[oneshot] baby, you can drive my starship
Title: baby, you can drive my starship
Pairing: chanyeol/tao
Rating: nc17
Genre: au, sci-fi
Warnings: swearing, violence, sex
Author: gdgdbaby
Notes: zitao's tougher than he appears. chanyeol has a bit of a hard time getting that into his head. a starfighter au. 4,202 words.
Zitao has to let every single one of his piercings close up when he's recruited for navigation school off the streets.
Recruit might be the wrong word. "I could send you off to rot in jail, kid," the chief of police on New Mars tells him, voice gruff. "Or I can enroll you in the Alliance's flight school. And in three years, if you're good enough, you can fly a starfighter into Colteron space for your trouble instead of hovercraft racing on this godforsaken planet. Decision's yours."
For obvious reasons, he chooses the latter. They ship him to Space Station 7 the next morning with a fresh wave of new recruits, all of them packed in like sardines.
On the first day, they take the earrings out. They make him cut his hair and bleach it blond, too-something about discipline born from military uniformity. After that, it's just long lectures and studying from sunup to sundown every fucking day, new holographic models and propulsion diagrams blurring on the screen of his standard-issue PADD as his eyes cross.
Flying a starfighter is not at all the same as taking easy joyrides down Martian highways in a hovercraft barely held together by its own rust. The inside of a starfighter's all seamless chrome and smooth metal, even the old grounded cockpits they use for practice simulators. Navigating one involves astrophysics, and fluid dynamics, and subspace/hyperspace theory. He's never even heard of half this shit. The only thing that stops him from quitting after two weeks is the promise of a comfy cement slab in Cell Block D of the Andromeda Penitentiary System if he leaves.
Well-no, that isn't quite right. He stays because yeah, okay, some parts are unspeakably dull; but other parts, like the swoop of his stomach in zero gravity or the thrumming of the navigation console beneath his fingertips-other parts are the same. Different specifications, but it's the same exhilaration burgeoning in his throat when he finally gets to run his first simulation, light speed making his back teeth ache. There's science involved, but the job requires intuition, too, a sort of innate spontaneity that fills him up so much he's almost shaking with it during the emergency response sims.
He gets to like the dull stuff a little better, too; there's nothing else to do on a space station spinning out into deep space. There's nothing else for him but this, and it passes the time. He does well enough to land in Commander Kwon's hyperspace seminar after his first year of training. "You're kind of a natural," he tells Zitao, glancing over the simulation readouts with a pensive look on his face. "Insofar as innate talent has to do with punching the right numbers into a computer system, anyway."
Commander Kwon takes Zitao under his wing and teaches him everything he knows. During their occasional hours off, the other cadets keep up a steady stream of snide commentary about Zitao's escapades in liberal dick sucking and ass-kissing. And maybe Zitao does fall a little bit in love with him, but he keeps his head down and keeps to himself. He's here to learn.
"You're done," Commander Kwon announces, sometime at the end of Zitao's second year. They're in the busy first deck of the space station's bridge, navigators and fighters streaming around them. "We've taught you all we can."
"What about the rest of-"
Commander Kwon shakes his head, staring up at him. "We need all the manpower in the field that we can get, and I think you're ready. You'll be assigned a ship and a fighter tomorrow." He turns back to the head fighter and starts poring over maps of Colteron territory, 3D holograms popping off the monitors.
"That's it?" Zitao blurts out, blinking.
The fighter peers at him. Commander-Choi, Zitao remembers, from a couple of fleet-wide broadcasts. "It's the army, son, not fucking high school," he says drily. "You want a commencement ceremony?"
"No, sir," Zitao says. He sucks in a long breath.
"Dismissed," says Commander Kwon. He throws a reconnaissance report up on one of the monitors, eyes flitting back and forth from screen to screen. Commander Choi mutters something about a shipyard.
Zitao turns on his heel, goes back to his living cubicle in a daze. He doesn't fall asleep the entire night.
So it turns out his fighter is completely fucking nuts.
Zitao's mouth tastes warm and coppery from the blood dripping down his chin and Park Chanyeol is just grinning at him, this self-satisfied look on his face, and-God, he's heard stories about the fighters before but he didn't think it'd be like this, slammed up against the wall of their new cubicle, his mouth burning from Chanyeol's bite. Zitao hasn't needed to physically defend himself since New Mars and the grungy underground racing gangs. His arms clench in Chanyeol's grip.
"You're my bitch, now," Chanyeol says smugly, dark curls falling into his eyes, and Zitao's about to sweep his foot out to send Chanyeol sprawling when the red alert comes in.
Chanyeol's hands loosen as the sirens go off. His face lights up with a sort of unholy glee. "INCOMING ATTACK," blare the speakers. "ALL MILITARY PERSONNEL REPORT TO DECK 10, LAUNCH PAD 3."
Chanyeol disappears out the sliding door. Shit, Zitao thinks, and rushes out after him.
The Reliant is a beautiful ship, top of the line-and it's his, now. Zitao doesn't have time to admire it when orders from the bridge are pouring in through his helmet. Chanyeol drops into his fighter pit and starts punching in numbers.
"Zitao," he says, voice low and smooth over the intercom as Zitao slides into the cockpit up front. "I've always been the best. They assured me you'd be able to keep up, so you better not slow me the fuck down out there."
Zitao grits his teeth and twists his hands over the navigation console, launches the ship out of the bowels of the space station. He can hear Chanyeol laughing over the roar of the engines.
Zitao maneuvers them through enemy lines with the rest of the fleet, riding high on sheer adrenaline alone. This isn't some simulation-they're actually alone in space, debris ricocheting off the sides of their starfighter, and with every turn Chanyeol sends photon torpedoes smashing into Colteron ships. He doesn't leave anything intact.
