Not bad, you think, admiring yourself in the mirror. For a man pushing 60, who's commanding a desk, you're in fairly good shape. You can wear your plate carrier and not see belly fat pooling out from under the armor plate, even when you're relaxing and not sucking your gut in. Gennermen, very good, I like. At least you won't look out of place at the course this weekend. Having the right gear is key to looking cool, but you can't look cool if you're out of shape either.
Your phone rings and you glance at the screen. You roll your eyes at the caller ID, pause from where you're adjusting your kit and pick up the call. "Hello."
"Hey Johnny, it's me," announces His Imperial Highness the Prince of Akasha.
"Hey bro. Sup?"
On one hand, it's terribly indecorous for you, a mere commoner, to be talking so familiarly to an Imperial prince. On the other hand, you've known each other for decades, you were young officers together, you were his mentor, you were best man at his wedding, and in many ways, you're the big brother Prince Masatada never had.
"I'm in town and it's a long weekend this week, wanna hang?"
"I think the sentence you're looking for is, 'Hello Yonatan, would you like to have dinner with my lovely wife and daughter and I, my most cherished loved ones whom I haven't seen in months,' or maybe 'hey Hyung do you wanna spend time with your other family on a weekend away,'" you say dryly, reaching for your earplugs and slipping them in. "This also I gotta teach you some more isit? Walau. Seriously. What la you this. Some prince you are."
"My mother-in-law's spending the month with my wife, doing some more mentoring," says Masatada bleakly, and you snort. "I heard that Johnny, don't laugh at me."
"Look, it's been thirty years already, surely you've made some inroads into getting your mother-in-law to like you. You can't be scared of her for the rest of your life, you're a grown-ass man, a Navy Admiral, an Imperial Prince. Besides, Tengku Fauziah isn't that bad."
"You only say that because she likes you more than me."
"What can I say, it must be my natural boyish charm." You grin cheekily, as Masa exhales tiredly.
"Look, anyhow, thing is I really don't wanna spend the weekend around her, can I come hang at your pad? We can do stuff, hang, I dunno maybe visit your mom?"
"I think it says something when every time you suggest activities for us to do, eventually it always ends up with visiting my mom."
"Aunty Naomi is the only source of maternal love I have ever experienced in my life."
You roll your eyes and give yourself a critical once-over. "Well, this weekend's not really a good time for me. I'm going outstation for a course."
"...you. Attending a course. On the weekend. It's not one of those weird hobbies you and Sasha share, is it?"
"Nah. It's a tactical carbine course, with some handgun training tossed in, it's being run by those guys on the insta, you know, the ones I linked you: Phuc Long is organising, Mojo and Thumb are instructing. Gotta get them autographs, and be able to protect myself, y'know."
"...Johnny, you're a Fleet Admiral. You don't need to protect yourself. If you need protection, the Navy can get that for you. Hell, I can get you private security - and before you say anything, no I don't care how you feel about money, I'm perfectly fine with getting you the best security my money can buy."
"Masa, I wouldn't be a responsible citizen if I didn't know how to take care of myself. Besides, after what we've been through, I thought you'd understand."
"Bullshit, you're being a mall ninja, we're not JOs doing boarding party anymore," Masa retorts, and you roll your eyes. "Also like have you thought this through at all? You're going to a course with dudes with guns. You're going to be surrounded by dudes with guns. Like damnit Johnny, are you trying to get yourself killed?"
"I think you're going to have to unpack that for me," you say mildly, adjusting your straps and tugging the plate carrier into a more comfortable position on your chest, and patting down your pouches. There's a reason minimalist JPC-style plate carriers have endured for centuries; millions of users, yourself included, consider the somewhat reduced protection a worthwhile tradeoff for lighter weight, ease of wear, reduced fatigue, and greater comfort.
"You're going to a class with dozens of dudes around you, all of whom have guns! This is the easiest way for someone to "accidentally" assassinate you! All someone needs to do is just trip in just the right way for plausible deniability - or even get some idiot who doesn't know gun safety and just put him next to you, and BANG! No more Third Star Lord!"
"Eh, I don't think that'll be a problem. Sumeragi's got a vested interest in keeping me alive: if I die, their investment goes down the drain. They can't turn me into an asset if I'm dead."
"I don't even… It's bad enough you're shacking up with that Sumeragi honeypot, now you're deliberately putting yourself in danger. Hyung, surely you can't be this stupid," says Masa disgustedly.
"She's Ri-Sumeragi," you stress. "Cadet branch, y'know, not the main house."
"That doesn't make it any better at all!"
"I think you're overreacting," you say calmly. "Nothing's going to happen. Sumeragi needs me alive so they won't assassinate me, and they'll cockblock anybody trying to assassinate me. I'm going low profile, I'm not making a big deal of attending, and anyway Mojo and Thumb are servicemen, it'll look real bad for their careers if a Fleet Admiral dies at a course they're running."
"Johnny, I need you here for a minute," calls an imperious voice from her bedroom, and you sigh internally. You've been doing that a lot when she calls your name; maybe you need to rethink the life choices that have led you to this point.
"Coming, Maggie!" you call back.
"My ears," says Masa flatly, and you roll your eyes.
