There’s this game Yondu plays with Kraglin, except it doesn’t feel much like a game anymore. He gets all fancied up, and Kraglin pretends like he’s not the ugliest sumbitch to ever don a (stolen) designer dress and bends him over the nearest flat surface.
Might be it never was a game. Might be Yondu’s been lying to himself a long time about that.
He can’t figure out why Kraglin puts up with this shit, plays into it even, crooning soft in Yondu’s ear about how nice his dress looks, although the cut is all wrong for Yondu’s body type and it’s not the right size anyway. Boy can tell some whoppers when he wants to get laid, is all. Seems like a lot of trouble for him to go to, but Yondu isn’t going to call him on it.
Leaning close, Kraglin flips up his dress and runs a hand up his thigh, fingers skirting under the lacy edge of his panties. Can’t just wear any old underpants with a dress this nice, after all. “Look so good,” he murmurs. “Pretty as an angel. You been such a good girl today, I think you deserve a reward. How ‘bout I eat you out for a spell, see if I can’t get you to come on my tongue?”
Yondu moans despite himself. It’s not the words alone, but the tone in which he says them, fervent and sweet, like there’s nothing ludicrous at all about Yondu Udonta, infamous Ravager, getting off on pretending to be a girl.
Afterwards, though, all his doubts rush back in unforgiving. It says a lot about his life that the most honest he can be about what he wants is by lying about why he wants it; pretending it’s a kink or a fetish when in reality it’s anything but. Making this…fascination of his into a sex thing was an outlet, and it used to be enough. Or so he tells himself. Recently, though, it’s become harder and harder to put himself back together afterwards.
He sneers at his face in the cracked mirror, wondering when he became too chickenshit to be himself. Probably around the time he figured out that himself isn’t what he wants to be at all.
Yondu finishes scrubbing off in the shower, where his own reflection doesn’t glare back at him all accusatory. When he finally forces himself out of the washroom, Kraglin’s sitting on the edge of the bed, Yondu’s ruined dress in his hands. “Oughta take this to a professional next time we’re planetside,” he says. “See if they can’t do somethin’ ‘bout the stains.”
Yondu grunts. “Don’t bother. Ain’t worth the trouble.”
“You want I should get you a new one?” And damned if Kraglin don’t sound eager, like he enjoys this or something. “I was thinkin’ maybe red. To match your implant, y’know?”
Throat tight, Yondu shakes his head and crawls into bed. He turns towards the wall so Kraglin can’t see his face. “Nah,” he says, and if his voice is a little hoarse who could possibly tell the difference?
Even so, Kraglin puts the dress away properly before sliding under the covers. Sleep is a long time coming to Yondu, and he lays awake long after Kraglin starts snoring.
A few days later they stop in some no-name port to pick up supplies, do some recruiting, and refuel. The new crew ain’t bad—still pretty green—but there’s not enough of ‘em for any big jobs, not yet. He lets Kraglin handle that these days. In the old days Yondu did a lot of the recruitment personally; look at where that got him. Kraglin’s picks aren’t the hardened criminal types Yondu favored, but they’re also a lot less likely to knife him in the back.
Yondu wonders how this new batch would react to Yondu declaring himself a woman. It’s a troubling line of thought. The old crew lived and died according to Yondu’s reputation and the fear he commanded as a cutthroat bastard, and did not react favorably to changes they felt undermined said reputation. Hell, he spent over twenty years unable to tell his own kid he loved him for fear of losing his crew (and it was fear; he can acknowledge that now, at least in the privacy of his own thoughts). No way they wouldn’t have viewed a change to Yondu’s preferred gender identity as a threat to the reputation that served them so well, as a sign of some insidious softness eating away at his brain.
New crew knows who he is, of course. But their expectations don’t weigh on him like those of the old crew; he ain’t built up in their minds yet, larger than life. He’s got the chance to change now, except for two things—Kraglin and Peter. They’re the only ones left, and Yondu doesn’t know which possibility scares him more—that they won’t accept him, or that they would.
