Chapter Text
Stars, you hate Quorl.
It’s the stupidest, most confusing, least-fun thing you’ve ever done in your life, and that’s including your last relationship. In a last ditch effort to figure it out, you pick up what you believe is the correct piece and set it on what you hope is the correct puck, and then the system blinks red and rejects it out across the stadium to some other poor sap.
Fuck this.
You turn to leave, but your ill-fitting game boots get stuck in the mud that feels more like slime, and your legs are so weak from dragging yourself through it for the last hour that you have to just stand there for a moment and catch your breath.
“Having fun?” your best friend asks breathlessly, spraying you with artificial swamp goo as she sloshes by.
“No. I’m quitting.”
“What? We just got here! There are still seventeen more rounds to go!”
She looks disappointed, but barely, her eyes lit up with the high of competition and glancing excitedly at her score displayed on the dome.
“I’m gonna go take a nooner,” you grumble, abandoning your boots to squish barefoot through the muck.
She laughs. “Do you even know what a nooner is?”
“A nap,” you answer irritably over your shoulder.
“Alright then, see you at dinner! You’ll be feasting with the champion, cause I’m gonna stomp everyone else...”
Her voice fades away as you gain distance and painstakingly make your way to the entry platform. You pass thousands of other life forms who, like your friend, somehow grasp the concept of the game effortlessly, and have mountains of pucks assembled. Star Cruise, they call it, the first luxury cruiseliner to traverse the galaxy with half a million life forms on board. At least, it was the first one a few hundred years ago. Now its claims to fame are the incredibly dated decor, the enormous dome for Quorl, and the fact that it’s really, really cheap to book. Your friend joked that you’d actually be saving money by coming with her for a few weeks here, and in a way she’s right.
It’s nice though, to vacation without being constantly surrounded by rich entities parading by with their harems. You’re anonymous here. Just one quitter among a stream of others, making their way to the showers after exhausting themselves in the slime. You click the lock closed on a private shower and try to clean yourself quickly, which isn’t easy because your legs are trembling from overworked muscles. But the hot water feels amazing so you diligently work over yourself, cleaning muck out of every crevice until you’re satisfied that you can forget about Quorl for the rest of your life.
After taking advantage of the instant hair dryer — you definitely don’t have that back home — you make your way out with everyone else, checking your direction card even though you’ve memorized it in the week you’ve been here.
The way the ship is arranged, it’s made for efficiency. Everyone can presumably journey from any corner of the ship and back to their room in under twenty minutes. Feet on the ground cause traffic, they say, so the faster they can get people to their destination, the fewer clogs in the system.
Even so, you’re endlessly surrounded by fellow travelers, despite the Quorl game still going on. You get your jelly legs off one transport belt and onto another, get your shoulder jostled by an unapologetic-looking insectoid, and inwardly start pouting to yourself. Yes, you’re having a pity party while you’re on vacation. Beings are starving and enslaved across the galaxy, and you’re here on a cruise ship, wallowing because you’re no good at everyone’s favorite game, and that means you’ll be alone today.
Pathetic, really.
There’s so much to do here, it doesn’t feel right that you’ve got this suffocating cloud following you, making you feel as if this giant transport were a tiny closet. It’s like your sense of normalcy is what’s holding you back, directing your feet to your boring room so you can lay on your boring bed and think your stale, stupid thoughts. You have access to so much , and yet you limit yourself, and then mourn it, like some victimhood-addicted slug.
It’s stupid. You’re stupid, you’re useless, there’s nothing interesting about you. You could die in your room today and it would make no waves in the galaxy, probably wouldn’t even make it to the daily ship update log. Most of what you’ve learned in school has already evaporated from your brain and you’re so fucking normal, you bore yourself. You’re sick of yourself. Nothing matters.
Nothing matters.
That thought has your feet stalling when you get to the next transport belt. Bodies smack into you, and people grumble at the disturbance in their monotonous journey, but you barely notice. You step out of the way and look around, stare down the line of pristine carpet alongside the transport belt, where no one has probably stepped in weeks. There are hallways branching out there, empty hallways because this is a midpoint in travel. There’s no reason for anyone to be here, the area might as well be closed off for how line after line of people cruise right by it, their eyes glued to the directional signs overhead and their cards in their hands.
