#when joann was like i love you all *stares at keyla*

[ussjellyfish]

Fic writing asks: 1, 7, 40, 49, 51, 57, 72 (sorry if this is a lot, there were too many good questions in this one 🥲)

These are good!! thanks for asking, it's always lovely to be asked.

(thanks for waiting too).

Do you daydream a lot before you write, or go for it as soon as the ideas strike?

Having time and energy to write is harder for me than the ideas, so I daydream often, and sometimes don't get to write it down at all. I love throwing ideas at people, that's so fun and rewarding, but that hasn't been happening lately. (if anyone wants to volunteer as tribute...I would love to talk about Discovery fic). I should 'ship less niche things but...the heart wants what it wants.

7. Post a snippet from a wip.

(from Michael gets pon farr)

Michael sat up on the biobed in one smooth motion, her attention focused on Hugh, then Tilly. It wasn't that she didn't recognize them - she knew them all - but she'd never looked at any of them this way. Her gaze stung when it found Joann, like Georgiou's had in the beginning. Michael was there, but she wasn't. Michael fought the hunger behind her eyes, reigned it in a little so she could smile at Tilly and shiver.

"It's worse, isn't it?" Tilly asked.

Michael's eyes lingered on Keyla for a moment, as if she was hungry. Her gaze brushed across Joann again, scorching as if Joann were staring into a hot oven. Then Michael found the president, and she stopped moving her eyes. Tilting her head, Michael took a step, then another, her motion sinuous and quick.

When she smiled now, all apology was gone. Joann had never imagined herself as having any kind of telepathic skill, but she knew what Michael wanted, and it was to rip the president's silken blue nightgown off with her teeth.

40. What is your favorite world that you’ve created for a fic?

I am really partial to "Beverly Crusher and Kathryn Janeway, get married, save the galaxy, get punished for using Romulans to help save the galaxy by getting sent to the most boring, least resourced, end of the line space station, and then have a couple kids there. They also have a cat. I spent so much time world building that one, and I'm really happy with how it turned out.

I could do better now, but...you know, it was fun. Toreth is there, and she and Janeway are almost friends and there's a whole 7 seasons of a show that I didn't write but I know what happens. (somewhere). It would have been fun.

49. What fic of yours would you say is the best introduction to you as a writer?

Uncharted maybe? It's one of the best things I've written, just in terms of world building and feelings and actual thought that went into what I was making. It's definitely me at my best.

Me on an ordinary day is very... "In case of emergency please contact" (It's sick fic, the stakes are low, there's romance but it's subtle and there's a whole interlude where I get distracted by original characters).

Or migrations and other recurring phenomena, where there's some sex, some desire, but it's mostly dialogue and friendship and also very low stakes and nebulous.

Firefly is still the most just for me thing I've ever written, but it's really long, so probably not a good introduction.

51. Does what you like to write differ from what you like to read?

Other people can write things I am not good at, like fast plot, and snappy things, and I love the surprise of someone else's fic. I don't know what's going to happen, so even if it's the most similar thing to what I would write, I love it, because I don't know what is going to happen.

I write what I write because I'd like to read it, and there's not really enough of the soft floaty sort of things I love, so I keep writing them.

57. How conscious are you about including symbolism or foreshadowing in your fics?

I don't do it often, I'm not the most intentional writer. I'm much better at dialogue, so sometimes I can make that work? Character says something that ends up being funny later or hints at something that ends up happening, but it's not a neat sort of symbolism. Would be cool if I used it better.

72. What’s your favorite writing compliment you’ve gotten?

The most recent one, usually! I'm so honored when people read things I write and comment. I'd probably write them anyway, but comments feel like I'm writing something that matters.

Someone once wrote almost an essay about my character motivations, and that was really fun to read.

@aleksandrachaev has a real knack with comments. <3.

Comments make me feel loved and connected. That's fun.

(the asks are here)

[saint-moro]

for a good ten seconds i thought they were absolutely going there with owo and detmer and i swear my heart stopped beating

[justanalto]

Give us boots or I make you dress like a spermatozoan

Contrary to popular belief, Keyla and Joann aren’t inseparable. Do they like it? No, but are they capable of it? Yes. Despite what Georgiou says.

Duty has kept them apart tonight, with Joann’s post-mission debriefing keeping her well past shift hours, and Keyla’s heroic donut leading her in an easy meander to the mess hall for a drink. Several drinks, really. (It’s not her fault people want to toast her!)

“Tilly to Owosekun.” Joann frowns when the messages blips from her comm, interrupting Pike’s post-mission presentation.

“Apologies, Captain.” Pike nods, and Joann taps her comm. “Go ahead.”

“I know you’re in debrief, but, uh, your girlfriend’s asking for you.” Even over a line, Tilly’s blush is tangible. “She kind of went shot for shot with Ariam.”

Ariam? Keyla, a human (fantastic drinker, but still human) had gone shot for shot with Ariam??

Joann wants to bury her head in her hands. Except she can’t, because the captain and Commander Burnham are staring at her like she’s grown a third head, and there’s the teensy matter of Joann not yet having disclosed her relationship with Keyla to Starfleet.

(She’s been meaning to fill out that paperwork. But Klingons invaded and Georgiou nagged and all of a sudden they were preventing a planet wide extinction event. All she needed was twenty goddamn minutes.)

“Did you cut her off?” she mumbles.

“About three shots ago, but she’s well past sober.” Tilly sounds apologetic. “Just wanted to warn you about what you might come into.”

Joann sighs. “Thanks, Tils.” Maybe she can salvage what’s left of her career after this. “I’m terrible sorry, Captain, what were you saying?”

“I was saying that I think an appeal to Starfleet’s general orders might be in order, and as it so happens, that was the last thing in my list.” He shoots them both an easygoing smile, and the knot intermittently tightening itself in Joann’s chest loosens. “Dismissed, both of you. Get some food, get some sleep. We have a long journey ahead of us.”

“Oh, and Lt. Owosekun —“ Joann swivels her head just as she’s almost at the door. “Make sure you fill out your fraternization paperwork.”

She’s going to kill Keyla.

“Jo!” is what she’s greeted with upon first entering into the mess hall, courtesy of a very inebriated Keyla. “See?” Keyla asks to nobody in particular. “Tha’s my girlfriend! Jo’s my girlfriend!”

“My lovely girlfriend who interrupted me in the middle of debriefing.” Keyla’s kiss tastes like one too many shots of Fireball (does she want to know who got ahold of those?) and Saurian whiskey. “I think it’s time for bed, Key.”

Keyla pouts. “Wait!” she exclaims, and loosely beckons to everyone milling around. “I told everyone this before, but they didn’t believe me, so you have to prove it to them.”

Oh, no. “…what is it?”

With a giggle, Keyla pokes Joann’s triceps. “Arms,” she says succinctly. “You’re Joann Oswolesekun,”

Behind her, Joann can see the rest of the bridge crew trying to hold in their laughter without overwhelming success. “Go ahead,” she tells them, and Bryce and Rhys practically explode with laughter, their grip on each other’s shoulders changing from stifling their amusement to holding themselves upright.

Still, Keyla pouts. “You gotta show them,” she all but whines. “They gots to see your arms, Jo.” A sly grin crosses her features. “I wanna see your arms.”

If it got her girlfriend to bed…

Sighing, Joann sheds her jacket and drapes it over Keyla, who immediately starts whooping. “I told you!” she exclaims again, pointing at Joann’s now-exposed muscles. “Oswolesekun! I fucking told you!”

“You got an arms girl, huh,” Tilly snorts. “Never pegged Detmer for an arms girl, yet here we are.”

“Pegged?” Keyla looks up at the mention of the word. “I like to be —“

“Aaaaaaand that’s enough for you,” Joann covers Keyla’s mouth before she can give any more clues about their sex life to the bridge crew. “It is definitely time for bed, Key.” Before her girlfriend blurted something equally as embarrassing out.

Keyla licks her palm almost wolfishly before giving her a grin. “Only if you carry me.”

[starfleetdoesntfirefirst]

Immediate thoughts/liveblog roundup...

- Michael’s voiceover gave me chills. Not only is the depth and nuance of the emotions that Sonequa Martin-Green puts into Michael’s words incredible, there’s just something amazingly powerful and hopeful about hearing the beginning of the “Space...” Star Trek opening voiceover spoken by a black woman lead, fifty years later.

- Michael pretty much overtly accusing Sarek of a) knowing when he adopted her that a Vulcan education and upbringing would fuck up a human child and b) adopting her for Spock’s benefit.....holy fuck

- Also, Michael having long natural hair when she was adopted that her foster parents and/or school then cut and straightened is indescribably fucked up.