"ANTIMATTER CANNON READY IN TWO MINUTES," comes the warning from the bridge.
"Zitao," yells Chanyeol.
"I know," Zitao says, spinning them back toward the station. Chanyeol shoots a couple particle beams to clear the way through, arcs of blue light crumpling metal, ripping the offensive line clean open.
"TIBERIUS, GET BACK INTO FORMATION," the bridge officer commands over the fleet-wide broadcast. Zitao adjusts his monitors and sees the starfighter careening half a kilometer below.
"My navigator's dead," is the panicked response. "And my engine's blown, I'm just floating-two enemy ships are coming-"
"Tiberius," Zitao cuts in, more steady than he feels. "This is the Reliant. We're coming for you."
"Fuck no," Chanyeol snaps immediately. "Are you kidding? Leave it."
"We can help him," Zitao insists, already dropping into a nosedive. Chanyeol keeps up a loud stream of swearing as they get closer. The Tiberius's readings pop up on Zitao's radar, and he bites his lip, mind racing. "Tiberius, you have to reroute all auxiliary power to your burst thrusters to get out of the antimatter cannon's range in time."
"But the Colterons-"
"Chanyeol," he says, curling the Reliant beneath the belly of the Tiberius and zooming up vertically, artificial gravity blowing his hair back. Two Colteron warbirds loom up in front of them, dark and menacing.
"Fuck you so much," Chanyeol spits out. He sets off two torpedoes that hit the enemy ships right on the money.
"I got the thrusters to work," the Tiberius's fighter says, voice crackling through the intercom.
Zitao pulls the Reliant horizontal again as the order comes in from the bridge: "ALL SHIPS DISENGAGE AND FALL BACK. ANTIMATTER CANNON FIRING IN TEN SECONDS."
Chanyeol's hand smacks against his monitor. "Get us out of here!"
Zitao's fingers soar across the console, fast and determined. Their burst thrusters screech to life. His eyes narrow into slits as they lurch forward.
"Flip the impulse drive on," Chanyeol calls.
"The hull's already damaged," Zitao yells back, gunning the engine and switching the fusion propeller on instead. "Do you want the ship to fall apart?"
The space station grows bigger through the monitors as if in slow motion, the countdown booming in his ears. "THREE-TWO-ONE-"
Outside the Reliant's tinted peripheral windows, Zitao watches the Colteron flagship and the last of the smaller warbirds wink out of existence. The blast radius ends just short of them, and Zitao lets out a long breath as they cruise to a stop below the space station. He tugs his helmet off, sweat matting his hair.
"ENEMY FLAGSHIP NEUTRALIZED, SCOUT SHIPS RETREATING," the intercom buzzes. "ALL STARFIGHTERS RETURN TO DECK 10 FOR INVENTORY AND REPAIR."
There's a muffled groan from behind him. Zitao turns his head in vague alarm. "Chanyeol? Are you alright?" Did you get hit?
Through the dim haze of hissing gas between their cockpits, Zitao can just make out the silhouette of Chanyeol's body. He squints, leaning back, and-oh. Oh. Chanyeol's got the bottom half of his suit zipped open, both hands pulling at his erection. He grins when he looks up and catches Zitao's eyes, tongue flicking out to wet his lower lip. What the fuck, Zitao thinks, snapping back around to stare out the window.
He can't stop his ears from hearing, though-the smooth slide of soft plastic over the skin of Chanyeol's dick, a muttered obscenity and long, low sigh as he comes. He clenches his fist against the navigation console.
"RELIANT," the bridge officer says a moment later, through the speakers. Zitao jumps in his seat. "DO YOU COPY? REPORT BACK TO DOCK 10 IMMEDIATELY!"
"Yes, sir," Zitao croaks, his hands slipping over the screen to pull the ship back up. In the back, Chanyeol's laughing again.
"I'm showering first," Zitao says when they storm into the living cubicle after the debrief.
Chanyeol follows him into the bathroom and crowds him against the sink. "We need to talk."
"Get off me," Zitao says. "There's nothing to talk about."
"You take orders from me," Chanyeol says, bending him back over the counter. "I told you not to help the Tiberius, but you did it anyway, and nearly got us fucking killed. They told us navigators were the smart ones. But you-you need to learn your place."
Zitao almost smiles. He knocks Chanyeol's feet out from underneath him and punches him square in the jaw as he staggers. "Are you going to make me?"
Chanyeol straightens up and grins as he massages his chin, teeth flashing in the low light. Zitao blinks. "They said navigators were weak, too. That we were supposed to be nice to them." He leans forward again, and Zitao's breath catches in his throat. "But you're a little different, aren't you?"
Chanyeol is the one who tastes like blood this time, metallic and salty. Zitao has to crane his neck back to accommodate the kiss. Chanyeol tongues the cut in his bottom lip and Zitao hisses, shoves an elbow in Chanyeol's gut.
"Stop. That fucking hurts."
Chanyeol just seems pleased as punch. "It's good you have some fight left. That'll make things more interesting."
"Shit," Zitao breathes, scrubbing fingers through his hair. "Does violence really turn you on? Before, in the ship-getting off on death and destruction-"
"Oh, come on," Chanyeol scoffs, waving a hand. "I was celebrating the fact that we made it out alive." He tilts his head, considering him. "It's only natural."
Zitao's back aches from where it's been pressed hard into the counter, and Chanyeol's still a little too rough when he kisses him again-but maybe it's the leftover adrenaline pumping through his circuitry that does it, the residual thrill of survival against all odds. Maybe Chanyeol's right. Maybe they do need this. Zitao doesn't push him away again.