This isn’t against the rules. There are no warnings to keep out, or doors to force open. No one looks at you, as you choose an empty hallway and head for it. You can simply walk down the abandoned passageway, farther and farther from the crowd of passengers, and no one is going to stop you.
Eventually you stop straining your ears for shouts or commands. The security system surely monitors movement where it isn’t allowed, so if you were doing something wrong, you’d know. Exploring, that’s all it is. If you’re not doing something wrong, and if this continues to feel so fucking good in your chest, you must be doing something right. Even your depleted legs find some new energy to pull from, propelling you faster and faster towards the unknown.
The hallway dead ends in two directions, turning into passageways lined intermittently with numbered doors. You choose the left one, and just barely remember to note it in your mind because the hallway is suddenly different. The decor changes, becoming plush, but also more muted in color. The bold and flashy decor of the rest of the ship melts away, and you’re soon surrounded by blacks and greys and champagnes, with artwork hung on the walls. The lights are warmer here, almost romantic in their tasteful dimness. The clash of worlds is disorienting, almost like you’ve just stepped straight from a casino and into some merchant’s townhouse. You can’t even hear the rumble of the crowd anymore, and it makes you feel small as you automatically slow your steps to creep down the hall, like you’re some rat sneaking through a king’s pantry.
A wide doorway is open up ahead. You tell yourself you’ll walk past without looking, because you’re really not supposed to be here, but when your feet carry you alongside it, your head automatically swivels to peek.
“Ah, there you are.”
You stop in your tracks when a droid immediately addresses you, looking up from where it’s hunched over a datapad on a desk. It’s shiny and polished for a droid, so it’s probably a companion droid for someone wealthy.
“Oh, um—“ you start to say, but it cuts you off in the typical droid monotone.
“You’re late. He doesn’t like that. Please have a seat, and I’ll let him know you’re here.” The droid quickly disappears behind a door, which whooshes shut behind it.
He? An insane giggle tries to crawl its way out of your chest but you tamp it down into a gulp, looking incredulously around the richly furnished room. This is obviously the Wealthy People Area, secluded away from everyone else so that no gutter trash will come accidentally wandering by. Just for the hell of it you step a little ways into the room, glancing around at the intricate floral hangings.
‘Oh, hi,’ you senselessly recite in your mind. ‘Why yes, I am the princess of Blahblahia, here to meet my betrothed for the first time. How ever do you do?’
Your friend is going to laugh herself hoarse when she hears about this. You should probably leave now before the droid returns, but you childishly remain there for a few seconds, eyeing the delicately carved chair where you’re supposed to be sitting. Unfortunately, that’s a few seconds too long. A door slides open behind you, and you turn your head with a ridiculous, smug smile, which instantly drops away when your eyes connect with the man standing there.
There’s no doubt in your mind that this is the ‘he’ who doesn’t like to be kept waiting. It’s written in every line of his body, from the rigid way he keeps his shoulders back, to the scarred eyebrow framing the glare that’s currently being leveled at you. He’s dressed in all black, not the spongy sort of suit that you’d expect from a rich diplomat or politician, but plain fabrics draped to hide most of his form. He has some kind of breathing apparatus encasing his lower face from nose to jaw, leaving only clear blue eyes exposed, and a decent stock of red-brown hair that’s sprinkled with silver.
“Oh!” you fidget your fingers together, taking a step back, “I’m– um, actually—“
“You will not be late again,” comes a firm, sculpted voice from behind his modulator.
Immediately a pleasant haze settles over you, and it’s like you’ve never heard anything more true in your life. You will never be late again. Why the hell would you even let that happen? Being on time for him makes so much sense that you feel it down to your very bones. If you ever accidentally stumble into this mystery man’s office again, you will be so on time it’s not even funny.
“Now,” he says, moving past you to press a gloved hand to the panel, closing the doors to the hall. “How are you?”
You blink stupidly, trying to shake off that weird, floaty feeling, and unable to look away because you’ve never in your life seen anyone move like that. The man’s strides are slow but fluid at the same time, and yet he’s somehow able to cross the room in just a few seconds. How does that even work? Do the laws of physics somehow not apply in this secret, rich person suite?