Back on board that evening, Kraglin catches Yondu in the corridor outside the galley after dinner. “Gotcha somethin’,” he whispers, leaning close.
“Aw, a prezzie? You shouldn’t’a.” Yondu grins, steals a quick grope of Kraglin’s bony ass. It’s not unheard of for Kraglin to pick him up a toy or figurine for his console, and Yondu looks forward to seeing what he nabbed this time.
They retreat to their quarters. Abandoning the pretense of separate rooms is one indisputable perk of starting over with a raw crew—nobody’s going to claim favoritism, because as far as any of them know the captain and first mate have been sharing a bed for years instead of mere months.
When the door is safely locked behind them, Kraglin fetches a package out of his knapsack and hands it to Yondu. It’s big, wrapped in plain white tissue paper, and Yondu can tell from the weight and the feel that it’s something leather. Not a toy, then. “New coat?” he guesses, peering at it as though he’ll be able to see through the paper. His coat is old, but it’s not even close to needing replaced yet.
“Open it,” Kraglin urges, looking eager, and Yondu tears into the paper.
It’s not a coat. It’s a dress.
Yondu says nothing at first, spreading the dress carefully on the bed in silence so he can consider it. It’s leather, like he noted, dark, butter soft leather. Doesn’t look much different from most of Yondu’s clothes, really, except for being considerably newer and, obviously, a dress.
“Ya know, I coulda sworn you asked me if you could do exactly this,” Yondu finally says. “An’ I tol’ you no.”
“I know, cap’n, but I saw it in the store when I was walkin’ past, an’ it was jus’ right. Kept picturin’ how good it’d look on you.” Kraglin hovers behind him, so Yondu can’t see him, but he can just imagine the dumb, hopeful look on his face.
Yondu’s gonna hate crushing that hope. Boy’s gotta learn sometime, though. “You spend a lot on it?”
Kraglin’s cagey enough not to give him a straight answer. “Some,” he hedges.
“Too bad, ‘less they take returns by mail. Don’t think we’re passin’ back that way any time soon.”
The disappointment on Kraglin’s face when Yondu finally looks at him nearly makes him wince. “Don’t you like it?” Kraglin asks.
“It ain’t about that,” Yondu says. “It’s about boundaries, an’ you respectin’ mine. I told you no, an’ you went an’ did it anyway. The hell you thinkin’, Obfonteri?”
Kraglin takes a moment to answer, jaw working. “Guess I wasn’t, cap’n.”
“Goddamn right you wasn’t.” Scowling, Yondu gestures to the bed. “Put all this away. I don’ wanna see it again.”
Days pass, and neither Yondu nor Kraglin bring up the dress. Yondu knows it’s around somewhere; ship’s not that big. Not that he goes looking for it or anything, or wondering how he’d look wearing it. Nope.
It’s troubling that Kraglin would go ahead and do something Yondu said he shouldn’t bother about, especially something of this nature. The dress he bought wasn’t like the other dress. The old one’s all silk and shine, a slinky little number Yondu stole from some rich lady’s luggage on a pleasure cruiser they hit a few years back. Sexy, because Yondu only ever intended to wear it for sex. The new one is different. Fitted, but not revealing; it’d cover his skin, keeping his jungle-adapted body warm and hiding his scars from gawkers. Looks tough, too. Might have a chance of standing up to wear and tear of Ravager life.
In short, it looks like something Yondu could wear every day if he so chose. And he ain’t ready to contemplate the possibility that Kraglin’s aware of his inclinations in that regard.
Needless to say, things are cool between them, which doesn’t escape notice. Even the greenest newbies watch them with alarm, afraid to draw attention to the tension and praying it won’t snap in their presence. Yondu even puts himself on nights so they aren’t on the bridge together for very long. As a result the night shift is a mess of nerves. Yondu’s temper is up, the crew’s all but shitting themselves in terror, and the whole situation could have been avoided if Kraglin had just listened to what he’d been told.