"Yeah anyway I can't make it, I'm heading to that course. Sorry bro. Maybe next week? You've still got time before you ship out to Salsu, right?"
"Yeah, I guess we can do next week. Or I could drop in at your office," says your brother, with no small amount of resignation in his voice. "You'll have to make it up to me for abandoning me in my hour of need."
"Goodbye, Masa," you say, chuckling. "Well I gotta go, I gotta go layan my girl. Reconfirm with me later ya."
"Wait what? Your girl? Nani the fuck? Yoyo goddamnit are you falling for the Sumeragi honeypot?! Yoyo! Yoyo you fuck get back on the phone! Damnit Yoyo stop doing stupid things-"
"Bye Mustard, I love you too," you laugh, and you disconnect the call. You slip your phone into your pocket and head to Maggie's room. When you first bought your house, you'd initially decorated this room as a simple if large guest room. When Maggie moved in, she turned it into a gigantic walk in closet. You still can't believe the amount of clothes she has. A woman should not need a hundred different bikinis, and that's not even getting into her uniforms, dresses, lingerie, and Lord knows what else that inhabits her budoir.
"In here, Johnny," she says, poking her head out your bedroom door, crooking a finger at you in a "come-hither" gesture, one that comes off as more demanding than sensual. You make your way unhurriedly to your room: this is your house, your castle, you are lord and master of this abode, you won't surrender all your dignity and pride to an inhumanly beautiful fox with many gloriously fluffy tails-
"I borrowed your shirt. I was wondering how well it suited me, I'd like a second opinion, Darling. I was thinking of wearing it to follow you to your course."
- an inhumanly beautiful fox who's wearing your newest combat shirt, and only your newest combat shirt. She arches her back, posing before the mirror, and looks at you over her shoulder, her dark blue eyes locking onto your own brown eyes, like a laser designator painting a target.
It's not like it's the first time you've seen her naked. But your mouth goes dry and you feel an instant flash of desire. You try to school your expression, but you're pretty sure she can read you, and she knows exactly what she's doing and the effect she has on you. That combat shirt she's wearing is brand new; you've only worn it once. On you, the stretchy fabric of the torso section is clingy. On Maggie, it moulds itself to her body, skin-tight against the outline of her nipples, her breasts straining against the fabric like an obscenely tight tent. She pulls the hem down, and you watch as the fabric stretches down toward her crotch.
"I think you'd pull all the focus from the trainers to you," you say, mentally commending yourself for managing to keep your voice level. Maggie turns a pleased expression your way.
"I was thinking that it would be a good thing to come along with you on your course," she continues. "Couples who do activities together, who share common interests, have healthier relationships. I was thinking I'd try step a little into your sphere of interest. I didn't have the right clothes, so I thought I'd borrow one of your shirts. And, well, I've heard that going commando is de rigueur for this sort of thing." She smiles innocently at you, accidentally-on-purpose letting the hem of the combat shirt slip through her grasp, riding up. You keep your eyes locked onto hers and mentally start calculating the throw weight of destroyer Fubuki's railguns per one hour of sustained firing, factoring in reload and cooldown times.
"I thought knives were more your speed," you say, and then you realise what you said and mentally kick yourself. You're supposed to be pretending that you're the harmless admiral who thinks with his dick who's been seduced by the Sumeragi honeypot. Some smooth operator you are, Fleet Admiral Chew.
If Maggie's realised the significance of that remark, she doesn't let on; she just raises one beautiful eyebrow at you. "Darling. I am rated Expert for both pistol and rifle marksmanship," she points out seriously. "You do realise who you're talking to, yes? A Sumeragi simply does not place herself in a situation where she may not excel. Your gun, please."
You give her a raised eyebrow and a sceptical look of your own, and move to your side of the bed, to your gun safe in the nightstand. You punch in the combination and remove your pistol from the safe. You eject the full magazine, clear the chamber, and insert an empty magazine into your gun, then flip it around to hold it by the barrel and extend it to Maggie, grip first. She takes it from your hand, ejects the empty magazine and inspects it, clears the chamber and verifies it's empty. She sets the empty mag on your bed and kneels beside it, ignoring how your combat shirt rides further up her frame. Her movements are smooth and precise; she carefully, deliberately disassembles your pistol. When she is done, there is now a collection of parts neatly laid out on your bed. As she works, your eyes are fixed on her, on her slender beautiful hands. She looks at the parts, nods satisfiedly to herself, picks up the frame, and is about to reassemble your pistol, when she looks up to you.
"Darling," she says, mock-chidingly, "you're looking at the wrong thing. There are better things for you to focus on." Her finger rests outside the trigger guard, pointing down. Your eyes track down, following the direction she points, before you wrench them back to look at her. Her smile is coy and amused, and you feel cornered. There's only one thing you can do.
"Your hands are beautiful," you say sincerely. "I think they're your best feature."
Maggie doesn't blush. "A Sumeragi is above such plebian displays of emotion," she'd once loftily told you. But her smile takes on a softer tinge, and her tails shift behind her, the way they do when she's happy.
You're pretty sure you're smiling like an idiot, but well. Some battles are worth losing.
So long as you win the war.
Saltfox Admiral and SEAltjew Adjutant, ho! 