Chanyeol unzips Zitao's suit and tugs it down, black plastic tangling around his waist. "I'm going to fuck you," he says into Zitao's mouth, serene, and Zitao feels his dick go half-hard despite himself.
They tumble into the shower after the suits come off, the warm spray of water washing all the sweat and grime away. Chanyeol presses him up against the glass and sucks dark red bruises into his neck, a hand pulling so leisurely at Zitao's dick that by the time he gets around to lubing his own erection up Zitao's panting for it. "Can you-just-" he stutters, hooking a leg around Chanyeol's thigh, and Chanyeol laughs against his collarbone.
"What do you want?"
Zitao sends him the most venomous look he can dredge up. It really isn't much under these circumstances. Chanyeol shakes his head, lips twitching.
"I want to hear you beg for it," he says, tracing a slippery finger around Zitao's asshole. He dips the tip inside, then two. The back of Zitao's head bangs against the glass.
He squeezes his eyes shut and exhales, water dripping down his face. "Please," he says at last, voice cracking. "Please fuck me, I need-"
Chanyeol slams himself in all the way and it fucking hurts, being stretched so wide so fast, even with the lube. Zitao's eyes fly open and he lets out a strangled cry. He drags his nails down Chanyeol's back and Chanyeol inhales sharply, mutters something indistinct under his breath. The rim of his asshole stings and he's too full and-"Relax," Chanyeol says. His tongue flicks over the shell of Zitao's ear.
"I'm trying," he manages. Chanyeol palms Zitao's dick, pulls back and thrusts in again, slower, at a different angle so that he hits Zitao's prostate. This time, the slick burn mingles with a curl of pleasure deep in his abdomen. When he looks down he can see Chanyeol thumbing the head of his erection before moving on to grab his hips, long fingers clenching around the bone. Zitao tips his head forward and groans into Chanyeol's shoulder as he speeds up.
It's been a while since he's slept with anyone. Zitao's fucked guys before, but that was on Mars. Military academy never seemed like the right venue-too stuffy, too obsessed with rules and regulations, and Zitao wasn't so much afraid as he was cautious-and he was always busy with training, anyway. He can barely remember the last time he got off on his own, let alone entertained the thought of finding someone else to have sex with.
Chanyeol's thin and wiry and taller than Zitao is, just enough to prop both of them up against the shower stall and pound himself in. He'd forgotten, a little bit, what this was like: being bent almost in half from another person's weight, skin so hot he feels like he might spontaneously combust, the wet, obscene sound of Chanyeol's dick sliding inside him, the tops of Chanyeol's thighs slapping against Zitao's ass. All these disparate things come together to form something better than the sum of its parts, and-
"Don't overthink it," comes Chanyeol's voice from somewhere above the crown of Zitao's head, tight and amused. A hand brushes against the underside of Zitao's cock and that's all it takes for him to come, hands braced against Chanyeol's arms, lethargic satisfaction pooling in his stomach, a wrung-out noise strung out of his mouth.
Chanyeol pulls out after a couple more shallow thrusts and comes on the glass, face twisted into a grimace of pleasure. Zitao straightens himself out and sends Chanyeol a half-smile that's summarily ignored in favor of a quick shampoo job. Zitao takes a little longer, hisses at the acute sting when he's soaping up.
He walks out toweling his hair dry. Chanyeol's already lounging in one of the bunks, sprawled out across the sheets, PADD in hand. Zitao gazes at him uncertainly. Chanyeol just shakes his head, points at the other mattress. Zitao sighs and pulls a pair of sleep pants on, rolls into his own bed. He should've figured Chanyeol wasn't one for pillow talk.
He wakes up to an empty cubicle at 0600 hours, space station time. Chanyeol's nowhere to be found. Zitao tries to sit up and winces at the aching throb in the small of his back.
He hobbles to the bathroom and pops a couple of painkillers, puts balm on his lip, catalogues the hickeys scattered across his skin. Funny, he thinks, pressing down hard on a bruise and feeling his dick stir, Pavlovian in every respect. He hadn't pegged Chanyeol as particularly possessive, but it fits in a weird way.
He feels marginally better in the afternoon. The station's cruising at warp factor five along the outer rim of the Alliance blockade-where they're going, Zitao has no idea. He wanders down to the simulation decks. One of the fighting sims is empty. He slips inside, puts on the battered helmet. He stretches as he waits for the solo program to initiate. The automated voice counts down coolly.
It's been a while, but he hits every kick in the sequence, his reflexes still on point. It feels good to be active again, moving with purpose instead of hunched over practice space-grid readings. He goes through the first five sequences and his muscles are shaking from exertion at the end of it, sweat soaked through his uniform.
A couple of passersby send him strange looks when the simulator door slides back open. One of Zitao's blond-haired compatriots calls out as he walks by: "Playing fighter again, Zitao?"
"Could still kick your ass just fine," he says lamely. He turns down the hallway and nearly runs into someone coming up in the opposite direction. "Sorry," he mumbles, stepping off to the side.
"Are you the Reliant's navigator?" comes the response, and Zitao glances up to see a curious stare beneath dark, close-cropped hair. There's a deep cut stitched together along the man's forehead.
"Yes." He frowns. "And you are-?"
"Wu Yifan, the Tiberius's fighter."
Zitao's eyes go wide. "Oh, of course. I'm so sorry about your navigator-he was one of the best-"
"I wanted to thank you for yesterday," Yifan interrupts earnestly. "I would've died if the Reliant hadn't come back around to-" His gaze lands on Zitao's mouth and he trails off, jaw tightening. "That scar-"
Zitao brushes a finger against his lip. "What about it?"
Yifan frowns. A brief moment later, Zitao feels a hand land on his shoulder. When he looks up, Chanyeol's glaring down at him. "What are you doing here?" he asks, tense. "Only fighters use these simulators."