One night, a couple of days later, Kraglin shows up on the bridge during the night watch, shuffling his feet and ducking his head to avoid making eye contact. Yondu resists the urge to sigh and shake his head. Sure, they have to talk eventually, he knows, but why now?
“Ten minute break,” he barks at the crew, who stare at him like he’s lost his mind. “Everybody out!”
The night shift flees like their tails are on fire. “And you best be back on time, else I’m gonna come lookin’,” he hollers after them.
The silence between them grows, but damned if Yondu’s going to break it, no matter how awkward it gets. After a few moments Kraglin does it for him anyway. It’s a bit of a surprise, honestly—Kraglin can be a stubborn bastard when he’s pissed, and he’s been known to drag the silent treatment out for days on end.
“Cap’n, I just wanted to say I’m sorry for what I done.”
Huh. That’s…different. Yondu finally turns to look at him. “Are you, now.”
Kraglin raises his chin. “I’m sorry that I done somethin’ you tol’ me you din’t want,” he elaborates. “Wasn’t my place. I thought you’d like it, but I didn’t mean to force nothin’ on you. Shoulda asked you first.”
“Yeah, you shoulda. I’d’a told you the same thing, though.”
Nodding, Kraglin looks down at the deck. “Yeah, I imagine so.” When he looks back at Yondu there’s something uncomfortably soft in his gaze. “I’mma hang onto the dress, though. ‘Til you’re ready for it.” Stepping close, he bends so his mouth is right next to Yondu’s ear. His voice is low. “Cap’n, I ain’t gonna think no less of you for lettin’ yourself have what you want. You know I won’t.”
Stunned silent, Yondu watches as Kraglin steps back. “When you’re ready,” he says, nodding at Yondu. It sounds like a promise.
Yondu watches him go. When he’s alone again, he sucks thoughtfully at his teeth. “Huh,” he says.
Problem is, what does he do now?
Things get back to normal between him and Kraglin, but their conversation weighs on Yondu. Even after they get back to bumpin’ uglies on the regular again, Yondu’s dress remains stowed in the storage locker under their bed. He thinks about wearing it, wants to, even, but he’s not ready to re-open that door just yet. For his part, Kraglin takes the hint and keeps a lid on their usual brand of bedroom talk. It’s been days since he last called Yondu girl.
Yondu’d be lying if he said he didn’t miss it.
Tonight they aren’t even screwing, just laying in bed in their underwear, like they’re old or something. Yondu’s flipping through the job boards on his data pad and squinting a little (not that there’s anything wrong with his eyes, it’s just this tiny goddamn font). Beside him Kraglin’s got his own data pad, comparing ship specs. Quadrant’s getting too expensive to keep repairing, old and damaged as it is.
“Did you know Xandar legally recognizes seven genders?”
Yondu scowls at his pad, too busy fiddling with the magnification settings to pay much attention to this apparently random bit of trivia. “Good for them,” he mutters, distracted.
“Yup,” Kraglin continues, as though Yondu is actually interested in this line of conversation. “’Course, that’s just among Xandarians as a species. ‘S probably at least double that once you take other folks in the Nova Empire into consideration, especially the ones without binary sex designation ‘n all.”
Finally, Yondu turns his head to stare at him. “What in the hell are you goin’ on about?” he demands.
“I jus’ figured you might find it interestin’, is all. What with Xandarians havin’ a binary male/female biological makeup.” He carries blithely on, ignoring Yondu’s open-mouthed astonishment. “Like my cousin Jemel, you know?”
At Yondu’s blank expression, Kraglin rolls his eyes. “I know I’ve told you about Jemel, cap’n. He used to bully me sumthin’ terrible when we was kids. He’s a right asshole; can’t fuckin’ stand him. Anyway, he come out as a boy when we was teenagers. School counselor signed off on it and everything.”