He’s suddenly standing right in front of you, tilting his head down to look you over, and holy fuck he’s tall. Wait, he asked you something.
“I’m… good…” you croak, trying in vain to swallow enough spit down your throat to speak normally. You can’t decide where to look, because the mask over his face is obviously off limits, and the scar, and his body, and all that’s left are his fucking eyes—
“I was told you’d be shorter.”
“Oh, haha. S-sorry,” you stammer, nervously glancing towards the door controls and wondering if you should cut your losses and just launch yourself at them. This is not going well. What if he really does think you’re some kind of diplomat’s daughter? What if you’re supposed to be sold into slavery or someth—
“Look at me.”
You obediently yank your eyes straight to his, though it’s nearly an impossible task. They’re so fucking blue, so clear and intent that it’s like this complete stranger can see right through you, and at this point you’d rather get in trouble with the ship’s security than stare up at him for very long. His eyes rove over your face, and you can’t help but drop your gaze, following the ragged scar down his neck to where it disappears into the collar of his tunic.
“I said, look at me.”
That bizarre feeling grips you again, compelling your eyes up while his modulated voice wraps around your mind. It somehow infiltrates you, gets into your nervous system and forces you to obey, and it— shit— the dominance of it sends a little blood between your legs.
“You’re pretty,” he murmurs, and that sends heat rushing up your neck. It’s the bad kind of heat, the kind that makes your heart gallop and your anxiety spike and all logical thought evaporate out of your head.
“Thanks,” you say stupidly, moistening your annoyingly dry lip. “You too.”
He makes a kind of bark into his mask, sounding so foreign to your ears that it takes you a few seconds to realize it was a laugh. “You’re new to this, aren’t you?” He finally asks, his eyes narrowed in what you think might be a smile.
“Yeah,” you whisper. Really fucking new, like right-this-moment new to whatever is happening right now. You have got to get out of here. Make your apologies, explain yourself, fuck, pretend you left something outside even, because things are rapidly spiraling out of your control.
“I’d like to conduct a test of your responsiveness, before any sort of understanding between us occurs. You’ll be paid for it, of course.”
“A…test?”
The man reaches into his pocket and withdraws a tiny metal object, displaying it in his leather-covered palm for a few seconds so you can see the glass cylinder already loaded into it. You may be an idiot, but you recognize a hypodermic when you see one.
“Jucinthe,” he explains quietly, taking the last step into your personal space to tower over you. “From Felucia. It will enhance things for you.”
“This is… for the test?” You ask quickly, jumping a little when his hand makes contact with your arm. Shit, this is insane, you can’t do this.
“Hey,” he says in that low, tinny voice, and your eyes automatically fly up to his. “You’ll barely notice it.”
It’s getting easier now to look at him, partly because you’re getting used to it, and partly because he’s no longer glaring at you. There’s a softness in his gaze now that wasn’t there before, which is worrisome because that means he’s mistaking your anxiety for nervousness. If this is something that someone who would assumedly know what the fuck was going on would still be nervous for, then—
“Ow,” you gasp, jerking your arm away from his grasp, but it’s too late. He’s already tucking the hypodermic back into his pocket, and you rub your fingers over the faintly stinging mark on your arm while you stare down at it with a growing sense of dread. You just let some completely random stranger inject you with some unknown substance. Stars, what is wrong with you?
“You should feel it soon,” he says. He’s got his head tilted again, casually observing your features while he waits for some undisclosed physical reaction.
But you don’t feel anything. All you feel is frustration at yourself for not getting out of this mess sooner, because you know exactly why you haven’t spoken up yet. There’s something about this man, something about this adventure, that you can’t seem to resist. You want to do this, to find out the hard way what sorts of things were meant for whoever you’re impersonating. There’s only a flimsy door between you and escaping back the way you came, and it feels safe enough right now.
You know you should be more afraid of this objectively dangerous man, but instead you just feel flustered at the way he’s looking at you, like he’s expecting you to perform for him. Stars, you want to. You want to impress him in any way you can, because he’s somehow stroking some deep seated daddy issues that you never knew existed.