- I was just starting to get incredibly frustrated with Pike basically acting exactly like Lorca–“I’m the heroic captain who’s going to Do The Right Thing No Matter What, and I Know What Is Best”–and then Michael stopped him in his tracks and the ENTIRE BRIDGE stared at him and judged him………beautiful.

- I might write more on this at some point, but as people have pointed out, one reason Lorca was initially seen as ambiguously heroic by some of the characters/audience despite all the manipulation and manslaughter was that he fit the common character type in U.S. popular culture of the heroic, rebellious male leader who Ignores Those Stuffy Rules and Does What He Knows Is Right. So it was particularly satisfying, and I’m sure (especially considering the overt discussion of Lorca’s standing desk later) deliberate, to see Pike get stopped in his tracks when he tried assuming (!) that he was the only one who was going to argue in favor of rescuing fellow Starfleet servicemembers (!!) and talking over his crew because he was so convinced that he was right and that it was time for him to give a Heroic Manly Leader Speech to prove it (!!!). I especially enjoyed that it wasn’t just Burnham who stood up to him, but that the whole bridge crew backed her up and Judged Him With Their Eyes. Immediately.

- Speaking of archetypes, “Skip your ranks. They don’t matter” is just the captain version of throwing the textbook in the trash and telling your students to call you by your first name.

- In some ways I am not a huge fan of how Pike’s style(TM) is pretty similar to Lorca’s style(TM) (“fly good,” “I was expecting a red thing; where’s my damn red thing?”), regardless of whether he trashes Lorca’s standing desk settup, since IMO Lorca’s style(TM) was part of the problem, but in other ways I can see how it could be cool to demonstrate that leadership can be formal/casual/jocular/careful/etc and that what matters is the underlying respect and motives and so on. Don’t love it, but willing to see where they go with it.

- My vague and fanciful but hopeful theory is that the Red Angel Thingy in this season is going to keep leading them from point to point where there are Starfleet (or other) survivors from the war so they can rescue people. <3 Which would fit in with the theme of healing from the war that Martin-Green keeps mentioning in interviews, and also be v. v. cool.

- So much bridge crew! Rhys! Airiam! Bryce! Joann! Keyla! Rhys has a first name and it is Gen! Joann and Keyla working together and making scared eye contact when Michael is in danger and smiling at each other in relief when Michael is safe!!!

- Background character using a wheelchair in Discovery’s hallways! It would be amazing if dsc does some disability representation this season--I mean best of all would be disability representation in the main cast AND background cast, but I am still very excited about this one dude.

- Speaking of which, I really really want a well-handled ep/arc about Keyla, who is disabled, and her ocular implant (but I confess that if it’s poorly handled by a writer who is neither disabled nor bothers to do their research and talk to disabled people, I’d almost rather not have it). Fingers crossed!

[nomi--sunrider]

Hello, ❛ You’re trembling … are you sure you’re okay? ❜ for the soft smut sentence starters meme!

This took forever but here it is.

9435 words, because I’m incapable of being concise I guess.

Consider it a thanks for all of the wonderful artwork! Also @georgiov thank you for listening to me rant.

The dress fits like a dream.

Deep, dark silver, the hem extends to the floor, coiling around Michael’s legs in shifting spirals of fabric. Thin tulle in the same color acts as delicate straps over her shoulders, and Michael observes the overtness of her collarbones, the divot of her sternum between twin lines of fabric. The dress dips equally low at her back, dropping to a point just below her shoulder blades and exposing smooth skin typically hidden beneath a uniform jacket.

It is only the opening gala of a scientific conference, and there is no logical reason for such an event to be so formal, but Michael has grown used to the Human tendency to inconvenience themselves by insisting on dressing up for any and all occasions.

Nevertheless, she has to admit that the dress is quite lovely.

Keyla and Joanne had both squealed upon seeing Michael come out of her bathroom wearing it during the impromptu fitting session two days prior, and Michael is pleased to note that perhaps these reactions were warranted.

Michael applies a scant amount of makeup, not wanting to overly weight her eyelashes or risk smearing should certain…activities…occur after this event.

Not that this is in any way guaranteed.

Starfleet parties, away-missions, and of course, those handful of memorable instances in the hot, primal setting of the Shenzhou’s sparring chambers over the past year…

It isn’t sex.

Not even close.

Yet.

But as to what exactly it is, well…Michael cannot really say.

They are friends, of course, Michael reflects as she exits her quarters, proceeding down the corridor to the turbolift. Close friends, she would go so far as to say, and Michael treasures the deep bond they share, the confidences that Philippa has entrusted her with.

Still…

Michael’s fingers tap at her thighs as the lift descends through the belly of the ship.

Michael Burnham might not have been raised Human, but if she were to draw a conclusion from all of her research concerning typical Human relationship parameters, well…

It doesn’t seem at all typical for friends and colleagues to spend undisclosed numbers of minutes in dark, secret corners of a starship, kissing each other desperately before some alert or other puts an end to such business.

And certainly not on six separate occasions in one Earth year.

These thoughts continue to plague Michael has she proceeds down the corridor of Deck 12. She is fully aware of the astonished, appreciative stares towards her person that various passersby seem to be unable to conceal. Still, she keeps her gaze forward, her gate steady.

No need for such distractions, not when contemplating such vital matters.

Philippa has proven quite…skittish…in terms of discussing this.

Whatever this is.

In the days after each incident, Philippa would be clipped and professional, avoiding lingering eye contact and extended off-duty interactions until some crisis or other befell the ship, wiping the occasion from both of their memories, and she and Michael would be friends once more.

Michael shakes her head at the conundrum as she walks.

Sexual attraction…appetites kindled by the excitement of a black-tie social gathering or the elevated heartbeats and skin-to-skin contact of sparring…none of this indicates any deeper feelings on her captain’s part. Her behavior in the aftermath of each occurrence certainly proves as much.

They are mere lapses in judgment, Michael understands as she rounds the corner to the transporter room. All Humans are prone to such absences of the mind.

Even decorated Starfleet captains.

Philippa Georgiou is a notoriously consummate professional, and has been for the entirety of her twenty-five years of service.

It would be illogical for Michael to get her hopes up.

Whatever track her train of thought had been on takes a sharp, veering turn when Michael catches her first glimpse of Philippa, perched on the transporter pad and chatting happily with Ensign Chan.

Michael’s feet seem to leave the ground at the sight of her captain’s choice of eveningwear. A crisp, fitted tuxedo, black as the depths of space, and matching tailored dress pants that hug her slim legs, accentuating the corded muscles of her thighs. A white button-up shirt peaks out from between the open flaps of the jacket, cutting a sharp, alluring contrast with Philippa’s dark hair, now loose and cascading in gentle waves over her shoulders.

Stanzas of Vulcan love poetry fill Michael’s mind, but before her mouth has the chance to form words, Ensign Chan chimes in.

“You look lovely, Commander Burnham.”

The honest, eager statement snaps Michael out of her daze.

Her Vulcan controls fall across her mind once more, stilling her heart where it lies spasming in her chest. She tugs her eyes away from Philippa’s striking figure, noting that her captain’s mouth is moving; no sound seems to be coming out, and Michael chalks it up to her own stupefaction.

Get ahold of yourself.

She can reminisce over Philippa’s stunning figure later, in the privacy of her own quarters, perhaps with the small device she keeps the bottom drawer of her dresser, hidden beneath her nightclothes…

Right now, she is a representative of Starfleet.

She has to stay focused.

Philippa smiles at her, a close-lipped but genuine smile, and heat springs to Michael’s cheeks despite her best efforts.

“Care to join me, Number One?”

Philippa holds out her arm, and Michael manages a nod. She ascends the several steps to the transporter pad. A quick downward glance indicates the shape her quad muscles cut beneath the rippling fabric of her dress, the play of her dark skin against the murky silver and black fabric…

Michael is comforted to know that at the very least, she can confidently stand next to Philippa tonight, armed with the knowledge that she looks just as alluring.

Philippa seems to agree, if the flickers of her eyes at Michael’s dress are anything to go by.

Michael threads her arm through Philippa’s proffered elbow. She turns on a heel to stand beside her on the pad, looking silently ahead as Ensign Chan readies the transporter.

On Philippa’s arm for the night…

And for one magical moment, Michael Burnham allows herself to imagine that this is not the opening gala of a scientific conference that they are beaming down to.

