This one features a certain pair of supernovas, but I think if you pay attention you can figure out who without me naming names!
He could still feel it.
The sensation of her lips on the thick muscles of his neck, on his broad shoulders, on the planes of his chest. They were soft, and she was warm. He remembered the feeling of the tiny hoop just below her eye brushing against him, cold in comparison to her warmth. It had all been nice; he hadn't realized just how nice it was at the time. Everything had been taken for granted—but he took everything for granted, didn't he?
Looking back, he wished he hadn't been so confrontational. Maybe they could have spent less time arguing and more time enjoying each other's company. She had been confrontational, too—he wouldn't let all the blame for that fall onto his shoulders. But … he could have tried a little harder, maybe, to not start fights. He liked fighting, he liked winning. He wouldn't ever admit to it, but he often went out of his way to start fights. A crass comment here, an insult there. He'd deny doing it until his dying day. But everyone knew him knew better.
And know him she had. She had managed to get under his skin and into his head before he even knew what was happening. He hadn't wanted it, and he resisted. He didn't want to become vulnerable to anyone; not even his first mate knew everything about him. The person who knew the most was his right hand, the masked soldier who kept him on his feet. He wasn't going to let his rival, some aggravating brat, into his head. He wasn't going to let her know who he was.
She had found out anyway. And, in turn, he had found out about her. There were more similarities than he had expected, and somehow, someway, they had become friendly at the very least. Their relationship did not progress as relationships normally do; he grew tired of her talking one day (truthfully, he was probably growing tired of everything that day) and no matter how many times he hissed at her to shut up, she kept going. Becoming even more fed up, he had (and he remembered it entirely clearly, like he had done it just this morning) ducked down, roughly putting his mouth to hers.
It had worked, if nothing else. She had stopped talking.
He remembered pausing there, with their lips pressed together. As he cracked an eye open he saw her expression, surprised and maybe a little distressed. But (much to his own surprise) he felt hers moving, hesitantly reciprocating against his. He froze; he had no notion of what he was supposed to do next—he hadn't thought that far ahead. He had tried to pull away but her hands cupped his face, holding him in place until he finally managed to break away, face heated and mumbling halfhearted curses under his breath.
But she didn't stop—she kissed him again, and again after that. It was like she couldn't stop once she had gotten a taste, and he soon realized that he didn't particularly mind.
He still remembered it. The taste of her mouth, the taste of her skin, the feel of her body moving against his—the memories were all vivid. He had lost all of it so quickly. He didn't let his crew see that he was bothered by it. He had an image to keep up, didn't he? The Captain.
"I'll be back, alright? I'll see you later."
It was the last thing she'd said to him. He didn't know where she was going, he hadn't cared. It was just somewhere.
But later never came.