Still stunned, but with a growing suspicion about where this is headed, Yondu deflects. “You went to school?” It’s a stupid thing to say, but he’s feeling blindsided and on the defensive.
Kraglin rolls his eyes. “Cap’n, what I’m tryin’ to say is that gender ain’t about what you’re born with. And it don’t gotta be about what you wear or do, neither. It’s about what you feel.”
Yondu lays the data pad on the bedside table, giving himself a moment to compose his thoughts into some semblance of order. “In case it’s escaped your notice, I ain’t Xandarian.” Before Kraglin can say anything, he raises his hand. “Now, I think I understand what you’re gettin’ at, an’ it’s great that Xandarians is all open-minded and shit. Problem is, the rest of the galaxy ain’t. I’m male, an’ ain’t no dress pretty enough to change that. An’ what about the crew, huh? Whaddaya think they’re gonna do if I start goin’ around tellin’ everyone I’m a…” He can’t bring himself to say it, even in the privacy of his own quarters. “that I’m not a man? You don’t think that’d cause some problems?”
“To hell with the crew.” The steel in Kraglin’s voice takes Yondu aback. “No, really, cap’n, if they don’t like it, to hell with ‘em. You spent your whole life playin’ to other’s expectations of you. You deserve somethin’ for yourself.”
That’s a level of insight Yondu isn’t at all prepared for, so he waves it off. “You’re still forgettin’ somethin’, though. What in the hell would I tell Quill?”
If the open defeat on his face is anything to go by, Kraglin hasn’t given it any thought. “Ah, hell,” he says, slumping back against the headboard and crossing his arms. “Little bastard don’t even live here no more, an’ he still manages to ruin things.”
Yondu swats his arm, hard enough to sting. “Watch it,” he growls.
Kraglin raises his hands. “I didn’t mean it like that!” he protests. “Jus’…it shouldn’t be about what he thinks. Or the crew, or me, either. Should be about what you need.”
Kraglin’s just full of surprises today, isn’t he? Yondu swallows hard. He’s had about as much of this topic as he can stand for one night. “I ain’t talkin’ about this no more right now,” he announces, snapping his fingers to dim the light and scooching down under the covers. “An’ I ain’t makin’ no promises.”
“I didn’t ask for none,” Kraglin replies quietly. “Like I said, this is about what you need. Jus’ wanted you to know I got your back, whatever you do.”
Yondu gropes for Kraglin’s hand in the dark and squeezes, trying to convey through touch what he can’t bring himself to say. When Kraglin squeezes back, Yondu knows he got the message.
After their little chat, though, Yondu’s distracted the whole next day. He takes off a good half hour or so before the end of the shift (captain’s privilege) and digs around until he finally finds where Kraglin hid the dress. Turns out he stuck it in a duffel bag that’s been a feature of Yondu’s closet floor for so long he mostly forgot it was there.
The dress fits. He figured it would. And he has to admit, it looks good. The skirt hits just below his knees—if he were to wear it outside the bedroom, and that’s a big if, he’d want dark tights or something to cover his legs, or maybe tall boots. Needs different shoes to go with it anyway; his old boots aren’t suitable.
On reflex, Yondu fixes his holstered arrow to his side, winds his old scarf around his neck, and shrugs on his coat. Visually, the overall effect is not too different from normal. It’s not the differences that strike him, but the similarities. This dress isn’t like the other one. Wearing it, he still looks like himself—no, she looks like herself—ready to stride onto the bridge and take charge, whistle through her enemies, rob the galaxy blind. Nothing’s changed, except maybe a piece of Yondu that was set wrong has been put to rights.
She ain’t getting choked up staring at her own ugly face in the mirror. She ain’t. It’s just dust, is all.
The door opens, and Kraglin steps inside. He’s muttering something about damned rookies and wanting to hire a proper engineer, but he trails off as he takes in the sight before him.
