Work Text:
To say the past week has been a blur would be quite an understatement, but honestly… that seems to be the only appropriate word to describe Stelle’s ‘reawakening’ of sorts. Abstracts of muted color dot the backdrop holding her universe in its spreading cusp, an expansive palm forever moving forward when she parts her curtains and watches life pass by in relative brevity. Asteroids wink in their wake before becoming another smear on the already smearing landscape, another aforementioned blur. Memories chained and locked, invisible walls, no matter how hard she tries to piece together what might’ve been from a distant’s past it’s like trying to cradle a star. Impossible.
So, here she stands. Contemplates, perhaps.
Though, to contemplate would mean pondering as a philosopher does, would it not? She’s not totally sure if tracing every edge of that woman’s delicate jaw, the tumble of her wined-and-dined hair, glossed smile in her mind befits such a heavy word. If she’s to steal a term from March 7th, it’d be along the lines of daydreaming over a ‘crush.’ A crush, who, you know, deserted Stelle in the middle of a space station invaded by entities wanting to rip her apart. Some might say complicated, Stelle would venture to say it’s more along the lines of, complex.
‘Listen, Stelle.’
The door softly creaks ajar.
And speaking of March - somewhat, anyway - she glances behind to find the girl’s head peeking through, eyes meeting and March’s to expand upon immediately being caught as the cat does the mouse. Mouse does the cat?
Some playful pout greets. “Seriously, what are you - another Dan Heng?”
“More the merrier,” Stelle replies, humming along the wave of a laugh as March’s expression twists into a tight pinch. How far to push her is a variable unknown in regards to their newfound friendship, teasing to the threshold suited for an outright bicker before subduing herself - unlike the thrash of a storm March and Dan Heng can venture into.
And so does Stelle wave her inside - because she’s definitely not going to leave without getting whatever she came here for first - and the door clicks behind in a quiet tap. Curious. March isn’t really the type to settle for careful, tip-toed steps and murmured words since initially meeting her, and thus Stelle pulls the blinds back shut before fully turning around.
“Is something the matter?”
“Of course not!" March shakes her head hard enough to pop it right off as she beams a sunshine smile, fluttering over in careful grace to sit on the edge of Stelle’s bed. Small girl, hardly has the mattress sinking, feet merely grazing the carpet. Her trail traces over a cuticle in the harp’s plucking, maybe nerves. “I actually wanted to talk to you about something. Not bad! Just… something…?”
Hm.
This could either go very well or very… not well. Stelle can’t consider herself an expert on people, socialization - anything befitting having uh, actual years of working experience to base the entirety of the human race on - but here’s been this digging sensation in the swelter of her gut that the way March acts with her seems a few degrees off than with the others.
Like, Stelle is the source of some muse March is desperate to photograph from every conceivable angle, and this photographer is willing to bend over and spread them if the model finally agrees. Conceited, she’s sure.
(Much like she still believes She ever-so faltered before leaving her behind as the arachnoid does its spawn).
“Not inspiring any confidence so far,” is Stelle’s stilted reply, straddling the fine line of a very clever and witty comment (or not) when the edges of her vision still falter and crackle with every step made, when being in the company of those so unfamiliar have her intestines knotting themselves into what can’t be undone without the eventual snip.
Their crew has given her space during these trying times of settling in, gaining her bearings, but… March hasn’t; she acts like she wouldn’t know how it felt despite supposedly being in the same boat once upon a midnight dream. Weird, plastic words and the like.
Their thighs touch when Stelle sits next to her, the mattress groaning with the weight.
(She thinks of leather, missing the coolness).
“So, what’s up…?”
March continues to pick away at her flaking cuticle, mulling over whatever she’s about to say for a long while as Stelle patiently awaits the verdict of this night’s continuation. Hopefully, if naively, it’s nothing of a too serious nature. Some invisible boundary she crossed without prior knowledge, the truth of her snatching March’s gluttonous juice packs when she isn’t looking finally revealed by those who can’t keep their mouth shut.
She’s still so tired, anyhow. Still a galaxy away despite the warm flesh sitting beside each other.
Then, “You know, I… I still haven’t shown any gratitude for you saving my life that day.”
Oh. Oh.
Stelle immediately relaxes to that of a weaker spine, flickered curl to her lip. She shrugs. “You don’t need to show me anything. I mean, there’s nothing I’d particularly want as a reward, anyway.”
For some odd reason, this has March deflating as a pricked balloon does, helium shushed right out to crestfallen despair - the incessant picking coming to an abrupt halt to meet Stelle’s weary gaze with a furrowed brow. They stare, at a battlefield within the mind, who wins and loses determined by arbitrary standards and rules Stelle has no clue about nor cares about.
She thinks, really, enough of a reward would be to have her room remain as a sanctuary for the rest of the night. Leave her be.
Sunken eyes dip briefly to then realize March 7th is dressed in fine silk garments with way too much exposure to the thighs, midriff, wondering how the hell she hadn’t seen the state of her beforehand - running on a forever autopilot and the intricate details shading in her fellow passenger takes up too much power to even try. Now that she’s finally rendered, finally aware, Stelle has been gawking for entirely too long.
March notices, of course.
“Nothing at all, huh?”
Stelle keeps quiet.
Carefully, March takes Stelle’s hand in her own without an ounce of resistance. Cold, belonging to a corpse while some beaten instinct forces Stelle to warm March’s between her own two. Not visible within the tense grip she squeezes. A sprawl similar to bloodshed spreads across March’s cheeks, the tilt of her nose. Playing into roles long forgotten yet hardwired in the tangle of web left with the dust and mites.