In some whimsical, non-Vulcan part of her mind, Michael imagines an alternate universe where she and Philippa are not on duty, where they are not mere Captain and Commander…perhaps they are attending the wedding of a friend, or going to a nice restaurant together, and Philippa’s fond smile hides deeper emotion beneath, and she will take Michael’s hand in her slim, strong fingers and hold it tightly throughout the night, and they will talk about what people who like each other very much talk about, though Michael is uncertain of what, exactly, this might be, and hours will pass like mere minutes as time stands still between them…

And they will return to Philippa’s quarters at the end of the night, giddy with happiness, and Philippa will smile and kiss Michael slowly, tenderly, and lie her down on the bed and make her feel all of the things that Michael cannot help but feel in the half-awake hours of the early morning, when all seems possible in the dream-like state of reality…

And when it is over, they will hold each other in the afterglow and drift off together beneath the blue light of warp, sated and content, and Philippa will snuggle in close to Michael, her beautiful face glowing with joy, and whisper to her—

“Ready, Commander?”

Michael blinks, and is back on the transporter pad, arm in arm with her captain, who is looking at her curiously.

Get ahold of yourself.

She nods briskly, turning her face back towards front-and-center.

Philippa’s voice is firm and professional.

“Energize.”

The evening passes quickly.

Michael had been worried, of course, at the prospect of boring conversation, pointless socializing and endless small talk, but somehow, none of this comes to pass.

Instead, her Philippa gently guides Michael around the cavernous ballroom and introduces her to various science officers and specialists. Many are leaders in their fields, and Michael finds herself happily discussing the latest discoveries. They are only too willing to share their own research, and after several hours of discussion, Michael’s mind is positively swimming with science and theory.

Philippa keeps pace with her, occasionally flitting across the floor to the side of some dignitary or another, greeting them warmly with hugs or air-kisses. Michael is pleased to see her captain in a state of such joy, mingling with old friends and comrades, and often catches Philippa looking back at her from across the room with an almost fond look on her face.

Still, Michael chides herself, there is no logic in preoccupying herself with what is merely a fantasy, an imagining spun in her illogical non-Vulcan mind and brought to life with intense Human emotion.

She focuses on what Specialist Truila is saying about temporal anomalies lodged within the Galgari Nebula like flies trapped in amber. And Truila is attractive, Michael notes. Taller than her, slightly soft in the middle, with a charming smile and warm brown eyes.  Those eyes have darted over Michael’s figure with appreciation no less than five times during this conversation, and Michael can certainly say that the appreciation is mutual.

Specialist Truila, of the private science vessel Ballena Estrella, presently docked mere decks away from this ballroom…

How easy it would be, to suggest that Truila show her around the ship in order to familiarize her with the labs and cutting edge tech, and then perhaps…educate her as to what private specialist quarters on a contracted research vessel look like…

How simple it would be, for Michael to drown her affection for her out-of-reach captain in the warm body of another, as she had done numerous times in the past.

“May I cut in?”

Philippa’s voice interrupts Truila’s excited explanation of the mysterious rotational inertia of the multiple gravitational centers within the nebula. Michael feels just a touch of annoyance; Truila’s research was quite fascinating—

But Philippa is pulling out her communicator, the screen indicating the Shenzhou’s new assignment, which, if the lightyear distance is any indicator…

“We will need to depart within…ten minutes?”

Michael is quite certain of her calculations; no, the question is more aimed toward Starfleet Command, as this new mission seems inexplicably inconvenient.

Philippa grimaces as she pockets the communicator.

“Not at all ideal, Number One, but we’ve had a lovely evening up until now, at least?”

Michael looks to Truila and back to Philippa. She nods once in concession, and her smile is small, but genuine.

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Commander.” Truila’s voice is kind and honest, but Michael can sense a note of loss in the tone.

“You should send me your data,” she suggests warmly. They exchange contact information, and Michael is fully aware of Philippa’s eyes upon her as they do so.

The tightness of her face as they leave the ballroom does not go unnoticed either.

“Strange that Starfleet would send the Shenzhou on this mission, of all ships,” Michael tries as she trots in Philippa’s wake. “After dispatching us to this conference over one hundred lightyears away.”

“Starfleet didn’t send us here,” Philippa answers shortly, cutting a fine figure in her suit as she strides down the corridor.

“What?”

Philippa looks at Michael now, and looks away just as quickly.

“I thought—“ Michael stumbles slightly, her heels clacking on the false-wood floor as she tries to figure out what is happening. “I thought…we were dispatched here, you and I? A slightly extended shore leave?”

“Not quite,” Philippa denies. Her face is blank, but Michael can hear an odd undercurrent in her voice.

If she did not know better, Michael would say that Philippa is being downright cagey at the moment.

“So…Starfleet does not know that we’re here?”

This would explain the inexplicably sudden dispatch to a system one hundred and twelve lightyears away from their current docking at Starbase Six.

It isn’t enough information to make any type of conjecture, or even come close to one. Michael feels annoyingly off-balance. She understands it an aspect of her scientist mind, this utter detestation of when given information and starting parameters prove false, leaving her confused and scrambling and incorrect.

“Starfleet does not,” Philippa clarifies. They round the corner, and the light of the red giant Atraxi glows orange through the windows. Philippa’s tumbling hair catches the light, and it bounces and refracts wonderfully as she walks with purpose.

Michael’s breath catches in her chest.

“Then…” Michael shakes her head to clear it. “How did we get into this event?”

This invite-only scientific conference of top researchers in the field quantum relativity and stellar gravity-related phenomena…

“I called in a few favors,” Philippa answers shortly. They enter the Mid-Level transporter room, and she strides purposefully towards the pads, not looking at Michael as she does so.

Michael feels inexplicably stung.

She takes several quick steps, trotting awkwardly in low heels, until she is in front of her captain on the raised pad.

“Philippa—Have I done something wrong?”

Philippa looks at Michael now. She sighs, before looking away.

“No Michael, you haven’t. You’ve done nothing wrong.” She shakes herself ever so slightly, and when she looks back up, her features are warm once more, if not a little bit strained. “I apologize…I suppose I’m a little disappointed at having to leave so soon.”

Michael snorts softly. “We’ve been here for nearly two hours, Captain.”

“I was enjoying myself, Number One.” Philippa’s tone is playfully defensive now, and Michael smiles at it.

The hazy feeling of transport barely interrupts their conversation.

“Truly?” Michael raises her eyebrows once they fully rematerialize before the bulbs of the Shenzhou’s lateral vector transport hub. “You were enjoying your conversation concerning the antimatter theory of quantum relativity within the confines of binary pulsar gravity fields?”

“Immensely,” Philippa smirks. They leave the transporter room side by side. “Particularly the notion of field variants contained within the accretion disks, possibly caused by the impacts of sub-atomic anti-particles made stable by their near-light speed trajectories.”

Michael is momentarily lost for words.

Philippa casts a smile and a pointed nod in her direction as she enters the turbolift, and heat blooms in Michael’s cheeks as she follows.

By the stars, the reason why Michael should find such words issuing from the mouth of her captain so damn alluring is entirely beyond her grasp.

Philippa glances sideways glance at Michael, her dark eyes dancing with mirth.

Okay, so perhaps the reason is not entirely beyond her grasp.

The warm blue of warp is dancing outside of the long window of Philippa’s quarters by the time they arrive.

It is not the first time that Philippa has invited her inside so that Michael might observe the warp patterns outside of the extensive transparent paneling. The window inside Michael’s own quarters is laughably tiny, and Michael vastly prefers looking out of this one.

And not merely because of its size.

Philippa leans languidly against the transparent steel, the very embodiment of contentment. Her jacket has been removed, leaving only the starched white shirt beneath. It hugs her slender frame in all the right places, and the rippling blue light of warp swirls across her pale skin, tracing mysterious shadows across Philippa’s warm, familiar features.

Michael feels lucky indeed that she gets to see such a wonderful sight.

“It’s a shame our time was cut short,” Philippa finally murmurs. “You seemed to be enjoying yourself.”

Michael smiles and looks down at her hands.

“I was…” Michael answers honestly. “But I am happy to be here as well.”

Here on the U.S.S. Shenzhou, Michael’s ship, her home of six years. Here, with her comrades, so many wonderful friends, and her beloved captain, en route to their next adventure.

There is nowhere else in the universe that Michael would rather be.

Even as she thinks this, she takes in Philippa’s leonine form bathed in the flickering blue light of warp.

The cosmos do not compare.