“Oh, cap’n,” he breathes.
He comes to stand behind Yondu, who sets her jaw and meets his gaze squarely in the mirror. The way he looks at her is uncomfortably tender, and Yondu fights the urge to squirm.
“Well?” she demands. “Whaddaya think?”
Kraglin snugs himself up close, wrapping his arms around her waist and hooking his chin over her shoulder. “I think ya look ready to kick some ass,” he says. “It’s pretty frutarkin’ hot.”
Yondu rolls her eyes, but a ball of tension she didn’t realize she was still carrying around finally unwinds. She still doesn’t know how she’s going to handle telling the crew, and she flat-out refuses to consider the Quill situation for more than a couple seconds at a time. Whatever happens, though, Kraglin’s got her back.
Months pass, and Yondu settles into herself like breaking in new leathers. Bit stiff at first, but soon it’s like she’s never worn anything else.
The crew takes to the change easily enough. A couple of comments are overheard, which Yondu graciously allows Kraglin to take care of because it’s important for the first mate to show full support for the captain. For the most part, though, nobody much seems to care. Apart from the inevitable slip-ups early on when someone unthinkingly dropped a ‘he’ or ‘his’ when referring to Yondu, the whole thing is just about painless as could be.
Of course, that’s just the crew. There’s still the matter of Quill, which Yondu’s still avoiding. Yondu doesn’t regret their new closeness—how could she, after everything she’s given up for the boy—but it’s damned inconvenient sometimes. She goes so far as to start screening calls from the Milano (she and Rocket chat from time to time, too) calling back once she washes the makeup off her face and changes into her old clothes.
There’s only so many excuses she can make, though. Quill looks a little more hurt every time she feeds him another “something came up”, and their conversations have gotten progressively shorter and more closed off. Yondu can’t say she blames him for being frustrated. She can’t keep putting it off, she knows that. Just…not yet.
Eventually the decision is taken out of her hands. The Milano sends them a hail in the middle of the daylight shift, marked EMERGENCY in big red letters. Even then, Yondu hesitates a fraction of a second before hitting receive.
It’s not Quill, or Rocket. Gamora stares out of the screen, looking worried and determined. She blinks, obviously taken aback at the sight of Yondu, but shakes her head quickly to dismiss her reaction.
“Peter’s been taken,” she says, and something large and angry snarls to furious life in Yondu’s chest.
Since the Milano’s not too far, they rendezvous before going after Quill. Bounty hunters’ll probably be on the lookout for Quill’s ship anyway; likely they won’t recognize the Quadrant. Yondu doesn’t bother to change clothes before Quill’s crew comes on board; green gal’s already seen enough to know something’s going on, and Yondu’s gotta face it sometime. Might as well be while they're all distracted. She meets them in the docking bay, Kraglin a half-step behind, chin high.
Only Rocket comments. “Lookin’ good, Blue,” he calls. “Didn’t realize it was time for your annual bath.”
Kraglin bristles, and takes a step forward, running into Yondu’s deliberately placed elbow. Rocket being a dick is nothing special. Yondu grins down at him. “Least I don’t need to be dipped for fleas,” she replies, to which Rocket scoffs and waves a hand, casually dismissing the insult. They’ve said worse to each other in fun on late-night calls when they’re half drunk and looking to cut loose a bit. This is just a friendly hello for the two of them.
Groot clambers down from Rocket’s shoulder and dashes over to Yondu, tugging at her coat until she picks him up. “I am Groot,” he chirps, reaching out and patting Yondu’s face.
Yondu glances at Rocket, who rolls his eyes. “He says you look nice,” he translates, and Yondu smiles crookedly.
“Thanks, Twig,” she murmurs, settling the little tree on her shoulder, where he clings to her scarf.