“You know, you’re cute acting so indifferent to me,” March giggles, a flourish of life brightening every facet yet the chill remains the same. If anything, Stelle’s nerves are starting to crystalize. “But then I constantly catch you staring without any sense of shame, like it’s to be expected after being my knight, and… I kinda like it.”
The tips of her ears burn at the confession.
“March—“
“—so there’s no need to be shy with me, Stelle.”
Somehow, she easily manages to slip her hand away and if you were to ask Stelle in the not-so-distant future how she ended up ready for burial with the confines of her mattress as the coffin, she’d offer peanuts. The recollection isn’t there, another lost piece, mere static and white noise with the tongue’s rumination begging to plea that she’s confused and delirious while the teeth refuse to part.
March weighs little. The flea to mutt, as it takes another whirring mechanism to see that she straddles her waist, pressing her pelvis forward to…
“Mm.”
…rock back and forth. Heat pools between Stelle’s thighs, pulsating blood as March holds onto her shoulders like handlebars rutting against her and chasing the high Stelle is kinda feeling right now, too. Another wash of delirium and feel-good chemicals that have names she can’t possibly recall. Stuff that head doctor at the space station goes on about she wants to seal inside her skull to stop the endless noise from continuing.
At least March is distracting her from it… with unconventional means.
“I-Is that you pressing against me?” she asks suddenly, forcing Stelle to peel away the shtick of dead body to glance up at her, confused, before March lifts herself up enough to reveal a tent being pitched in Stelle’s sweats and—
“Why am I poking out?”
March's lashes flutter as moth wings do at the inquiry before she seems to have some sorta revelation - lips stretching into a thin smile. “It means you’re enjoying this, Stelle. A good thing! You get hard,” she giggles in another fit of red, “when you like someone a lot.”
Stelle considers this for a moment, sighs as it hurts her head, so nods her acceptance and doesn’t bother to question further. Seems true enough. She’s woken up in a lesser state of ‘hard’ having dreams about Her.
Nothing like this, though - throbbing when March pokes at it with a fingertip.
“I wanna see it,” March casually announces and proceeds to hook and pull Stelle’s sweats and underwear down in one fell swoop, alarming to be suddenly exposed to the world, thankful her blinds are closed lest the stars see the weird drool leaking out from the top. This must be good however as March leans down to… lick?
Her tongue darts out and she can’t stop giggling as she laps the substance up, sending a plethora of vibrations tingling and pleasurable. Stelle didn’t know someone’s mouth could belong down there - working a hand into March’s hair in some practiced motion she has no clue of and pushing her head down enough the tip slips past March’s lips.
Then she moans. And it’s unclear who’s doing the moaning here because the tingling returns but Stelle is performing backflips on metaphorical clouds as March looks up to her in lulled eyes and starts to suck. Hardly anything, just that flared bit, and wow the feel-good chemicals are seriously kicking in.
An itch builds in the back of her skull as March continues to suckle, kitten licks to take the edge off and it’s nothing done before, and yet… the hot press of iron warming her stomach is. She’s been branded, the mark invisible, the painful sting remembrance.
March ever so gently nibbles and Stelle’s hips buck.
Laughter.
“You know what would feel even better?” March’s eyelids are still drooped, spit smeared as she slowly shucks her shorts down (no underwear, is she the type not to wear anything?) and guides Stelle’s cock between her thighs. She leans forward ‘till they’re face to face and starts rutting her hips again… but this time it’s wet. Really wet, hot and skin-to-skin with this delicious friction that’s having sparks appear at the edge of Stelle’s vision.
She wraps her arms around March’s body as a tether to the current reality the harder she grinds down, seemingly pleasing her crewmate ‘cause she whispers Stelle’s name like a prayer before pressing their lips together. March’s mouth is soft, and her tongue tastes kinda salty from what must’ve been that stuff leaking out. Stelle chases it and March willingly lets her, moans obscenity when following the tracks left behind from before, and sucks on March’s tongue.
The mattress creaks and groans in March’s fervency on top of her, whimpering and gasping like some sorta animal in heat holding Stelle’s face in her hands, squeezing. She’s saying stuff, a lot of Stelle’s name, assurances of how much she’s wanted this, a ‘Want you inside me’ and all Stelle can think of is, ‘Where?’
“Feeling close… to something,” Stelle mutters ominously, not exactly sure what that ‘something’ is but her muscles are tightening, pressure building close to some sorta peak and it dawns on Stelle this might be what Herta meant about eventually exploding in the middle of the day.
She tries to warn March about needing to stay ten feet away during this upcoming casualty but March ignores her and squeezes herself around Stelle’s cock and—
“Stelle!”
Stelle closes her eyes shut, waiting for the bomb to drop, but apparently the bomb Herta meant was spurting out hot loads of a white substance over March’s… nether regions. Definitely not what Stelle has, more inwards, concave if she wants to be fancy. Maybe that’s what March meant with inside? Who knows.
In any case, March smears the substance through it after she shudders her whining cry and that foggy headspace Stelle’s been trapped in clears to a single conclusion: what they just did now has her feeling uneasy.
Standing on the cliff to then be torn apart by jagged rocks below.
March looks happy, though.
And, at the end of the day, that’s what matters.
Right?
(Right).