"I was practicing," Zitao replies, shrugging him off. "Listen," he tells Yifan, "there's no need to thank me. We were there and it was the right thing to do. I'm sure your navigator would've done the same."
He takes off down the hall. Chanyeol lopes after him, an irritated look on his face.
They slip into a turbolift going up. "What do you want?" Zitao asks.
"Why were you talking to him?"
"He wanted to thank me for saving his life," Zitao says slowly, as if speaking to a very small child.
Chanyeol's brow furrows. "Don't do that."
"What?"
"Talk to him."
Zitao laughs, incredulous. "Why the fuck not?"
"I don't like it."
"You're jealous," Zitao notes, faintly surprised. The double doors slide open with a ding. "MESS HALL A, DECK 7," the turbolift announces, and Chanyeol follows him out.
Chanyeol makes a frustrated noise. "No," he says, defensive, "I'm just saying that you should stay away from-hey, will you stop for a second and-"
Chanyeol tries to shove him up against the wall to get him to stand still, but Zitao slips away a second before Chanyeol's forearm can pin him. Chanyeol overbalances into the aluminum paneling and Zitao holds him there with a gentle palm pressed between his shoulder blades. All brute force, Zitao thinks, and absolutely zero grace. For a moment, Chanyeol's too startled to do anything but breathe. "Just because we're fucking," Zitao says sweetly, "doesn't mean you get to push me around or choose who I can or can't talk to. I don't know how it was with your previous navigators, but I think you'll find that shit won't fly with me."
Zitao pulls back and continues shuffling down the corridor, toward the cafeteria. Chanyeol falls into step behind him. "Why the hell aren't you a fighter?" Zitao hears him mutter.
"Not aggressive enough," he hums, sliding his hands into his pockets.
Chanyeol snorts. "Plenty aggressive in my book," he says, and the corner of Zitao's mouth twitches.
Dinner's some nasty replicated stuff that Zitao can't even put a name to, let alone eat. He sits down at a table alone. On the other side of the cafeteria, Chanyeol's sitting with a bunch of other fighters. One of them mimes a blowjob and Zitao rolls his eyes, picks at the roll on his tray.
"Well, if it isn't the hero of the hour," someone says smarmily, tapping fingers against the edge of Zitao's table. He looks up to see two navigators from his hyperspace seminar, Aramis and Oberon. They'd joined the fleet proper a couple of months before him. "I'm so honored that you've graced us with your presence."
Zitao chews on a mouthful of bread. This high school bullshit, he thinks, and swallows thickly.
"Aren't you going to say anything? Or are you too good to talk to us now?" Aramis grabs the roll out of his hand. "That was some shit you pulled yesterday, saving the Tiberius from certain death." He smiles. "Haven't you gotten plenty of opportunities to suck the Commander's dick? Give the rest of us a chance-"
Zitao scowls and snatches his roll back. "Where the hell were you? You could've easily saved him-your ship was closer-"
Aramis scoffs. "And risk my life for some fighter fuck-up? Are you kidding?"
Zitao shakes his head and moves to get up. Oberon slams him back down in his seat.
"Speaking of which," Aramis continues, leaning in, "I heard you got assigned to the Reliant's fighter. What's his name? Chanyeol?" He pretends to think about, lips pursed. "Watch out for that one, Zitao. You're his third navigator in as many months." He raises his eyebrows meaningfully. "What do you think happened to the other two?"
Zitao glances over to the far side of the room. Chanyeol's friends are engaged in some sort of ridiculous arm-wrestling match, now, and Zitao almost starts laughing. Aramis's grand aspersions aside, the question is valid, of course, and one he might even pursue, but at this point in time it just seems absurd. Chanyeol had borderline-sociopathic tendencies to be sure, but he was also fucking amazing at his job, and sabotaging it willfully by killing off his navigators didn't seem at all inline with what Zitao knew of his character. And maybe this is Zitao's dick talking, but what's the problem with that? The only thing he knows for sure is that they were thrown into an emergency situation together and came out of it alive and kicking. That's good enough for him.
"I give the two of you a week at most," Aramis is saying, and Zitao shoves Oberon's hands off his back.
"If you navigated a starfighter as well as you gossiped," he says, smooth and quiet, "maybe you wouldn't keep getting reassigned."
Aramis's eyes snap indignantly. "Don't be ridiculous. I'm just waiting for them to give me the best fighter in the fleet!"
"Sorry, that's not going to happen," Zitao says, lips tilting up, and the conviction in his voice surprises even him. "The best fighter's already assigned to me."
Aramis steps forward with a low growl, arm pulled back for the punch. Zitao fluidly steps around the first one he sends flying. Oberon charges at him, enraged. Zitao sidesteps him, too. Aramis wheels back around with his left hand but before the blow can land, someone taller than both of them grabs his arm.
"Is there a problem?" Chanyeol asks, hand tightening. Aramis chokes, scrabbling at Chanyeol's grasp.
"I had it under control," Zitao says, and Chanyeol narrows his eyes before letting Aramis go. He disappears faster than Zitao's ever seen him fly, Oberon hot on his heels.
"That was sweet," he remarks later, when they're in the living cubicle. "Unnecessary-since I can, you know, actually protect myself-but sweet."
"Who said I was protecting anything?" Chanyeol grumbles, eyes glued to his PADD. "I just don't like it when other people try to tamper with my investments. It'd take too long to train someone else."
Zitao imagines that's the best acknowledgement he'd get out of Chanyeol at this specific juncture. "Right," he says drily, and doesn't bring up the fact that they still haven't run any training simulations together. He doesn't really think it's what Chanyeol's talking about, anyway.
fin
A/N: I... DON'T... KNOW???????? fuck lmao i just need all the aus of kpop in SPAAACE, so. here u go.