Philippa’s rose-pink lips twitch into smile. “One day, when you are a captain of your own ship, you will have your own window to look out of.”

“Even on a ship like the Solis?”

Philippa snorts. “I would never let Starfleet Command put you on an Eastman-class ship, Michael. Do you think me so heartless?”

Michael only smiles and looks back out at the mysterious light.

Philippa gives a mock gasp from beside her. “Unbelievable! You would still think that of me after tonight?”

“After tonight?” Michael raises a pointed eyebrow, leaning against the window with arms crossed.

Far from looking caught off-guard, Philippa only raises an eyebrow in return, jutting her chin in a challenging gesture.

“I got you into that conference, Number One. That was awfully kind of me, was it not?”

“It was,” Michael allows. She looks back towards the window.

The inputs still don’t line up, the data cluster is showing no discernable pattern. Michael cannot understand why she feels she is missing something.

“I just…wonder why you would choose to go with me, to such a boring science gala?”

“A chance to socialize?” Philippa suggests easily. Her eyes sparkle with mischief, and she casts a significant glance at the swirling fabric covering Michael’s torso. “To dress up, to see and…be seen?”

At that prompting, Michael’s eyes drop helplessly from Philippa’s face down her body, taking in the clean lines of her shirt, the curve her legs in black fitted trousers, the slim and perfect cut of her hips, accented by the striking color contrast where the two garments meet in the middle…

“Understandable,” Michael manages, voice croaking.

Philippa takes a step closer now, her face heartbreakingly beautiful in the deep blue light.

“Your dress is lovely…did I tell you that yet?”

Her voice seems oddly distant as her eyes rove across Michael’s face, down to her chest.

“You’re telling me now…”

Michael barely manages the words, so stunned she is by the pale ivory of Philippa’s skin, the crinkles near her eyes, the soft pink of her lips …

Philippa’s hand reaches out, and one long finger traces the strap of Michael’s dress. The heat of it paradoxically draws goosebumps in its wake.

“Joann and Keyla did a good job,” Philippa murmurs. “You look like a Roman goddess in this light.”

Michael’s face flares with heat.

“Thank you,” she manages. Philippa looks up at her now, so achingly close, her dark eyes glowing blue in the warp light…

There’s no telling who moves first.

But before Michael knows it, Philippa’s lips are on her own.

Michael’s eyes flutter shut as she grips the sides of Philippa’s shirt, kissing back with equal vigor.

All logic and sense falls away, par for the course, considering the utter senselessness of this act…kissing Philippa Georgiou in the privacy of the captain’s quarters, with no endgame other than the temporary contact high from Philippa’s mouth…

Philippa nips at Michael’s lower lip, sucking hard at it, and Michael whimpers despite her best efforts. By the stars, it has been four weeks, two days, eleven hours since their last incident, how on Earth had she survived for such an eternity?

She kisses back as best she can, pressing firmly against Philippa, teasing that clever mouth with light brushes of lips and teeth …

No alerts will bother them as long as the ship is in warp.

The thought sends a heady rush of exhilaration through Michael’s bloodstream. She pulls Philippa in tight to her, hugging her shapely frame as close as she can and kissing her desperately. Philippa’s hands come up to Michael’s face, cupping her cheeks in warm palms.

And in the next moment she pulls away. Bracing her forehead on Michael’s, Philippa breathes hard as she leans against her, her warm exhalations sending tingles down Michael’s neck.

“I want you so badly, Michael…” The words come out in a hoarse mumble, Philippa seems to be in some sort of daze as her fingers flit down Michael’s neck to trace at her exposed collarbones.

Michael barely manages her answer.

“Take me, then.”

With that, Philippa captures her lips in another searing kiss.

And in the next moment, her hot mouth is at Michael’s neck, exploring the sensitive skin of her throat with eager brushes of her lips.

This is happening…

Philippa’s hands grip her ribcage and press her back against the window, her body draping firmly against Michael’s to pin her there.

This is happening…

Michael tells her heart to slow down, she reaches for her Vulcan controls, her breathing, her rigorous training, but oooh… she groans when Philippa finds a tender spot towards the back of her neck. Naturally, Philippa picks up on this and begins to attend to the spot with due diligence.

“Mmmh…” Michael manages, hot tingling sensation robbing her of her words. Her hands shake as they reach up to Philippa’s hair. Those messy waves of dark hair flowing over slim shoulders tucked beneath the starched white shirt…

“Hm.” Philippa smiles against her neck, and the mere action of lips moving across sensitive skin send warm pleasure up and down Michael’s spine. “Never thought I would be able make you speechless…”

Even in her compromised state, Michael still feels a spark of indignation.

“Really? That’s what you’re— Ahhh…” A clever swirl of Philippa’s tongue silences Michael immediately.

The lavishing to her neck continues. Philippa’s lips move slightly lower, and quiet fingers slip one strap of Michael’s dress down her arm for better access. Light, ticklish kisses pepper Michael’s shoulder, her collarbone, making her gasp and quiver.

Not yet devoid of all of her defenses, Michael’s fingertips find the top of Philippa’s black dress pants. They reach upwards, climbing the fabric of Philippa’s shirt, searching, until…

“Ngh…” Philippa twitches suddenly, her mouth forming an “O” just below Michael’s ear. The sudden rush of air against her neck sends hot tingles of pleasure through nerves now lit up with stimulation. Still, Michael holds fast to what of shreds of focus she has remaining to rub at the nipples standing at attention beneath Philippa’s crisp shirt.

“You…mmh…you should wait your turn,” Philippa admonishes in a shaking whisper into Michael’s neck.

Michael manages a snort. “Were we taking turns?”

Her thumbs continue their circles around stiff peaks. Philippa’s distraction is obvious in the tremble of her ribcage, the hitching in her breath, and Michael feels a rush of joyful exhilaration at her captain’s unsubtle display of pleasure. This entire experience is quickly overlaying the dozens, perhaps hundreds of fantasies Michael in which had previously indulged…

Never, ever had she imagined herself pressed against the window of her captain’s quarters, warp trails mere inches from her naked back as Philippa’s body drapes against her, squirming helplessly as Michael stimulates a particularly erogenous zone.

“You…oh, you…” Michael feels Philippa’s lips twitch into smile against her neck, as well as a slight shake of her head. “Giving…as good as you…get,” she breathes, and Michael cannot help a twinge of pride. She considers placing a leg squarely between Philippa’s thighs, but realizes with some annoyance that the length and tightness of her dress would prevent such an action.

Instead, Michael’s fingers fly to the buttons of Philippa’s shirt. She quickly proceeds downward, slipping buttons out of their holes with deft, confident motions. Philippa begins shrugging out of the shirt as soon as Michael finishes with the last button, and Michael helps her ease her slim shoulders out of the fabric. Philippa’s quiet allowance of this, combined with her relative stillness as Michael dispatched the buttons…Michael wonders if she enjoys being undressed by a partner.

A conjecture worthy of further exploration.

She reaches behind Philippa’s naked back, following the tight band of fabric to where it meets at her spine. Despite her best efforts towards calmness, Michael’s heart begins to pound in her chest, and hot blood rushes to her cheeks. Her hands shake, and she hopes, prays, pleads to the cosmic forces of the universe that this will be an easy task, that her fingers won’t fail her now…

She finds the clasp of Philippa’s bra, but before she can do anything at all, Philippa’s tongue is meeting her earlobe, swirling gentle patterns around the cartilage of her left ear. Warm breath tingles through Michael’s ear canal, and a high-pitched yip escapes her chest when Philippa nips playfully at her tragus.

“Hmm…you like that…” Philippa observes in a whisper. She sucks gently at Michael’s earlobe, teasing the skin with gentle brushes of her teeth.

“Oooh…” Michael twitches at the sensation, not only that, but the throaty timbre of Philippa’s voice so close to her, so attentive, so focused on Michael’s pleasure, of all things…

The very notion sends a spike of arousal down her spine, bursting between her legs in flare of unbearable heat, and her back arches helplessly against the transparasteel window. All notion of removing her partner’s bra are forgotten, and Michael can focus on nothing else but holding Philippa tightly to her as she presses her mouth to the sensitive skin below Michael’s ear.

“Oh you like that quite a bit, then…” The teasing tone in Philippa’s voice is all but palpable against her neck, and Michael throbs between her legs at the words. She flexes her thighs hard, hips squirming in an attempt to alleviate the ache.

“Philippa…” she groans, shakily caressing the warm skin of Philippa’s back, scars and muscle now revealed to her in all of their staggering glory.

