The Dead Dove Locker -- "I don't know what I expected."

[Mamorien]

The Greenfield Family.

Rick and Krista are headed for their planned meetup with Carlos and Srishti, ready for some much anticipated playtime with their new friends.

https://storiesonline.net/n/52852/the-gr...-family/15

Princess of the Void.

“Let’s use this room right here.” Grantyde cracks a door and ushers the two of them into a cramped side room mostly occupied by jugs of distilled water.

Prince Grantyde sidles himself uncomfortably into a corner and looks between the two. “All right,” he says. “Let’s be brief and honest with each other, because I’m hungry as hell and I’m sure you are too. Is Narika still in your ear?”

Corska’s slowly wagging tail stills.

“I understand if you’ve still been taking meetings,” His Majesty says. “But I’m asking you respectfully—not Prince to subject, but as a fellow stakeholder in this refinery—to stop. That's what's eating the Eqtorans, the ones who aren't here. More meddling. I need you to stay straight on with me.”

Corska recovers her composure by the time he’s done. “I don’t know—”

“Sure.” Grantyde grimaces. “Sure. You don’t know what I’m talking about. But there’s something you should know. If you throw in and work with Narika, you’re working with her catspaws in the coterie, too. Which means you’re in bed with Marquess Shoskia of Ximin.”

Corska’s mouth hardens into a line. “I take it that’s a bad thing,” she says.

The Prince snorts as if she’d just told a joke. “Corska. C’mon. You know her. Couldn’t even hide your reaction that time, and you’re usually great at it.”

Corska’s ears tilt backward. She is off her balance. Aokan wants to touch her, comfort her. But they are keeping it quiet in front of the royals, the delicate, beautiful little thing between them.

“Look, guys,” His Majesty says. “I’m willing to fight, but not on two fronts, and not against people I’d honestly rather get a drink with. I understand we’re not exactly there. But you ought to know who you’re helping when you pick up the communicator for her. Wenzai is guessing that Shoskia announces her competing refinery in the next few days, try to undercut our announcement about the finished construction here.”

“Majesty—” Corska is rarely so far from the right words. “I—I find these accusations disturbing.”

“Accusations against who? You?” Grantyde raises an eyebrow. “You’re not my enemy, Corska, and I’m not yours. Once you see that, we can kick Shoskia’s ass, but not before. I’m gonna go get some steak now. Thank you both for all the work you’re putting in.”

He squeezes out from his cage of water jugs and past them. He shuts the door behind him.

Heeeere, soldier boy.

“We’ll go get a couple plates,” Corska whispers. “Then you’ll come with me. You’re off-shift for the day. I’ll find a replacement.”

Aokan’s heart speeds up. “Okay.”

They load up with barbecue and thickly brewed black tea and then Aokan follows the angel of the union through the crinkled plastic of an arco-tube and into the worker housing. She’s on the third balcony, second hatch to the left. And so, to his delight and constant awe, is he.

Corska kicks her shitkicker boots off and clears a space on her cluttered table for her food and her tea. Her eyes flash. “Heeeere, soldier boy,” she sing-songs, and her lovely, possessive need closes around his neck and gives him a firm tug to the couch.

He sits down next to her, and she lounges across his lap. “I reckon we know the crab who’s living at the center of that shell company on the other side of Qarnaq II,” she says. “No wonder they’re scabbing. You know who Marquess Shoskia is?”

“I know she’s a misandrist bitch,” Aokan says. “Anything else?”

Corska laughs. “Nah. That’s the main point.” She swivels around so she’s straddling him. Her tail tilts his head down. “Are you ready to serve your union again, soldier boy?”

“Always, Corska.” His hands knit shut across the small of her back. The wagging of her tail. “For you, always.”

She cups his chin and widens her eyes. He looks into them.

“Hit me, baby,” he says.

Flash.

The shadows in the room have ticked a few centimeters over. His teacup is drained; his steak is halfway finished, and its aftertaste is spiced and rich in his throat. He’s gone from sitting to laying on the couch sidesaddle; his hands have snuck their way into the back pockets of Corska’s cargo joggers. She’s kissing his chest.

“Did we talk?” he asks.

“We did.”

“I’m guessing you liked what I had to say.”

She laughs her husky laugh and nods against his chest. “I wish you could hear yourself. I think you might be the most brilliant crook I’ve ever met, Aokan of Lilek. A fucking artist.”

“Corska.” He taps his forehead. “That’s incriminating, babe.”

“Agh. Forgive me.” Another flash. “Forget that too,” she says. “And kiss me again.”

He does.

https://www.scribblehub.com/read/1419041...r/2151801/
https://www.royalroad.com/fiction/120617...oldier-boy