You lick a button into your mouth with practiced ease, undoing it, then reach for the next. Jake hums. Your nose trails down his chest as you work his shirt open bit by bit, and his perfume invades your senses again. It's so oddly sweet, to think of how he's groomed himself for you. You pop the button just above his stomach open and shyly lick a stripe up his chest, gauging his reaction. He doesn't reprimand you again, so you take it as a sign of allowance, nuzzling in his scent.
Jake makes a strange little contemplative noise at the back of his throat.
Then you feel icy liquid dripping on your cheek in a slight, flowing line, and stop cold turkey, eyes snapping open.
"Oh boy, look at that. You're making such a veritable mess," he says, as if he's not the jackass pouring the damn thing from a glass. The taste of wine spills past your jaw and under your lips and you begin to whine, aimless, before you realize it's your job to clean it and lick up in earnest. You're not a heavy or habitual drinker. You know from shared sips and fancy dinners that his collection spins far towards mostly dry, tart, clear, spiced, juicy or specialized bottles— the highbrow stuff you break out at tasting parties, the sort of thing you don't really get— but this one tastes almost sweet.
You lap the stream of dark red swirling down his chest as if you've been presented with a pool of pure nectar, and find that your efforts are immediately rewarded with an extravagant grape admixture that consists of ripe plums, black cherries and chocolate.
It's a little bewildering.
As you lap up the wine his grip on your leash grows tighter, his hand coming to accompany your motions. Intent on not wasting the lot, English stops tilting the glass before it verges on overwhelming, (or dampens his clothes more than strictly necessary,) so you can relax and work your magic. You latch onto his nipple and his fingers dive into your hair, taking an easy hold of your scalp.
For a couple of delirious, blissful seconds, the world winks out with the close of your eyelids. Reality is summarized to your deviant fixation on the Admiral's muscled chest, how the bewitching vibration of the toy has enthralled your legs, the shape of his dick rubbing on your thigh, and the lingering aftertaste of expensive sugar. Decadence.
Jake tugs at your hair and you let go of his tit with a damp smack of mouth to flesh; you have no time to mourn the loss, not when he quickly replaces it for his lips.
You cling to the kiss, hands digging into the material of his chair and back bending upwards to follow the grip of his closed palm. He licks into your mouth and you melt. English's taste is a heavy mélange of dark grapes and fresh plums and aged cherries but there's something more, deep down. You chase his lips with hunger and find the blood from before. The tang of it. The faintest hint of living metal, of meat.
"I was going to toy with you," he pants, teeth scraping against your chin, tight palm digging sweet agony into your hair "-for a very, very long while."
"Not anymore?" you subconsciously hedge, to a bark of laughter.
"If you don't finish undressing me in the next five minutes, Dirk, I'm afraid I'll do something truly drastic."
"Oh?" you decide to push your luck. "Maybe I'll wait." he tweaks your nipple to the side and you curl, sensitive.
"Wasn't optional!"
Jake pushes your head down, using the unfair leverage he still has over you. You meet the remainder of his buttons teeth-first and struggle with the loops of his belt until he decides to help, facing the consequences of his own questionable rules. (There's no time to kid anyone, here, and there's only so much you can undo with your mouth.)
But holy shit, he's straining against his pants. Your knees have barely hit the floor with a muffled thump and he's already rolling into your face, hard as a fucking diamond. His thighs crowd your head. He holds you firmly in place when you start licking him, teasing him over his boxers. You love this part. You love his shape, you love how he tastes, you love how his movements are overtaken by languid relief when he pushes his dick past the ring of your lips, you love how he sighs for your tongue with all that want and lust and desire.
But Jake doesn't want to be pacified with a blowjob, as it turns out. He intends to use your throat for the tool it is, his very own personal lubricant; and he's only satisfied when he hears you choke around his dick. You swallow with effort, immobilized, blood pooling around your cheeks, face as warm as a firestarter. Ever the stabilizer, his hand is what comes to plant some distance between you both— leaving his cock gleaming as you cough for air.
Your head spins. It all feels so light. You’re an inert and pliant tool until he commands you back up, and your limbs push themselves upright. With firm tugs at your leash, you're instructed to lay belly down on the table and hold your pussy open as the Admiral fucks into you. Happily obliged, you quickly come to understand why, as the flat surface presses the vibrator right onto your dick. You have to balance yourself on the tips of your unsteady feet, feeling the tremors course through your body. Your ass is still sore from the spanking— and it will be for quite some time— turning your second task into more of an endurance challenge. You’re masochistically delighted with how hard you have to work for it.
The feeling of him pushing inside you is the perfect synthesis of penalty and pleasure. His hands stray from raw your bottom soon enough, coming to run up your spine. Jake's hands dig appreciatively into your tense shoulder blades, unweaving them, feeling the rippling of muscle as he works to seat himself fully into you. It only works if you give yourself to him. You relearn how to breathe while he thrusts; each sway from his hips brings his cock so much deeper.
The table is freezing under your cheek, and yet you can only think of how hot his skin feels. He loops your leash around his arm, tightening the arch of your back. “I ought keep you like this.” he grunts with some effort as he begins moving quicker, and oh fuuckk yes “Don’t you think so? Right where you belong. Can’t believe it took me this long to realize,” he fills you so easily. You lose the grip of your hands, sweat beading at your palms. Jake’s cock squeezes into your cunt and with every thrust the shape of him becomes clearer, until it's the only thing you can think of. “—Chained to this very table, naked as you are. A mewling and wild little thing. I could teach you tricks.”
You think you might whimper. Any other time, this comment would warrant some pause, but you’re presently only able to focus on how sexy it sounds. His voice has grown rough with need, one of his arms gripping you at the hip like you're still begging for more direction. Like he might just swallow you up whole.
