I leaned against the outer hull of the Nutpop, checking my watch until it was 15 past launch time. I sighed: Damn bitch overslept. Again.. I trudged up the spaceship’s ramp, grumbling about how unseemly it was for me to break my back inspecting your engines since the crack of dawn (though dawn was subjective since Tharros was a planet with 2 suns) while you snoozed like a baby. Perks of a bounty hunter, I suppose.

Every bounty hunter (or the good ones at least) had a personal assistant, much like how knights had squires back in the old days. For bounty hunters, their mechanics tracked their appointments, managed their finances, maintained their weaponry/ship, and generally lugged that shit wherever it needed to be in addition to menial bitch work. Sometimes we provided secondary support in combat, but for the most part we were caught up in administrative and managerial duties. After all, it was unreasonable to expect someone to catch the biggest, baddest criminals of the galaxy and do their taxes correctly, am I right?

A month ago a vacancy opened for The Valentine, a legendary woman who’d put a thousand space pirates and criminals behind bars. And with every one of them, right before she turned them in to the authorities (more often not with a couple plasma rounds in them), she would apply a fresh coat of redder than red lipstick, kiss their cheek, wink and tell them that ‘we’ll do the rest if you ever get out of there’. For the few that did escape maximum security prison on a revenge spree, she’d bust not their nut, but their chops and give them the same routine, only this time on the other cheek.

So when Valentine’s last squire, my predecessor, resigned to take a position in the Intergalactic Federal Nations, it was my golden opportunity to take the first step toward being a legend myself. Being Valentine’s apprentice, learning the tricks of the trade from the Gun Goddess herself, gaining the approval of my peers, procuring my own license and joining the ranks of the legends themselves was my lifelong dream since I was a boy gazing up at the stars. And I was lucky enough to be accepted!

But life’s a funny little trickster. And it turned out that when Valentine wasn’t busting bunkers as the awe-inspiring, cunning, hot, famous bounty hunter the public knew her to be, she was really just a-

foul-mouthed, belligerent, lazy, alcoholic man-eater.

My fist rapped against her cabin door. “Oi, Valentine, we’re going to be late to the rendezvous if you don’t drag yourself out of bed.” A month ago I would’ve waited patiently outside your door, under the assumption that you hard at work on something not meant for my eyes. By now though I knew that if you weren’t up by 10, it was because you had 10 drinks the night before. With a scowl, I twisted the titanium door handle and forced- my way inside, flinching instantly at the smell of sweat-dried jumpsuits and week-old hoagie sandwiches. I flipped on the nearest light switch, illuminating the pigsty masquerading as your cabin in addition to the curvature of your toned, naked buttocks which weren’t adequately covered by the thin blanket you were sleeping under.

“Ay, Valentine, get up,” I shook you by the shoulder lightly, rolling you onto your back so that I wouldn’t be caught staring when you awoke. But doing so only brought your perfect, perky breasts to my attention instead. I shook you a tad more forcefully this time, ignoring the dangling melons best I could. “We’ve got a rendezvous to make; you can’t afford to miss it.”

In response, you slapped your left hand over your eyes to block out the fluorescent light while you extended its sibling out toward me lazily. “Eugh,” You groaned in a muffled voice.

“What’s that? I don’t know what ‘eugh’ means.” I frowned at her exasperatedly.

“Eugh” You repeated, more insistent this time. Hungover little shit must want water. I brushed several empty chip bags off your desk beside the mini-fridge, finding a mug that smelled distinctly of rum and Coke. After I rinsed it out in your bathroom, I filled it up halfway before returning and placing it in your outstretched hand. I watched as you brought it to not your lips, but your nose. You sniffed it, grimaced, and then shoved the mug in my direction. “Eugh.”

Oh. Beer. “You’re not drinking fucking Keystone Light at ten-fucking-thirty in the morning.” I scolded, much louder this time. With that, you reluctantly bring the mug back to yourself and begin sipping from it. I exhaled, sitting on the mattress beside you. “Also couldn’t you drink something classier?