If only you could think past those blue eyes, and say something charming. But it feels like your lungs are limiting you to shallow breaths, and your hands are sweaty, and you don’t even know if you’re pretty enough for someone like him. Genuinely all you’re capable of is stupidity and pathetic impulses at this moment, so if that drug is supposed to make you feel powerless and brainless and a little bit horny, it’s working.
Oh, shit. It is working. You suck in a quick, panicked inhale when you realize, when you have to adjust your legs because of the sudden tingly pressure between them. That — holy fuck — that was an aphrodisiac that you just willingly took in your arm. Shit, shit.
“There we go,” he says, somehow gleaning your internal distress by just the look on your face. He takes a step back, and oddly that makes you upset. “Your responsiveness will not affect your pay today, it only decides if you will be asked to return.”
There is going to be – and you know this for certain – absolutely no trouble with your responsiveness. He steps around you to your back, and a delicious shudder ripples down your spine when you feel his confident hands begin to work at the fastenings of your tunic. He’s getting you naked. You know this probably isn’t part of the ‘test’ but you can’t help your reaction to it, with your skin flushing hot with arousal. You’re simply aching to feel his fingers roaming your body, to acclimate to having his hands on you while the drug continues to sensitize your skin.
Maybe the aphrodisiac was a good choice because it actually allows you to relax into what’s happening. One by one the articles of clothing slide off your body, and you dive headlong into that obedient mental state. All you need is some fucking fingers between your legs and you’ll be good with pretty much anything. You don’t even think about what it means that he’s apparently paying you for this, you don’t plan your escape, you just stand there clenching your thighs as you become more and more naked, and you like it.
A Starliner hookup is good for you, your horny brain reasons. You were planning on trying to get one anyway, so the fact that it sort of fell into your lap like this is actually perfect. Sure, you don’t know his name, but he’s hot, and older, and that synthetic voice coming from his modulator is sort of doing it for you right now. You’ve never been with someone so in control of themselves, so focused on you that you don’t think you could twitch a single finger without him noticing.
Now you just need to-– stars, now you just need to get fucked.
Finally you’re nude in front of him, shifting your weight back and forth between your bare feet on the soft carpet. How he’s managed to take off all your clothes without touching any of your erogenous zones, you can’t fathom. He must have been expressly avoiding stimulation, whether out of customary politeness or some twisted method to torment you.
Your nipples are tight from exposure to the cool air and your pussy is wet, drooling a slow, embarrassing trail of slickness between your legs that you hope he won’t notice when he gets between them in a minute.
“Are you ready for the test?” He asks as his eyes finish their slow journey from your toes to your face.
Shit. The test. What kind of test was it again? Fuck, you insides feel like they’re grinding themselves together in search of friction. Stars, what was the question?
“Tell me,” he orders, and that same feeling flutters up your throat, that inescapable need to obey.
“I want to get fucked,” you confess with a whimper, almost as if the humiliating words vomit themselves out of you without your permission.
That barking laugh again, a little quieter this time. “Alright. Follow me.”
A warm, gloved palm lands on your lower back, his fingers splaying out across your bare skin, nearly hip to hip with how large he is. He guides you through a door, and you’re expecting to be met with a bed, or a shower, or hell, a fucking bench would do. And while it is indeed a bedroom, what actually happens is you find yourself face to face with someone entirely new.
The most conventionally attractive man you’ve ever laid eyes on stands up as soon as the door opens, and smiles at you. He’s shirtless, wearing only some loose-fitting pants. And his body is fucking gorgeous.
“No names,” your masked man says, hand still right above your ass. “He’ll be conducting the test. If you need to stop, tell him.”
Motherfucker. You twist to look at your masked man’s face, suddenly terrified, and feeling quite naked and vulnerable. “Why aren’t you doing the test?”
“It wouldn’t be a test then, now would it?” Your masked man pauses, tracking back and forth between your eyes like he’s searching for something. His hand drops from your body. “It was nice to meet you.”
No. This isn’t fair, he was supposed to fuck you, not this— holo-perfect— chiseled— fucking inhuman embodiment of consumerism.
“Are you going to be watching?” you blurt out desperately, watching your man access the door to leave. Maybe there’s some way you can spin this as hot, maybe the stimulant is enough to imagine him watching, to allow you to still perform for him the way your mind is screaming that you need to.
He doesn’t look back as he steps into the next room. “No.”