Nobody else comments. Gamora clearly wants to, but she must have decided that now’s not the time because she keeps her mouth shut. The little bug gal looks confused, but it occurs to Yondu that she’s seldom seen her look otherwise. As for the big guy, Yondu ain’t entirely sure he notices the difference.
Gamora runs through what they know about who took Quill and they hammer out a plan. In the end, though, who they are and who they’re working for don’t much matter. Boy has more bounties on his head now than Yondu herself, which is both impressive and terrifying. (Being a hero, in Yondu’s considered opinion, is overrated.) What does matter is that nobody, not nobody, touches Yondu’s boy and lives.
They intersect the ship without much trouble, board, and unleash all kinds of hell. It’s Yondu who finds Quill in a holding cell, handcuffs already off and working on the door controls, clearly none the worse for wear.
"Ain't you freed yourself yet?” Yondu leans against the wall, arms crossed. Snark aside, she's pleased to see he's gotten this far on his own. Might not have needed them at all. It does wonders for her mood; the urgency of rescue is gone, replaced by a surge of relief and maybe even affection.
Quill looks up, expression pissy like he’s gonna snap at Yondu for not helping him out of the cell, and does a double take. “Uh,” he says.
Good mood gone, quick as it came. Yondu purses her lips, and sends her arrow through the door control, shorting the system and disengaging the forcefield.
Quill steps out, uncertain, thrown off balance by the sight of Yondu looking like…well, like she does. His eyes flicker over her, looking confused. Betrayed. “What exactly is going on?” he asks carefully. “I mean, I got knocked around a little when those dicks grabbed me, but I’m pretty sure I didn’t hit my head hard enough to start hallucinating.”
Yondu ain’t got time for this shit right now. “Get a move on,” she barks. “’Less you wanna stand around here jawin’ all day.”
Quill’s got the sense not to argue, and they haul ass to meet back up with the rest of the crew. By now they’ve decimated the bounty hunters, and Gamora drops the one she has pinned against the wall in a groaning heap on the floor when she sees Quill in favor of rushing over to hug him, like there was any doubt they’d save his sorry ass.
The short ride back to the Quadrant is tense. Quill’s friends take turns fussing over him and giving him shit for letting himself get grabbed, but Yondu catches him staring at her more than once, expression unreadable. Yondu pretends like she hasn’t noticed until they dock, at which point she grabs Quill by the arm and marches him down the nearest corridor, to much shouting and general nonsense from everyone.
“I ain’t gonna hurt ‘im,” she calls over her shoulder. “My boy an’ I are jus’ gonna have us a little discussion.”
Once they’re out of sight, Quill shrugs her off and spins around to face her. He’s upset. “Okay, what the hell is going on?” he demands. “What is all this?” He gestures pointedly. “Are you having a midlife crisis? Have you gone senile? Did you lose a bet?” His voice goes all accusatory. “Rocket put you up to this, didn’t he? That is not cool, man, seriously.”
It’s a sign of how far she and Quill have come that Yondu forces herself to breathe before she responds. “Don’t call me that,” she says.
“What, old? Senile? Uncool?”
“Man.” Yondu pinches the bridge of her nose against an incipient headache. “Don’t call me man. Ain’t right, not anymore.”
Quill’s mouth falls open, but no sound emerges for several moments. “Yeah, no, I’m pretty sure it is, unless there’s been a drastic change since the last time I saw you naked. Which was only about six months ago, when you were dying from space exposure, and while I definitely had other things on my mind I think I would have noticed something like that!”
Swallowing down bile and anger, Yondu clenches her fists. “Now I know you didn’t just imply that my junk makes me what I am.” The warning in her voice is sharp enough to cut.
Her tone gets through to Quill, because his mouth snaps shut, and he actually seems to consider his next words. “I don’t understand,” he finally says, voice small like she hasn’t heard it since he was a tyke. It sends a pang through her—maybe nostalgia, maybe regret. Probably a bit of both. “Will you please just tell me what’s going on?”