Pairing: chanyeol/tao
Rating: nc17
Genre: au, sci-fi
Warnings: swearing, violence, sex
Author: gdgdbaby
Notes: zitao's tougher than he appears. chanyeol has a bit of a hard time getting that into his head. a starfighter au. 4,202 words.
Zitao has to let every single one of his piercings close up when he's recruited for navigation school off the streets.
Recruit might be the wrong word. "I could send you off to rot in jail, kid," the chief of police on New Mars tells him, voice gruff. "Or I can enroll you in the Alliance's flight school. And in three years, if you're good enough, you can fly a starfighter into Colteron space for your trouble instead of hovercraft racing on this godforsaken planet. Decision's yours."
For obvious reasons, he chooses the latter. They ship him to Space Station 7 the next morning with a fresh wave of new recruits, all of them packed in like sardines.
On the first day, they take the earrings out. They make him cut his hair and bleach it blond, too-something about discipline born from military uniformity. After that, it's just long lectures and studying from sunup to sundown every fucking day, new holographic models and propulsion diagrams blurring on the screen of his standard-issue PADD as his eyes cross.
Flying a starfighter is not at all the same as taking easy joyrides down Martian highways in a hovercraft barely held together by its own rust. The inside of a starfighter's all seamless chrome and smooth metal, even the old grounded cockpits they use for practice simulators. Navigating one involves astrophysics, and fluid dynamics, and subspace/hyperspace theory. He's never even heard of half this shit. The only thing that stops him from quitting after two weeks is the promise of a comfy cement slab in Cell Block D of the Andromeda Penitentiary System if he leaves.
Well-no, that isn't quite right. He stays because yeah, okay, some parts are unspeakably dull; but other parts, like the swoop of his stomach in zero gravity or the thrumming of the navigation console beneath his fingertips-other parts are the same. Different specifications, but it's the same exhilaration burgeoning in his throat when he finally gets to run his first simulation, light speed making his back teeth ache. There's science involved, but the job requires intuition, too, a sort of innate spontaneity that fills him up so much he's almost shaking with it during the emergency response sims.
He gets to like the dull stuff a little better, too; there's nothing else to do on a space station spinning out into deep space. There's nothing else for him but this, and it passes the time. He does well enough to land in Commander Kwon's hyperspace seminar after his first year of training. "You're kind of a natural," he tells Zitao, glancing over the simulation readouts with a pensive look on his face. "Insofar as innate talent has to do with punching the right numbers into a computer system, anyway."
Commander Kwon takes Zitao under his wing and teaches him everything he knows. During their occasional hours off, the other cadets keep up a steady stream of snide commentary about Zitao's escapades in liberal dick sucking and ass-kissing. And maybe Zitao does fall a little bit in love with him, but he keeps his head down and keeps to himself. He's here to learn.
"You're done," Commander Kwon announces, sometime at the end of Zitao's second year. They're in the busy first deck of the space station's bridge, navigators and fighters streaming around them. "We've taught you all we can."
"What about the rest of-"
Commander Kwon shakes his head, staring up at him. "We need all the manpower in the field that we can get, and I think you're ready. You'll be assigned a ship and a fighter tomorrow." He turns back to the head fighter and starts poring over maps of Colteron territory, 3D holograms popping off the monitors.
"That's it?" Zitao blurts out, blinking.
The fighter peers at him. Commander-Choi, Zitao remembers, from a couple of fleet-wide broadcasts. "It's the army, son, not fucking high school," he says drily. "You want a commencement ceremony?"
"No, sir," Zitao says. He sucks in a long breath.
"Dismissed," says Commander Kwon. He throws a reconnaissance report up on one of the monitors, eyes flitting back and forth from screen to screen. Commander Choi mutters something about a shipyard.
Zitao turns on his heel, goes back to his living cubicle in a daze. He doesn't fall asleep the entire night.
So it turns out his fighter is completely fucking nuts.
Zitao's mouth tastes warm and coppery from the blood dripping down his chin and Park Chanyeol is just grinning at him, this self-satisfied look on his face, and-God, he's heard stories about the fighters before but he didn't think it'd be like this, slammed up against the wall of their new cubicle, his mouth burning from Chanyeol's bite. Zitao hasn't needed to physically defend himself since New Mars and the grungy underground racing gangs. His arms clench in Chanyeol's grip.
"You're my bitch, now," Chanyeol says smugly, dark curls falling into his eyes, and Zitao's about to sweep his foot out to send Chanyeol sprawling when the red alert comes in.
Chanyeol's hands loosen as the sirens go off. His face lights up with a sort of unholy glee. "INCOMING ATTACK," blare the speakers. "ALL MILITARY PERSONNEL REPORT TO DECK 10, LAUNCH PAD 3."
Chanyeol disappears out the sliding door. Shit, Zitao thinks, and rushes out after him.
The Reliant is a beautiful ship, top of the line-and it's his, now. Zitao doesn't have time to admire it when orders from the bridge are pouring in through his helmet. Chanyeol drops into his fighter pit and starts punching in numbers.
"Zitao," he says, voice low and smooth over the intercom as Zitao slides into the cockpit up front. "I've always been the best. They assured me you'd be able to keep up, so you better not slow me the fuck down out there."
Zitao grits his teeth and twists his hands over the navigation console, launches the ship out of the bowels of the space station. He can hear Chanyeol laughing over the roar of the engines.
Zitao maneuvers them through enemy lines with the rest of the fleet, riding high on sheer adrenaline alone. This isn't some simulation-they're actually alone in space, debris ricocheting off the sides of their starfighter, and with every turn Chanyeol sends photon torpedoes smashing into Colteron ships. He doesn't leave anything intact.