Turns out he just might. Jake licks at the exposed nape of your neck, pushing further. You hear his leg anchor itself against the table, giving him a better angle, and your vision sparks with light spots. His teeth dig into the meat of your shoulder and your eyes roll shut, feeling the relentless pressure building up in your navel. His dick buckles into the toy whenever he pushes forward, he grinds so deep, so fast; the sensation carries you headlong into a toe-curling shiver.
The Admiral fucks you rough and merciless. You're his favorite pet. You're a prize bitch. You're dripping beyond your wettest dreams, arching into his touch. He mounts you with a growing desperation, pushing down closer, squeezing your feverish bodies together.
"God," He pants in your ear, grinding the hard of his stubble where it can reach. You can feel him getting close. You want him to come. You want him to fill you up again and again. You want him to fuck you until you can't think. You think you're babbling a litany of nonsense out loud. "—You're so fucking hot."
He rolls down hard against you and you almost cry, sobbing with triumph. Your orgasm is a world-shaking affair, wiping your mind blank and screwing your heartbeat crazy. You feel your grip on him tighten in the thick of it, how he accelerates and spills over as you climax, riding you through.
You collapse in a breathless heap of crashing adrenaline and firing hormones for a good 20.5 seconds. His jaw digs into your shoulder, gasping for air.
Then he grabs you and flips you around, severely overestimating the hypersensitivity of your legs, maneuvering your body with his arms until you fit together chest by chest— his mouth crashing fully into yours again. Your arms cling onto him like the ground might cave down under you both. (You vaguely think the toy got knocked out with the maneuver.)
You make out like ambling teenagers. There's a drunkenness to the practice that can't be blamed solely on wine. You kiss enthusiastically, sloppily, as he murmurs a dozen little variations of 'my pet' and 'my darling' into your skin. The act dissolves in the aftermath of your climax. Sated and tranquil, you let him hold you for as long as he likes. (And though you could, you will not deny its pleasure.)
Exhaustion makes itself pronounced when you can't find it in your legs to move, and now that the party is well and over with— there's dried wine on your face.
"I'm so sticky." you bemoan, surprised with the uselessness in your voice. The thought falls right into his lips. God, you hope it didn't get into your hair.
Jake, the known health hazard, gives your cheek a lick. "My dearest apologies," he entones, with no apology or remorse in his tone whatsoever, "I got carried away."
"You're the worst fleet captain ever." You nag, crossing your arms around his neck and holding tight onto his body as he lifts you up, making way for his room. "Wait 'til the board hears about this, you fuckin' sucker," he laughs, and you're only fueled by not being taken seriously.
"I mean it." You grumble into his neck as the atmosphere setting around you changes from professionally invernal to the insulated, neutral coziness of a personal bedchamber "— tyrannical, downright patronizing, wildly inappropriate-" English hums in placid agreement, rolling your back atop the clean mattress and falling in it with you. Your muscles thank the gods for blankets."I mean, fuck dude, a collar? You're going to chain me to your desk?"
"Yup." Jake shushes you with a lock of lips, deliberately prolonging it until you forget about the answer. You can't say you complain about it.
When he finally does speak, all he says is "Happy anniversary, dickprince."
You freeze.
"I," you feel your blood skyrocketing towards your face, despite everything. Whatever system takes care of scheduling and logistics in your brain struggles to turn back on, momentarily confused by the occasion. You don't let panic cross into your face, but it's a close thing. How long has it— 'roughly one sweep'? Is it a full one today? "I can't believe you remembered." you can't believe you forgot. Is this what the grilling was about? You're going to dive down a flight of stairs, when you can actually think.
"I have a planner."
"And I have access to your planner, still, I didn't see-"
"Oh! That's my professional planner. I'm talking about my super-secret one." he says matter-of-factly.
"Your— Bullshit." you burst into skeptic laughter.
"Mmm-hmm, top secret. Don't go tattling about it." he teases, nuzzling your neck. There's a click when your collar comes apart, and he presses his nose down to the revealed skin. Handsy, handsy. "Where else would I devise the sweetest tortures to torment you with?"
You sigh into a starstruck kiss, babbling as you resurface. "-Sometimes I fear you like bullying me too much."
"Really? I was certain what you'd fear was the blighted possibility of me ever stopping." he glows with petty boasting, preening with self-congratulatory satisfaction.
"Shut it." you land a good-natured punch square on his shoulder. He barely shakes. If anything, it seems to spur him on.
"You have nobody but yourself to blame for my proclivities, Lieutenant." His body is draped all over yours, broad and monopolizing. You involuntarily shiver. "I do so dearly enjoy ravishing you."
He sinks his teeth into your collarbone, grabbing at your ass. Your whole body arches into an embarrassing keen. Jesus. It's fucking sensitive down there, dude.
Jake politely reels back. "Want me to get the ointment?" A note of genuine carefulness creeps in.
"Nah. Later." he settles down. You pet circles onto his chest. His arms fall neatly around you, holding you close. "You're not really upset about the shit at the bridge, are you? 'cause if that's so-"
"Not at all." Jake shushes, in that fond way of his. You allow yourself to just listen. "I meant what I said back there, besides the obvious showy stuff— you do great work."
"Yeah. Tell me how fucking awesome I am."
He smiles.
"That you are, surely." your face can't help but split into a shit-eating grin. Cloud fucking nine, baby. "Though it must be said," English hedges with sudden warning. Your brows come to an abrupt furrow.
"If you try to make a habit out of getting your report in late, dear, I'll actually have to fire you."
Guh.