“All right, boy.” Yondu nods slowly. “All right. But we’re gonna need booze.”
They talk a long time, sitting side by side on Yondu’s bed, passing a bottle of rotgut back and forth.
“I wish I could say this wasn’t weird,” Quill admits. “You’ve always been a really macho guy, you know? I mean, sure, you and Kraglin had your thing where you’d get drunk and hook up and then pretend it didn’t happen, for like, decades, but there were women, too. And you never rented a bot that didn’t have tits.” He takes a gulp of whiskey. “I guess I know that who you sleep with doesn’t have anything to do with your, uh…with this--” he waves a hand, encompassing Yondu. “I just don’t get it.”
“For what it’s worth, I don’t really understand it either,” Yondu confesses. “But this is the way it’s gotta be. Didn’t feel right the other way, not anymore.”
“And this does?”
Yondu wishes the incredulity in Peter’s voice didn’t feel like a dull blade twisting in her gut. “Yeah, it does,” she says, but Peter’s still got disbelief written all over his face, so she pushes herself to try to explain. “Didn’t have no choices growin’ up. Boy, girl, whatever—it was all the same in the arena. Took a long time before I realized that there even were choices.”
Peter winces and looks away. “This, uh, discovery—is that why you stopped talking to me?”
“I didn’t know how to tell you,” she says, voice low and rough. “I was—” Selfish. Afraid. “Didn’t know how you’d react,” she finishes.
“Since when have you ever cared what I think?” Peter asks, honestly wondering.
Yondu snorts. “Fair point,” she concedes.
Quill finally looks her in the eye. “Just so you know, I’m not calling you mom. Ever.”
Taking another long pull from the bottle, Yondu passes it back to Quill. “That’s good, ‘cause if you did I’d probably hafta kill ya.”
The empty threat startles a laugh out of Quill. He bumps Yondu’s shoulder with his own. “Doofus,” he mutters.
It’s not perfect, but it’s a start. Yondu grins and hauls Peter close for a noogie, and laughs at the way he squawks and squirms.
Sometime after Quill and his friends take off, Yondu puts on her old dress for the first time since coming to terms with herself and rides Kraglin for all she’s worth.
The silk slides along her skin like water, except for where it’s still crusty with old stains. Kraglin did his best, but there’s only so much you can do once that shit sets. Oh well. Ain’t like it won’t have new stains after tonight anyway.
“Gettin’ so flarkin’ wet for me,” Kraglin pants, fingers rubbing her greedily under the dress. That’s true; she’s leaking like a faucet, wet enough to make the slide of Kraglin’s hand almost frictionless. “Fuck, cap’n, girl, oh fuck.” His other hand gropes her thigh, her hip, urging her on. “Flarkin’ gorgeous,” he slurs.
Back arched in a way she’s probably going to regret later, chasing her own pleasure, Yondu grins down at him and rocks faster. “Betchur ass I am,” she grits out.
Afterwards, when the stickiness has dried to an itchy crust, Yondu rolls herself stiffly out of bed to strip and shower. While she winces at the twinge in her back, she notices Kraglin staring at her with the dopiest expression she’s ever seen on his face—and this is Kraglin, so she’s got more than thirty years of dopy looks to compare it to. “What,” she barks, stretching out some of the kinks in her muscles and yawning.
Kraglin shrugs, smiles. “Like the way you look when you’re all fucked out, is all.”
“Idiot,” Yondu mutters, turning her back on him so he doesn’t catch the quick, involuntary quirk of her lips. Letting the dress slither off and pool on the floor, she steps out of it and heads for the shower. “You best hurry up an’ come on if you want any hot water,” she calls over her shoulder.
She hears him flailing around in the tangled sheets, struggling to free himself, and rolls her eyes. Might be they’ve got enough hot water rationed between the two of them for a little fun. Probably not going to manage a second round tonight, but hey. Won’t know unless they try.