“Yes, love?”

Philippa’s body seems to freeze slightly after saying the words. Without dwelling upon why this might be, Michael takes the moment to pull herself together. Her fingers finally, finally find the clasp of Philippa’s bra, and she unclips the wire fastenings in a mere moment.

Feeling almost foolishly proud of her achievement, Michael slides the straps off of Philippa’s slim shoulders. Her fingertips trace across delicate collarbones, down lateral muscles and biceps firm with whipcord strength. Philippa is still and silent as she does this, her eyes dark and lips slightly parted. Michael feels her shaking ever so slightly beneath her hands.

“Is this…okay?”

Warmth pools in Michael’s cheeks as she says the words. Somehow in all of her imaginings and fantasies, she had never anticipated the possibility that Philippa might not be receptive towards the entirety of her actions.

Philippa twitches slightly at the question. “Don’t you dare stop now, Number One.”

The raspiness of her voice leads Michael to believe that perhaps she misread Philippa’s body language.

Feeling somewhat foolish, Michael gives a quick nod. She averts her eyes as she guides Philippa’s arms out of the bra straps, letting the offending article fall to the floor somewhere nearby. After a quick, steadying breath, Michael dares to look up once more.

“Oh…”

The sigh leaves her chest as an audible vocalization. Michael blushes helplessly, both at her slip and at the sight of bare breasts and taut nipples exposed beneath the warp light.

And yet…

Perhaps the false light of warp is playing tricks on her, but Michael could swear she sees Philippa’s own skin changing color as well, both her stunning face and the smooth expanse of her chest, turning not dark, as Michael’s own skin does, but a soft, wonderful rosy shade.

She’s stunning.

“You…you’re beautiful…” Michael’s voice is reduced to a mumble, and she blushes harder as she says the words.

By the stars, she has never, ever felt so off-kilter, so unbalanced, so nervous, not once with any of her previous sexual partners. Michael wonders what could possibly be different about this encounter, when it is a person she knows so well, a person she cares deeply for, a person she–

Before Michael can continue along this line of thought, Philippa’s lips are meeting her own, softly this time, almost reverently. Michael’s hands slide up to play in long tresses of hair as Philippa kisses her gently, her soft lips caressing Michael’s own in a truly wonderful sensation…

The kiss continues without any further escalation. Moments slide by, and Michael feels herself falling into a daze while her body comes to life with tingling tugs of arousal. Philippa continues her soft ministrations, delivering warm pleasure to Michael’s mouth with light and tender brushes of her lips.

“You’re really good at this,” Michael manages to whisper during one of Philippa’s brief pauses for breath.

“I…” Philippa blinks several times, her cheeks dark, her eyes even darker. “Well…we’ve had some practice, haven’t we?”

Michael gives a surprised laugh at the words. “I suppose we have.”

She pulls Philippa back in to kiss her firmly. Her hands rise to Philippa’s chest once more, and Philippa moans at the sudden contact of Michael’s thumbs to her now-exposed breasts. The sound vibrates pleasantly against Michael’s lips, and hot desire tingles down Michael’s spine to pool between her legs.

With a sharp gasp, Philippa from breaks the kiss to squirm from the attentions to her nipples.

“Ah…Michael!” The whisper is high and desperate. Michael feels a sudden, desperate urge to rut against something, anything to relieve the aching pressure between her legs.

“Philippa…please, I—oh, I–I need you…”

Michael barely manages to grate out the words before Philippa is gripping her by the arms and spinning her away from the window. Michael’s knees buckle as they hit the edge of the bed. She lets out a surprised gasp as Philippa presses her backwards to lie on the smoothly made comforter.

“Should have waited your turn, hm?”

Philippa’s words are barely audible, so quickly do they leave her mouth; she seems far more preoccupied with tugging Michael’s dress downwards. A growl leaves her mouth when the task stymies her.

Michael squirms to an upright position. “There’s a zip at the back, just—“

She leans forward as Philippa’s arms wrap around her. Her fingertips flutter across Michael’s thoracic vertebrae in their search, and Michael shivers in spite of herself. Philippa finds the zip and deftly presses it down Michael’s spine, all the way to its end just above her sacrum.

Yet once this task is complete, Philippa’s flurry of frantic motion seems to slow to a near halt. Her movements become quiet and careful as her arms return to Michael’s front, as her fingertips play at the top of Michael’s dress. Michael blinks at the sudden mood change. She waits, silent and watchful, as Philippa’s dark eyes rove across her collarbones, as her lips open and close as if searching for words.

Finally, Philippa asks, “May I?”

Warm affection blooms in Michael’s chest at the question, so polite, so proper, not that she should have expected anything less from Captain Philippa Georgiou.

The response is foregone. “Please.”

And then Philippa is tugging the dress down, peeling it down Michael’s sides with care and reverence. The sensation of the dress coming slowly away from her body is quite new to Michael, and she considers the it with all of her Vulcan calm, her Human imagination…Michael wonders if this is what the buds in Amanda’s garden feel like, opening their petals in the morning light.

An errant thought crosses Michael’s mind, and a huff escapes her chest before she can stop it.

“What is it?” Philippa asks as she pulls the dress away.

“I was just…wondering if this was—hah…” She gives a brief gasp as Philippa’s fingertips brush a ticklish spot at her left side. “W-Where the term… “deflowered”… comes from.”

Philippa chuckles low in her throat. “An interesting conjecture, Number One. Let me know what your future research indicates.”

The last words come out sigh as Michael’s dress reaches her hips, revealing her torso in its entirety. Michael shivers as under Philippa’s roving gaze, and she swallows heavily at the sheeny darkness of her eyes.

To be so desperately exposed in front of her captain, who somehow, inconceivably wants her like this…

So many years of longing coalesce just beneath Michael’s sternum, and her breath hitches at the stunning, heartbreaking beauty of the woman in front of her.

By the stars, this is really, truly, happening…

“You’re trembling…are you sure you’re okay?”

Oh no…

Michael closes her eyes in mortification, and Philippa cups her face in creased hands.

“I’m fine…I just…” Michael drops her head onto Philippa’s chest. She attempts to form words, even though the notion of doing so successfully terrifies her beyond belief. “I’ve…I’ve never…”

“Never…had sex?” Philippa finishes. Her voice is kind, if not slightly dubious. “It’s alright…we don’t have to—“

Michael can’t help it, she snorts with very little grace, her shoulders shaking with mirth beneath Philippa’s embrace. “No, no Philippa, it’s…definitely not that.”

“Okay…” Philippa’s confusion is palpable, and Michael resists the urge to giggle at it.

“No, it’s just…” Michael summons all of her courage to look up at the woman straddling her lap. Warp currents trail over Philippa’s face, adding an air of mystery to her delicate features. Her hair hangs in a rippling curtain, framing high cheekbones and soft pink lips, and her dark eyes glow in the flickering blue, soothingly warm and ice-cold all at once…

Michael is hit suddenly by a tidal wave of emotion, casting aside all of her logic, her control, any and all reserve she might have had. This desperate, aching fondness, caring, adoration for this woman…for Philippa, who has come to mean so much to her…

Michael’s cheeks become hot as coals, and she presses her face into Philippa’s chest.

I’ve never…felt like this…about anyone…

The words echo in Michael’s mind, over and over and over again.

But they do not pass her lips.

“I’m just…a little nervous, I suppose,” Michael finally manages to whisper.

But in the next moment, warm palms are framing Michael’s face, holding her cheekbones with aching gentleness. Philippa’s lips press to her forehead, and Michael feels a smile behind them.

“We can go slowly, Michael…as slow as you like…and we can stop whenever you like.”

“Uh huh…” Michael barely manages to mumble as Philippa slowly, carefully, mounts the bed to straddle Michael’s lap. Fingertips flutter softly, gently down her shoulders, across her collarbones. No doubt these are meant to be soothing gestures, but they only serve to fuel Michael’s now-desperate arousal.

“And you will tell me, if you want to stop?”

“I…Yes, of course.” The answer seems to Michael quite obvious. “But I–…I really don’t want to stop, Philippa…”

The words come out in a rush, and Philippa laughs softly.

“Okay, then.”

Philippa’s eyes finally, finally drop lower, to Michael’s exposed chest, and her lips part ever so slightly. Michael’s breath hitches, her nipples hardening almost painfully under her captain’s hungry gaze.

“Oh these are…exquisite…” Philippa breathes.