"ANTIMATTER CANNON READY IN TWO MINUTES," comes the warning from the bridge.
"Zitao," yells Chanyeol.
"I know," Zitao says, spinning them back toward the station. Chanyeol shoots a couple particle beams to clear the way through, arcs of blue light crumpling metal, ripping the offensive line clean open.
"TIBERIUS, GET BACK INTO FORMATION," the bridge officer commands over the fleet-wide broadcast. Zitao adjusts his monitors and sees the starfighter careening half a kilometer below.
"My navigator's dead," is the panicked response. "And my engine's blown, I'm just floating-two enemy ships are coming-"
"Tiberius," Zitao cuts in, more steady than he feels. "This is the Reliant. We're coming for you."
"Fuck no," Chanyeol snaps immediately. "Are you kidding? Leave it."
"We can help him," Zitao insists, already dropping into a nosedive. Chanyeol keeps up a loud stream of swearing as they get closer. The Tiberius's readings pop up on Zitao's radar, and he bites his lip, mind racing. "Tiberius, you have to reroute all auxiliary power to your burst thrusters to get out of the antimatter cannon's range in time."
"But the Colterons-"
"Chanyeol," he says, curling the Reliant beneath the belly of the Tiberius and zooming up vertically, artificial gravity blowing his hair back. Two Colteron warbirds loom up in front of them, dark and menacing.
"Fuck you so much," Chanyeol spits out. He sets off two torpedoes that hit the enemy ships right on the money.
"I got the thrusters to work," the Tiberius's fighter says, voice crackling through the intercom.
Zitao pulls the Reliant horizontal again as the order comes in from the bridge: "ALL SHIPS DISENGAGE AND FALL BACK. ANTIMATTER CANNON FIRING IN TEN SECONDS."
Chanyeol's hand smacks against his monitor. "Get us out of here!"
Zitao's fingers soar across the console, fast and determined. Their burst thrusters screech to life. His eyes narrow into slits as they lurch forward.
"Flip the impulse drive on," Chanyeol calls.
"The hull's already damaged," Zitao yells back, gunning the engine and switching the fusion propeller on instead. "Do you want the ship to fall apart?"
The space station grows bigger through the monitors as if in slow motion, the countdown booming in his ears. "THREE-TWO-ONE-"
Outside the Reliant's tinted peripheral windows, Zitao watches the Colteron flagship and the last of the smaller warbirds wink out of existence. The blast radius ends just short of them, and Zitao lets out a long breath as they cruise to a stop below the space station. He tugs his helmet off, sweat matting his hair.
"ENEMY FLAGSHIP NEUTRALIZED, SCOUT SHIPS RETREATING," the intercom buzzes. "ALL STARFIGHTERS RETURN TO DECK 10 FOR INVENTORY AND REPAIR."
There's a muffled groan from behind him. Zitao turns his head in vague alarm. "Chanyeol? Are you alright?" Did you get hit?
Through the dim haze of hissing gas between their cockpits, Zitao can just make out the silhouette of Chanyeol's body. He squints, leaning back, and-oh. Oh. Chanyeol's got the bottom half of his suit zipped open, both hands pulling at his erection. He grins when he looks up and catches Zitao's eyes, tongue flicking out to wet his lower lip. What the fuck, Zitao thinks, snapping back around to stare out the window.
He can't stop his ears from hearing, though-the smooth slide of soft plastic over the skin of Chanyeol's dick, a muttered obscenity and long, low sigh as he comes. He clenches his fist against the navigation console.
"RELIANT," the bridge officer says a moment later, through the speakers. Zitao jumps in his seat. "DO YOU COPY? REPORT BACK TO DOCK 10 IMMEDIATELY!"
"Yes, sir," Zitao croaks, his hands slipping over the screen to pull the ship back up. In the back, Chanyeol's laughing again.
"I'm showering first," Zitao says when they storm into the living cubicle after the debrief.
Chanyeol follows him into the bathroom and crowds him against the sink. "We need to talk."
"Get off me," Zitao says. "There's nothing to talk about."
"You take orders from me," Chanyeol says, bending him back over the counter. "I told you not to help the Tiberius, but you did it anyway, and nearly got us fucking killed. They told us navigators were the smart ones. But you-you need to learn your place."
Zitao almost smiles. He knocks Chanyeol's feet out from underneath him and punches him square in the jaw as he staggers. "Are you going to make me?"
Chanyeol straightens up and grins as he massages his chin, teeth flashing in the low light. Zitao blinks. "They said navigators were weak, too. That we were supposed to be nice to them." He leans forward again, and Zitao's breath catches in his throat. "But you're a little different, aren't you?"
Chanyeol is the one who tastes like blood this time, metallic and salty. Zitao has to crane his neck back to accommodate the kiss. Chanyeol tongues the cut in his bottom lip and Zitao hisses, shoves an elbow in Chanyeol's gut.
"Stop. That fucking hurts."
Chanyeol just seems pleased as punch. "It's good you have some fight left. That'll make things more interesting."
"Shit," Zitao breathes, scrubbing fingers through his hair. "Does violence really turn you on? Before, in the ship-getting off on death and destruction-"
"Oh, come on," Chanyeol scoffs, waving a hand. "I was celebrating the fact that we made it out alive." He tilts his head, considering him. "It's only natural."
Zitao's back aches from where it's been pressed hard into the counter, and Chanyeol's still a little too rough when he kisses him again-but maybe it's the leftover adrenaline pumping through his circuitry that does it, the residual thrill of survival against all odds. Maybe Chanyeol's right. Maybe they do need this. Zitao doesn't push him away again.
Chanyeol unzips Zitao's suit and tugs it down, black plastic tangling around his waist. "I'm going to fuck you," he says into Zitao's mouth, serene, and Zitao feels his dick go half-hard despite himself.
