I am not your load to bear - Chapter 1 (Early Access) (Patreon)

Tristan

Grungy blankets littered the floor of the rented room. There was no need to have them on the bed; they only increased the risk of catching some disease. They wouldn't be sleeping afterwards either. It was a pay-per-hour system, and Tristan was going to get his money's worth. As a true gentleman, he was the one paying, after all.

For cargo collections and drops, half the crew were allocated a half-day of leave to go out of port for each stop. Standard for intergalactic deliveries, but now that Tristan was aboard The Cornucopia, it came with the twist that the planet they were given time to hang out on wasn’t always human-occupied.

The Cornucopia was one of three ships trialling mixed human-Ailu’t crews. The first trial of its kind, organised by the Alliance board that had regulated their interactions with each other since their first contact. Each ship had their own assignment, and each was filled with an equal share of humans and Ailu't. The future of human-Ailu’t relations rested on the outcome of the trial. Luckily, the other two ships had much more serious missions. The Cornucopia was a transport ship. All they had to do to succeed in their third of the trial was deliver boxes from one dusty planet to the next without mutiny.

The only danger their crew faced was the threat of being left behind after their port leave.

Commander Laurel had three simple rules for taking leave out of port:

1. No law breaking or criminal activity - that included both species’ rules and regulations.

2. Nothing leaves or enters the ship that is not documented with the logistics officers.

3. Get back on board before take-off.

Break a rule, get left behind. The commander had made it clear that she did not care the location. If you broke one of the three commandments, you were left wherever you committed the crime. The Alliance would be notified, and someone would probably come to collect you. But until then, you were on your own. Whether that was locked up in a local prison or wandering the streets like a bum. No paperwork or permit for your impromptu vacation? Well, now you’re trespassing on foreign lands.

The rules were simple and fair and so far, followed by all.

Tristan was spending his leave balls-deep in a maintenance officer from the third floor. He’d been eyeing him up for almost a week, sending winks and sly grins his way whenever they passed. He didn’t know his name. He didn’t need to.

With fluffy bronze hair, perfect proportions, and light freckles in the strangest places, he was exactly Tristan’s type: pretty boys. Small and soft and sweet. If it weren’t a one-time affair, Tristan would sink his teeth into his plump skin. Mark him all over like a feral beast. He wanted to feel the squish of chubby skin between his teeth.

But this man wasn’t his partner, and leaving him covered in marks could only lead to two scenarios:

1. The pretty boy doesn’t like being left covered in bite marks after a one-night stand. He maybe even reports Tristan for injuring him.

2. The pretty boy likes the bite marks too much. Tristan now has to detach himself from a possible situation-ship.

He settled for mouthing at the man’s stomach as gently as he could, massaging his lips against the soft skin. The man bucked under him, rolling his hips up into the air desperately. Tristan felt no shame for how he was spending his precious port leave. There was fuck-all else to do but fuck.

Recreational supplies for the humans had been cut back to make room for Ailu’t yoga rooms. Apparently, the Alliance also didn’t want the humans hiding away with their TVs and video games and avoiding the social aspect of the experiment.

They had music, though. Headphones only, no speakers, but at least they could tune out for a bit. Having taken on a few long-haul jobs in the last few years, Tristan was convinced that all people needed downtime. Not the kind of downtime where you’re not doing your job. But social downtime, where you can block all people out for a while and be in your own head for a bit. The headphones gave that to the humans.

They hadn’t been included as standard, which was odd, but Commander Laurel had rectified the issue within a week. At their first human port they purchased every pair that the tiny town’s store had in stock. A ship-wide announcement was made that everyone would be reimbursed one set. Commander Laurel would rather put through the expensing paperwork than deal with a ship full of humans playing their music out of speakers.

The Ailu’t found the headgear strange but left them to it (for the most part). They took the chance to talk in their own language. Only when the commander or her second-in-command weren’t nearby, though.

Technically, the only language that was supposed to be spoken aboard The Cornucopia was English. The Alliance didn’t think either side could be trusted to speak another language and not start a fight, Tristan supposed. He didn’t care if someone spoke in Ailu’t near him. He didn’t care if they were speaking in Ailu’t about him, either. He said, she said, and frenemy behaviour bored him to death.

There was little shame amongst the crew now that they were a few months into the job. Many of them had never been trapped inside a metal ball for weeks on end before. There were some things that the shipping companies always forgot to educate new recruits on in training. The same stale air circulating through the vents would be one of the first things Tristan would warn of. If you took on a long enough contract, you could just about taste the musk around you by the end.

The personal space you were allotted on-board seemed to shrink the longer into your journey you got, too. A slowly growing sensation of claustrophobia accompanied it. Even if physically no one was getting any closer to you than before, it felt as though everyone was in your space once you’d been trapped together for long enough.

And yet, he spent his short reprieves up in other men's spaces.

It was about finding the right person, as his mother always said.

The young man jerked beneath him, stomach curling inwards and mouth agape. Slim fingers clutched the grotty sheets and a trio of thick white shots hit his chest. Tristan rode him through it, never dropping his pace. They didn't have time for pit stops.