Her hands come up in an almost worshipful manner, and Michael’s fingers tighten their grip on the comforter. Fingernails brush teasingly across Michael’s clavicles, her sternum, her ribcage, outlining her breasts with sizzling, barely-there contact. Michael twitches and squirms helplessly at the touches, and in some muted, hazy part of her mind, she wonders how in the galaxies this woman could have such a staggering effect on her, when previous lovers had come nowhere close.

What might happen when Philippa finally touches her there…

“Oooh…” Michael sighs, her spine arching at the very idea of such contact.

And the next moment, a hot flare of pleasure lances through her body upon Philippa’s first, almost tentative contact to her stiff, straining peaks. A high-pitched moan rips from Michael’s chest, and she descends into shaking, gasping whimpers.

“Oh yes, Philippa, please, like that…”

Philippa’s fingers stroke her lightly, carefully, but with extreme precision, tracing at nipples already so desperately sensitized from arousal. Michael’s head rears back, her chest thrust forward. Fiery tingles shoot through her breasts, down her spine at the stimulation, her sex growing hot and aching with the heady joy of it all.

“Ahh..oh yes, yes…” Michael allows the pleased groans to escape without any type of embarrassment. Strangely, the idea of being so completely on display, so utterly undone in front of Philippa, her captain…

The thought robs her of her breath for a moment.

And in the moment after, Philippa is pushing her flat on her back in the bed. Michael does not have even have time to gasp before Philippa is halfway down her chest and taking a hard nipple between her lips.

Michael wails as hot, tingling waves of pleasure sings down her spine at the glorious sensation. Philippa escalates, her mouth making firm clever motions, and Michael’s clit tingles with each lap of her tongue, every nip of her teeth. The pressure builds, throbbing, burning pressure between her legs, making Michael squirm where she lies trapped between Philippa’s thighs.

With no warning, Philippa switches sides. She swirls her tongue hard, and her hand comes up to caress the first nipple, now wet and tender from the previous attentions. And oh, by the stars, that teasing, tickling sensation delivered by her captain’s fingers, to this particular spot of all places…

Her sex gives a sudden, delicious throb, and Michael groans, squeezing her thighs tightly together in a desperate attempt to subdue the inevitable.

And in the next moment, her hips jerk when Philippa goes from swirling to sucking. The sensation starts off gentle, but intensifies quickly as Philippa seems to realize how much Michael enjoys it.

Michael shakes and thrashes beneath Philippa as her captain continues to lavish attention on her breasts. Her sex aches now, her clit throbbing with each pass of Philippa’s tongue, each flick of her thumb over sensitive, stimulated nipples. Her hips buck as much as they can, pinned between Philippa’s strong thighs, and Michael lets out a high-pitched moan at the very idea of this, being pinned down and helpless as her captain’s elegant fingers tease and torture her into insanity…

And to both her intense pleasure and eternal embarrassment, Michael comes hard and fast between Philippa’s thighs.

Her core erupts in hot agony, and she clenches and spasms with the waves of unbearable pleasure, her legs twisting helplessly against the bed.

“Ahhh..Philippa! I– I luh—”

Michael clamps down on the cry just in time, gritting her teeth as orgasm powers through her. The pleasure is overwhelming, endless and unbearable, and– Oh! By the stars and galaxies above, it’s so much, it’s so much, it’s too much…

…but just as soon as Michael thinks this, the feeling begins to subside. The tremors ease, and the agonizing waves of pleasure fade and ebb and turn to ripples. Light tingles of sensation darting from the hot place between her thighs, and Michael shivers with each delicious aftershock. Panting, she slowly, slowly returns to herself.

Philippa is hovering above her somewhere, Michael knows this. She closes her eyes for a moment to gather herself, to reach for her Vulcan control before the post-coital rush of Human hormones overcomes her mind and addles her logic, causing her to bare her heart and speak the truth, to say something she cannot take back…

That was already too close…

Michael opens her eyes.

The sight nearly undoes her once more.

Philippa looks quite like she’s been pole-axed, her eyes wide and stunned, her pupils blown to swirling pools of blackness. Her typically neat hair is mussed and disheveled, and her high cheekbones glow a bright, delectable pink, visible even in the low light of warp.

She’s breathtaking, Michael realizes dazedly.

And not only that…but she looks almost like…

Like..

“Did– Did you–?”

Michael’s eyes flick downward as she blurts the question. Philippa jerks from whatever reverie she been lost in. She looks baffled for a brief moment, before letting out a quick huff.

“No.” Philippa snorts the response, but the sound is somewhat blunted in her obvious state of arousal. “Though…it was a near thing, I would say.”

She leans down as Michael squirms up, and their lips meet somewhere in the middle.

The simple kiss seems to complete Michael’s joyful satisfaction brought on by her orgasm. She floats happily in this wonderful bliss, high on these feelings of lightness, of happiness and safety, of care and comfort…

How easy it would be to just say it…and from the softness of Philippa’s expression, the gentle way she holds Michael’s body, Michael can almost, almost believe that such a declaration would be welcomed, perhaps even reciprocated…

Hormones, she negates, beating back her foolish emotions with swift, cool logic. An oxytocin overload.

Get ahold of yourself.

Feeling slightly more sober now, Michael pulls Philippa in closer with an arm wrapped across her back, but a twinge in her lower spine quickly stops her.

“Ugh…hang on.” Michael breaks from the awkward position to shift between Philippa’s legs until she is finally sitting up. Philippa smiles and kisses her once, twice, three times, her happiness palpable in the shape of her lips against Michael’s.

“That was wonderful to watch,” Philippa whispers lightly, brushing their noses together after the third kiss. “Are you always able to do that?”

Michael feels herself blushing once more. “No…I—I’ve never…”

Worried thoughts begin to flicker through Michael’s mind at warp speed. Should she be embarrassed at climaxing so easily, so quickly? Without even being touched? Had she given too much away—

Her thoughts are swept away as Philippa kisses her again, pulling her body close with strong arms.

“I’m flattered,” Philippa murmurs against her lips, and by the stars, how Michael loves it.

She feels quite reassured when they finally part.

Michael leans her forehead against Philippa’s, takes a long, steadying breath, and states, “I want to make you feel good like that.”

The declaration hangs between them, and before the words even have time to stop their ringing, Michael is pushing Philippa off of her, gently nudging her sideways onto the bed. Now free to move, Michael rises to a standing position in front of the window next to Philippa’s bed.

Her dress ripples in the warp-light as she shimmies her hips out of it. The fabric pools on the floor around her feet, and she pushes it gently to the side. Standing tall in only her underwear, Michael imagines the figure she must cut, her dark form illuminated by the shimmering blue warp behind her, cropped hair catching and refracting the otherworldly light.

Philippa certainly seems to appreciate it, if the wideness of her eyes and part of her lips are anything to go by.

“You are…stunning, Michael.”

Well.

That was definitely a good indicator as well.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” Michael murmurs as she crawls atop Philippa, settling warmly in her lap. Her thighs part as she does, and the warmth between her legs from her earlier orgasm settles pleasantly in her core. Michael smiles at the sensation, and she bends to kiss Philippa once more.

Philippa returns the kiss, but Michael detects impatience in the curve of her lips, in the quiver of her shoulders. Her lips twitch at her captain’s dilemma, and Michael brings her fingertips up to Philippa’s breasts once more.

“Ahh…” Philippa’s back arches. She breathes pleasure against Michael’s lips as her eyes drop to half-mast. Michael’s thumbs rub the way Philippa’s had only minutes earlier, and Philippa gasps and wriggles against her fingers. Michael wonders vaguely if Philippa likes being touched here as much as she does.

The thought is intensely arousing.

Philippa’s arms wrap around Michael, and Michael squeaks in surprise as Philippa flops onto her back, pulling her along with her. Philippa chuckles, and Michael’s cheeks grow warm once more.

“I need you, Michael, I can’t…I can’t…without being touched, like you can…”

Michael knows full well what Philippa is asking for.

Still, never let it be said that she backs down from challenge.

“You sure about that?”

The question is delivered with warm humor and a challenging eyebrow, and Philippa gasps as Michael swoops down to her chest.

Her tongue slides across one pebbled nipple, her fingertips darting across the other. Philippa lets out an honest-to-God yelp, which does nothing but spur Michael onwards. She laps harder, lavishing the rose-pink bud with sweet attentions from her mouth, and her fingertips trace careful patterns on the nipple next to her. In a far-away part of her mind, Michael vaguely recalls psi-points, positioning and motions and an adolescence filled with pressure point techniques and contact tricks…

Never before have the Vulcan healing arts had such a vitally important application.