They tumble into the shower after the suits come off, the warm spray of water washing all the sweat and grime away. Chanyeol presses him up against the glass and sucks dark red bruises into his neck, a hand pulling so leisurely at Zitao's dick that by the time he gets around to lubing his own erection up Zitao's panting for it. "Can you-just-" he stutters, hooking a leg around Chanyeol's thigh, and Chanyeol laughs against his collarbone.
"What do you want?"
Zitao sends him the most venomous look he can dredge up. It really isn't much under these circumstances. Chanyeol shakes his head, lips twitching.
"I want to hear you beg for it," he says, tracing a slippery finger around Zitao's asshole. He dips the tip inside, then two. The back of Zitao's head bangs against the glass.
He squeezes his eyes shut and exhales, water dripping down his face. "Please," he says at last, voice cracking. "Please fuck me, I need-"
Chanyeol slams himself in all the way and it fucking hurts, being stretched so wide so fast, even with the lube. Zitao's eyes fly open and he lets out a strangled cry. He drags his nails down Chanyeol's back and Chanyeol inhales sharply, mutters something indistinct under his breath. The rim of his asshole stings and he's too full and-"Relax," Chanyeol says. His tongue flicks over the shell of Zitao's ear.
"I'm trying," he manages. Chanyeol palms Zitao's dick, pulls back and thrusts in again, slower, at a different angle so that he hits Zitao's prostate. This time, the slick burn mingles with a curl of pleasure deep in his abdomen. When he looks down he can see Chanyeol thumbing the head of his erection before moving on to grab his hips, long fingers clenching around the bone. Zitao tips his head forward and groans into Chanyeol's shoulder as he speeds up.
It's been a while since he's slept with anyone. Zitao's fucked guys before, but that was on Mars. Military academy never seemed like the right venue-too stuffy, too obsessed with rules and regulations, and Zitao wasn't so much afraid as he was cautious-and he was always busy with training, anyway. He can barely remember the last time he got off on his own, let alone entertained the thought of finding someone else to have sex with.
Chanyeol's thin and wiry and taller than Zitao is, just enough to prop both of them up against the shower stall and pound himself in. He'd forgotten, a little bit, what this was like: being bent almost in half from another person's weight, skin so hot he feels like he might spontaneously combust, the wet, obscene sound of Chanyeol's dick sliding inside him, the tops of Chanyeol's thighs slapping against Zitao's ass. All these disparate things come together to form something better than the sum of its parts, and-
"Don't overthink it," comes Chanyeol's voice from somewhere above the crown of Zitao's head, tight and amused. A hand brushes against the underside of Zitao's cock and that's all it takes for him to come, hands braced against Chanyeol's arms, lethargic satisfaction pooling in his stomach, a wrung-out noise strung out of his mouth.
Chanyeol pulls out after a couple more shallow thrusts and comes on the glass, face twisted into a grimace of pleasure. Zitao straightens himself out and sends Chanyeol a half-smile that's summarily ignored in favor of a quick shampoo job. Zitao takes a little longer, hisses at the acute sting when he's soaping up.
He walks out toweling his hair dry. Chanyeol's already lounging in one of the bunks, sprawled out across the sheets, PADD in hand. Zitao gazes at him uncertainly. Chanyeol just shakes his head, points at the other mattress. Zitao sighs and pulls a pair of sleep pants on, rolls into his own bed. He should've figured Chanyeol wasn't one for pillow talk.
He wakes up to an empty cubicle at 0600 hours, space station time. Chanyeol's nowhere to be found. Zitao tries to sit up and winces at the aching throb in the small of his back.
He hobbles to the bathroom and pops a couple of painkillers, puts balm on his lip, catalogues the hickeys scattered across his skin. Funny, he thinks, pressing down hard on a bruise and feeling his dick stir, Pavlovian in every respect. He hadn't pegged Chanyeol as particularly possessive, but it fits in a weird way.
He feels marginally better in the afternoon. The station's cruising at warp factor five along the outer rim of the Alliance blockade-where they're going, Zitao has no idea. He wanders down to the simulation decks. One of the fighting sims is empty. He slips inside, puts on the battered helmet. He stretches as he waits for the solo program to initiate. The automated voice counts down coolly.
It's been a while, but he hits every kick in the sequence, his reflexes still on point. It feels good to be active again, moving with purpose instead of hunched over practice space-grid readings. He goes through the first five sequences and his muscles are shaking from exertion at the end of it, sweat soaked through his uniform.
A couple of passersby send him strange looks when the simulator door slides back open. One of Zitao's blond-haired compatriots calls out as he walks by: "Playing fighter again, Zitao?"
"Could still kick your ass just fine," he says lamely. He turns down the hallway and nearly runs into someone coming up in the opposite direction. "Sorry," he mumbles, stepping off to the side.
"Are you the Reliant's navigator?" comes the response, and Zitao glances up to see a curious stare beneath dark, close-cropped hair. There's a deep cut stitched together along the man's forehead.
"Yes." He frowns. "And you are-?"
"Wu Yifan, the Tiberius's fighter."
Zitao's eyes go wide. "Oh, of course. I'm so sorry about your navigator-he was one of the best-"
"I wanted to thank you for yesterday," Yifan interrupts earnestly. "I would've died if the Reliant hadn't come back around to-" His gaze lands on Zitao's mouth and he trails off, jaw tightening. "That scar-"
Zitao brushes a finger against his lip. "What about it?"
Yifan frowns. A brief moment later, Zitao feels a hand land on his shoulder. When he looks up, Chanyeol's glaring down at him. "What are you doing here?" he asks, tense. "Only fighters use these simulators."