You clear your throat, then murmur. “I drink plenty of classy things.” Although groggy and sleepy, your voice still retained that unquestionably quality that attracted so many people to you. It was perhaps the sole reason why I couldn’t hate you. It lacked the sexiness or sultriness of your body, but it had a feature I couldn’t attribute to a physical object. Your voice seemed to slither playfully into another’s ear, riding on a wave of playfulness and glee reminiscent of a child who’d never realized life’s hardships. It reminded me of those old Earth cartoons where the protagonist had an angel and devil on opposite shoulders, except with you it seemed that both of them worked in tandem for entertainment value. Perhaps it was a coping mechanisms, like gallows humor?

“Like what?”

“Like Long Islands. Sometimes an apple-tini.”

“Long Islands aren’t classy. If anything they’re the opposite since you get smashed so fast off of them.”

There was a pause. “Well that’s what you think,” As I rolled my eyes, you pushed the now-empty mug in my direction, gazing blearily at me with those alluring light green eyes sprinkled with amber flecks. As I put away the mug, you lurched forward until you sat upright, head buried in your heads. You reached out towards me for what felt like the millionth time, “Oh god, I’m so hung over. Mmm, help me up.”

With a sigh, I wrapped your right arm around my shoulder and stood up, making sure to keep my gaze averted from your naked form as you regained your balance. When you finally seemed capable of standing on your own feet, I broke away from you and leaned against the doorframe of your cabin door as you stretched your arms overhead, arching your back, everything on full display for me to see. Afterwards, you began picking up various jumpsuits off of the floor for smell checks. “And for God’s sake, you should’ve mentioned you needed to do laundry. Doesn’t cost much to hire a maid once a week. ” I shook my head disdainfully.

“That means less money for beer. Just throw my shit in the hamper for me and we’ll make a pit-stop at a Laundromat sometime.” You tossed one of your dirty bras at me. What I once perceived to be carelessness was now replaced with the knowledge that you loved getting rises out of people. And their pants. Out of the corner of your eye, you smiled slyly at me and winked before you mockingly picked up a white t-shirt and covered your chest with it. “And here I thought you were a gentleman, but now I’ve caught you red-handed taking advantage of a drunk woman. Oh, what would the IFN say if they knew?”

“I wasn’t looking.” I retorted, crossing my arms across my chest, cheeks lightly flushed.

“Oh?” Mock anger flashed across your face. Your hands moved to your hips, discarding all prior pretense. “Am I not good looking enough for you? You look at these breasts and tell me they’re not perfect. I said look at me! That’s a direct command from your captain!”

It was obviously a trap. But disobeying direct orders was against my duty, even if I was duty-bound to you of all people. So I forced myself to look in your direction, my eyes flickering toward your flawless breasts topped with perfect pink nipples. “They’re perfect.” I say in a voice as flat and emotionless as I can muster in an attempt to maintain some semblance of professionalism.

You giggled, a smile curling at the corner of your lips as you ruffled your hair lazily. There it was again: that shimmering, alluring quality that no one else’s voice had. “And nobody dislikes perfect things, am I right or am I right?” When I forced myself to look away but inevitably found myself staring at you again, you blew a kiss at me before singing in a rhythmic voice, “You’re such a pervert, you’re such a pervert.”

Childish as she may be, results are results. Results are results. Results are results. I chanted internally as I forced myself to keep breathing in and out evenly. “I’m going to the cockpit. Meet me there when you’re ready for takeoff.”

“Okayyyyy, I’ll see you there Dar-ling!” You took care to emphasize the two syllables as you began slipping into one of your jumpsuits before I slammed the door behind me and sighed.

Fuck her, space cowboy.

Thanks for getting down to the bottom of this prompt if you managed to do so. I realized this was very long, not even really that dirty, but it’s something that I felt really needed to be stated to give you an idea of what their relationship is like. It’s not that sexual, but there’s a level of camaraderie and companionship that I couldn’t describe in a different way.

A space adventure, let’s talk before we play. I’d envisioned this as more of a mature, playful and flirtatious bounty hunter having the time of her life whilst teasing and flirting with her new mechanic much to his annoyance. He’s reluctant to indulge her out of professionalism and his disdain for her frivolousness, but respects her begrudgingly because she gets results.

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