She presses her lips lower, dotting kisses across Philippa’s trembling ribcage. Open-mouthed kisses pressed to a certain spot on her right side makes Philippa sigh, and a light nip to the same place elicits a jump and a surprised laugh. Michael grins at the revelation, and tucks the newfound data collection away in her mind, squarely next to various quantum physics solutions and conjectures in the fields of anthropology.

Discovery and exploration, science and physics…

One and the same, Michael resolves as her lips meet Philippa’s navel, regardless of the medium, the form, the function…

Her tongue darts into the crease, and Philippa’s hips jerk. “Oh—” She mumbles several words in a foreign, lilting language; Michael recognizes the Malay, but not the meaning behind it.

With some trepidation, she realizes that she has reached the top of Philippa’s dress pants, and is now out of exposed spots to pleasure.

The thought of what she will have to do next makes Michael swallow, her chest filled with equal parts excitement and apprehension.

“Should I…go on?”

Philippa’s only response is a raised eyebrow. “I rather hope you will.”

Michael tentatively reaches beneath the waistband of the trousers, but Philippa stops her before she gets very far.

“What are we, cadets in our dorm room?” Philippa’s tone is miffed beyond belief, and Michael presses a hand over her lips to stifle her snort of laughter. She is pleased to see Philippa briefly grin back at her, even as her attention moves downwards.

With with deft fingers, Philippa undoes the clasps of her dress pants. A quick wriggle of her hips and the pants are down her legs, pushed away across the floor. Thin black underwear starts to follows them down, and Michael kicks herself into action. She takes the dark fabric in her fingertips and pushes it down well-muscled thighs, over kneecaps and down slender calves. Philippa is still and silent as she does this, but Michael feels her anticipation in the twitch of her muscles.

Finally, the underwear is off, and Michael tosses it to the side. She turns back to Philippa, and her breath catches at the sight of long legs and pale skin.

It is not anything she hasn’t seen before, but never has she been so close, and never, ever has she dared to touch…

“You alright, Number One?”

Philippa’s voice is playful, teasing, and above all, knowing. Michael’s cheeks grow hot once more.

“Never better,” she manages, eyes never leaving Philippa’s legs.

Philippa’s hand reaches for her own, tugging it towards her, and Michael sighs as her fingertips make contact with Philippa’s bare thigh. She admires the contrast of the dark skin of her hand against Philippa’s pale leg, rippling warp-light playing dancing across them both.

Her fingers tremble only a little as she touches and explores what had previously been hidden to her.

“Are you sure you’re alright, Michael?”

Michael hears the concern in Philippa’s lilting voice, but far from being embarrassed, she feels something in her chest grow warm and soft. She ducks her head and smiles softly, her nervousness easing just as soon as it began.

As if she should expect any less, from the woman who has always, always made her feel safe.

“I’m alright…” She looks up into Philippa’s face, those beautiful, familiar features, the warm crinkles by her eyes, the rosy tint to her high cheekbones, the soft ivory of her skin…

“Thank you for asking.”

And Michael kisses her. She pulls Philippa’s slender frame close, kissing warm, supple lips, and wonders briefly if this is all she will ever get…

Not-dates at various Starfleet functions and events, kisses stolen in empty sparring chambers, sex beneath the flickering light of warp…

It is sufficient, Michael decides.

It has to be.

Michael pushes Philippa backwards once more to lay flat on the bed. Her bare skin glows in the low light, her dark waves of hair surround her head like a halo, and Michael thinks that if there were any place in the universe to find an angel, of course it would be here in this space-between-spaces, bathed in the blue light of this ethereal plane.

She leans down to kiss the hollow of Philippa’s throat, her collarbone, her sternum, even while one hand comes up to brush lightly across her trembling ribcage.

“Mmmh…” Philippa sighs beneath her, and Michael smiles into her chest.

She runs her tongue across Philippa’s right nipple, lapping gently, and Philippa twitches beneath her. Strong arms wrap behind Michael’s back, pulling her closer.

“Harder, Michael…”

Michael obliges, pulling the nipple into her mouth with a firm tug. She swirls her roughly, and Philippa cries out.

Screw it.

Hungry now, Michael’s hand dips between Philippa’s legs.

And by the stars, Philippa is so wet that for a brief, foolish second, Michael feels concerned.

But in the next second, Philippa’s hips buck into her hand, she makes a high moan of approval, and Michael remembers herself. Her fingertips trace pathways through warm, wet heat, her face growing hot at the notion of touching her captain in such an intimate way.

“You– Are…amazing,” Michael whispers, lips barely managing to form the words. “Exquisite…”

Her fingers trace higher; Michael wonders vaguely if Philippa prefers clitoral stimulation or penetration, as her previous female partners had all tended towards one or the other.

Best to test all hypotheses.

Philippa shakes beneath her as her thumb rubs over hot folds, searching ever-upwards, until–

“Guh!” Philippa bucks into her hands as Michael finds what she was looking for. Smirking proudly, she traces around this slightly elevated point, recognizing the hardness beneath it as precisely what she is searching for.

Philippa shakes beneath her hand, gasping and crying out in equal parts. Michael feels utterly giddy from the thrill of it all, drunk on the heady rush of power that is making the legendary Philippa Georgiou fall to pieces with a singular finger.

“Michael! Ahhh…I–I need you inside me—“ Philippa bites out the words, and Michael tucks her thumb upwards, drawing a low moan.

Eager now, her first and middle finger move lower, and they plunge deeply, easily into the center of Philippa’s heat.

“Oh! — —” And there is the Malay again, made musical by Philippa’s throaty voice. Michael’s head spins. Philippa ruts into her hand again and again and again, moaning with each jerk of her hips, her head thrown back, hair hopelessly disheveled.

Michael dimly remembers to twist her hand, placing her thumb back in a favorable position across Philippa’s clit. She adjusts and micro-adjusts, until finally one of Philippa’s upward bucking motions ends with a twitch and a sharp cry.

“Yes, there, oh Gods —“ And Michael can only watch as Philippa grinds wetly, frantically into her hand, pleasuring herself upon Michael’s fingers.

“Michael!…— — aku cinta kat kau —“

The words are hidden in a long babble of Malay syllables and released between sharp gasps; nevertheless, Michael understands them, and their meaning.

The world tilts upon its axis.

Yet even as it does, Michael feels Philippa clench around her hand as her insides seize with pleasure. Her eyes squeeze shut, spine arching from the bed as orgasm overtakes her.

Michael does not have to reflect upon her thirty-plus years of memories to know that she has never seen anything so beautiful in her entire life.

Finally, Philippa shakes out an exhale as her spine relaxes. Panting, she drapes an arm across her face, and Michael almost robotically removes her hand from between Philippa’s legs.

Philippa pulls her head up from the bed, and their eyes meet.

Michael realizes that she still wears the expression of stunned understanding, the one that lanced her features right open at the very moment she heard Philippa’s garbled declaration. She reaches desperately for her controls, her Vulcan fugue crashes back over her features, but it’s too late, too late, Philippa’s face is already flashing with panic.

Before Michael can open her mouth to speak, Philippa is rolling out from under her, pawing across the bed to rise to her feet. Her pale, nude form takes the distance to her bathroom in quick strides. She snags a bathrobe off of a wall hook next to the doorway, tugging it over herself as she crosses the threshold.

The bathroom door hisses shut.

Michael jerks out of her shocked state at the sound.

No…no no no…

Michael clambers out of the bed in an ungainly tangle of limbs, and she searches the floor frantically for something to cover herself, she tells herself, but she knows full well the real reason for this delay.

She is buying time.

So many things are fall into place now, here beneath the blue light of warp. So many of Philippa’s words and actions over the past few months, over the past few hours, all inexplicable at the time, and Michael had chalked it up to Human inconsistencies, but in light of this new information, her body of utterly random data is very, very quickly becoming not-random, not even remotely…

She abandons her search of the floor, not even fully certain as to why she had tried to find clothes there, of all places. Her bare feet brush lightly across the floor to Philippa’s dresser, and Michael feels only a brief twinge of guilt as she fishes in the middle drawer for a reasonably fitting shirt.

Why did Philippa have to be so damn small?

This new parameter is changing everything, and Michael cannot help but feel foolish for not even considering such a possibility.

It all makes sense…everything…

The shirt is clearly for sleeping, the only reason why it drapes over Michael’s torso instead of hugging tightly.

Everything makes sense.

Michael turns her gaze to the bathroom door, light peeking from where the door meets the floor. Minutes before, this task would have terrified her, but now Michael feels nothing but conviction.