"I was practicing," Zitao replies, shrugging him off. "Listen," he tells Yifan, "there's no need to thank me. We were there and it was the right thing to do. I'm sure your navigator would've done the same."
He takes off down the hall. Chanyeol lopes after him, an irritated look on his face.
They slip into a turbolift going up. "What do you want?" Zitao asks.
"Why were you talking to him?"
"He wanted to thank me for saving his life," Zitao says slowly, as if speaking to a very small child.
Chanyeol's brow furrows. "Don't do that."
"What?"
"Talk to him."
Zitao laughs, incredulous. "Why the fuck not?"
"I don't like it."
"You're jealous," Zitao notes, faintly surprised. The double doors slide open with a ding. "MESS HALL A, DECK 7," the turbolift announces, and Chanyeol follows him out.
Chanyeol makes a frustrated noise. "No," he says, defensive, "I'm just saying that you should stay away from-hey, will you stop for a second and-"
Chanyeol tries to shove him up against the wall to get him to stand still, but Zitao slips away a second before Chanyeol's forearm can pin him. Chanyeol overbalances into the aluminum paneling and Zitao holds him there with a gentle palm pressed between his shoulder blades. All brute force, Zitao thinks, and absolutely zero grace. For a moment, Chanyeol's too startled to do anything but breathe. "Just because we're fucking," Zitao says sweetly, "doesn't mean you get to push me around or choose who I can or can't talk to. I don't know how it was with your previous navigators, but I think you'll find that shit won't fly with me."
Zitao pulls back and continues shuffling down the corridor, toward the cafeteria. Chanyeol falls into step behind him. "Why the hell aren't you a fighter?" Zitao hears him mutter.
"Not aggressive enough," he hums, sliding his hands into his pockets.
Chanyeol snorts. "Plenty aggressive in my book," he says, and the corner of Zitao's mouth twitches.
Dinner's some nasty replicated stuff that Zitao can't even put a name to, let alone eat. He sits down at a table alone. On the other side of the cafeteria, Chanyeol's sitting with a bunch of other fighters. One of them mimes a blowjob and Zitao rolls his eyes, picks at the roll on his tray.
"Well, if it isn't the hero of the hour," someone says smarmily, tapping fingers against the edge of Zitao's table. He looks up to see two navigators from his hyperspace seminar, Aramis and Oberon. They'd joined the fleet proper a couple of months before him. "I'm so honored that you've graced us with your presence."
Zitao chews on a mouthful of bread. This high school bullshit, he thinks, and swallows thickly.
"Aren't you going to say anything? Or are you too good to talk to us now?" Aramis grabs the roll out of his hand. "That was some shit you pulled yesterday, saving the Tiberius from certain death." He smiles. "Haven't you gotten plenty of opportunities to suck the Commander's dick? Give the rest of us a chance-"
Zitao scowls and snatches his roll back. "Where the hell were you? You could've easily saved him-your ship was closer-"
Aramis scoffs. "And risk my life for some fighter fuck-up? Are you kidding?"
Zitao shakes his head and moves to get up. Oberon slams him back down in his seat.
"Speaking of which," Aramis continues, leaning in, "I heard you got assigned to the Reliant's fighter. What's his name? Chanyeol?" He pretends to think about, lips pursed. "Watch out for that one, Zitao. You're his third navigator in as many months." He raises his eyebrows meaningfully. "What do you think happened to the other two?"
Zitao glances over to the far side of the room. Chanyeol's friends are engaged in some sort of ridiculous arm-wrestling match, now, and Zitao almost starts laughing. Aramis's grand aspersions aside, the question is valid, of course, and one he might even pursue, but at this point in time it just seems absurd. Chanyeol had borderline-sociopathic tendencies to be sure, but he was also fucking amazing at his job, and sabotaging it willfully by killing off his navigators didn't seem at all inline with what Zitao knew of his character. And maybe this is Zitao's dick talking, but what's the problem with that? The only thing he knows for sure is that they were thrown into an emergency situation together and came out of it alive and kicking. That's good enough for him.
"I give the two of you a week at most," Aramis is saying, and Zitao shoves Oberon's hands off his back.
"If you navigated a starfighter as well as you gossiped," he says, smooth and quiet, "maybe you wouldn't keep getting reassigned."
Aramis's eyes snap indignantly. "Don't be ridiculous. I'm just waiting for them to give me the best fighter in the fleet!"
"Sorry, that's not going to happen," Zitao says, lips tilting up, and the conviction in his voice surprises even him. "The best fighter's already assigned to me."
Aramis steps forward with a low growl, arm pulled back for the punch. Zitao fluidly steps around the first one he sends flying. Oberon charges at him, enraged. Zitao sidesteps him, too. Aramis wheels back around with his left hand but before the blow can land, someone taller than both of them grabs his arm.
"Is there a problem?" Chanyeol asks, hand tightening. Aramis chokes, scrabbling at Chanyeol's grasp.
"I had it under control," Zitao says, and Chanyeol narrows his eyes before letting Aramis go. He disappears faster than Zitao's ever seen him fly, Oberon hot on his heels.
"That was sweet," he remarks later, when they're in the living cubicle. "Unnecessary-since I can, you know, actually protect myself-but sweet."
"Who said I was protecting anything?" Chanyeol grumbles, eyes glued to his PADD. "I just don't like it when other people try to tamper with my investments. It'd take too long to train someone else."
Zitao imagines that's the best acknowledgement he'd get out of Chanyeol at this specific juncture. "Right," he says drily, and doesn't bring up the fact that they still haven't run any training simulations together. He doesn't really think it's what Chanyeol's talking about, anyway.
fin
A/N: I... DON'T... KNOW???????? fuck lmao i just need all the aus of kpop in SPAAACE, so. here u go.