She cannot lose Philippa, not now, not now.

Quick strides take her to the closed door, and Michael taps gently on it.

No answer.

Michael lifts her wrist to knock again, and quickly realizes that she is being foolish. “I—I’m coming in Philippa, you can stop me, if…” She trails off, before thumbing the entry pad.

The door hisses open, revealing Philippa Georgiou in all of her glory, hunched over the sink, gripping the counter with white knuckles and ramrod-straight arms. Her hair falls in loose curtains obscuring her face, and the thin robe drapes over her slender frame like a Venetian gown.

She is nothing short of a goddess, but Michael will tell her this later.

“Did you mean it?”

Philippa doesn’t move for a brief second. Still, Michael can almost see the shift of her shoulders, the moment Philippa steels herself and draws to a stand. She turns around, and the sadness on her face takes Michael’s breath away.

“Of course,” comes the simple answer. Philippa’s mouth draws sideways, and she looks away. “I—I didn’t know you spoke Malay…”

“I don’t,” Michael denies in a soft voice, but even as she does, a sudden thought strikes her. “That–, That is, ” Michael stammers slightly as she gathers her courage, “I don’t speak very much…there is this though.”

She looks at Philippa, and the words spring to her lips as if placed there.

“Aku cintamu.”

Philippa jerks. She looks up, her eyes wide and stunned.

She is so beautiful.

“I mean it.” Michael insists, and a note of fear enters her voice, quaking, terrible fear at the prospect of losing Philippa now, when she is so very close to having her completely. She takes a slow, measured step towards Philippa. “I do.”

Philippa hesitates only a moment, before rushing forward. They reach for each other at the same time, and Philippa’s arms are tight and hard as she pulls Michael close. Michael grips Philippa’s body just as tightly, her captain’s beautiful, delicate body with strength coiled beneath.

Sweet blessed relief crashes through Michael, and she sags ever so slightly in Philippa’s grip.

There is nowhere else in the whole galaxy that she would rather be.

They stand like this for several long moments…perhaps minutes, perhaps entire hours. Michael breathes, and feels, and the universe shifts around her, time and space reworking itself into something entirely new, and utterly, dazzlingly beautiful.

“We’ve been fools,” Philippa finally mumbles into her shoulder, and Michael snorts into the fabric of her robe.

“I have heard that can be a side effect.”

Philippa is still for a moment, before she begins to laugh. Her body trembles with soft chuckles, the sound muffled in Michael’s shoulder. A wave of absurd happiness bursts in Michael’s chest, and her lips work themselves into a helpless, giddy smile.

She squeezes her eyes shut, tucks her face into Philippa’s shoulder, and swears she will never let her go, not ever again.

[helpbutton95]

The Missing Bits of The Star Trek Discover Finale.

Keyla Detmer/ Joann Owosekun (Jola) 

Star Trek Dico Spoilers Ahead! 

They stumbled on, they're feet dragging.

"Why can't the Narcelles be closer," Rhys wheezes. Joann can see them struggling she can see Keyla's heaving form in front of her.

"We're almost at the access point," Joann tries to reassure as they struggle through the corridor. "Hang in there," She urges as her own feet stumble.

She should have expected it, she had seen oxygen deprivation before. Rhys's legs give out from under him. Stumbling into Keyla and taking them both down. She's running before Keyla hits the ground, checking her for any injuries and those blue eyes stare into her own. The struggle that Joann knows is there. She reaches for the oxygen from Tilly and lets Keyla have more oxygen than she should.

"I don't think I can get up," Rhys wheezes as Keyla's hand grips her wrist weakly trying to pull the oxygen from her and Joann gives it to Rhys as Keyla urges silently, ever the saviour Joann thinks.  

"You have to try," Joann urges. "Both of you," Joann says as Keyla tries to stand only to slip down the panelled wall.

"Owo," Tilly's strained voice comes makes her turn. "You have to go by yourself. Take the oxygen."

"What?" Joann stands turning and staring at Tilly like she's lost her mind. These are her friend. Her family, she can't leave them to die. "No. You'll suffocate."

"We're just delaying the inevitable," Tilly argues as she leans heavily on the wall, her voice strained. "You have to finish the mission."

She doesn't expect Tilly to slide down the wall, she had expected her to last longer and as she glances at Keyla who gives her a minimal nod. "Please," Tilly whispers in her gasps.

Joann turns as Rhys hands her the magnets and the oxygen, she looks at her friends her family, slowly dying in front of her and she knows she's the last hope, the last one that can make it. She watches as Nilsons eyes close and Bryce falls unconscious, she watches Rhys slump and her ears are filled with Tilly's gasps, her eyes connect with Keyla's and watch the tears slip down her cheek.  

"Keyla," Joann begins but Keyla nods.

"Go," Keyla orders quietly.

"I love you all," Her voice shakes as she says and she doesn't want to leave, she wants to stay to hold Keyla as they fall unconscious together as they used to do in their days before when they first landed here. But she has a mission, she has to do her duty to Star Fleet, she's the only one that can help Michael.

She's can feel her lungs burn as she climbs and makes her way to the access point. She thinks of Keyla, her bright smile, the way her jaw sets when challenged, the way her eyes softened in the glow of a passing star or the small smile that shows her dimples. Or her concentration when challenged by a task at the control panel. She's gasping and coughing as she passes into the Narcelle room. Her legs giving out from under her. Even lifting the oxygen is a strain on her body.

"Oxygen depleted," The automatic voice comes and Joann wants to curse this godforsaken future. She sets it to the side, this is the end. She knows it, she stumbles through the magnetic field and stares at the connector, she was doing this for Keyla. To let her survive to let her friends survive. She slots the bomb into its location, exactly where Tilly told her. She gasps for oxygen that isn't there as she tries to make her way out of the Narcelle compartment. Joann stumbles, there's nothing left. No oxygen, no energy, nothing. There was nothing more she could do as she tries to crawl.

"Lieutenant Owosekun," The droid greets. It can't be here, the sphere data can't be here,

"You can't be here, the magnetic field," Joann gasps.

"You must stand," It instructs but Joann can't bare the thought of something else dying. She tries to tell it to go as darkness consumes her.

She misses the explosion or the dropping out of warp. She doesn't hear Michaels orders for life support.

"This Commander Michael Burnham. Any crew that can hear me, report to the bridge immediately. I repeat this Commander Burnham, report to the bridge immediately."

Joann wakes and the first thing she realises is she's not where she passed out, shes in the corridor. Where she left her crewmates. Where she left Keyla. Keyla Joann realises, she scrambles to her feet to find the whirring bot in front of her.

"You pulled me out of there," She says in awe.

"It was my honour," The droid says as it powers down and Joann feels her heart shudder.

"Thank you," Joann whispers before a groan makes her turn. She turns to find blue eyes watching her intently.

"You're alive," Keyla's soft voice fills her ears.

"So are you," Joann gasps stands, her body gravitating towards Keyla. Rhys moving makes her look around to the rest of the crew slowly waking up. "All of you," Joann gasps.

"You did it?" Tilly gasps.

"We did it," Joann reassures with a grin spreading over her face. Her eyes never straying from Keylas for too long.

"Let's go to the bridge then," Tilly orders. As the crew walk forward, Joann can't stop herself as her arms wrap so tightly around Keyla the relief washes over her at the smaller woman arms around her.

"Thank God," Joann whispers. They hold each other tightly that they can't stop the slight sway. As they pull apart she looks down into the blue eyes.

"You did it," Keyla whispers and Joann can't stop herself, she doesn't care about the crew or protocol as her lips crash into Keyla's. It feels staggeringly good to just give into it. Keyla responds immediately, Joann melts apart as soon as their bodies touch and Joann's hand ease down Keyla's back and Keyla lets out a small noise into the kiss.

Keyla’s hands take hold of Joann’s head, fingers twisting through the loose hair there and keeping their faces together. Joann feels overwhelmed by sensation in a way that makes her hands grip Keyla's waist. They’re heads resting softly against one another. 

A pointed clearing of a throat makes them turn. "I get we just survived a near death experience," Tilly begins. "But maybe after we go to the bridge and get out of the Viridian?"

[justanalto]

But not if you don’t give us boots

nsfw aheadddddd

"Captain, we're being hailed by the Moclans."

"On screen." The entire bridge takes a breath almost on instinct — the Moclans are the party responsible for their latest entanglement. Currently, it's that they've taken one of their crew hostage with a ransom point entirely too high for Federation consideration; a permanent wrinkle has taken residence on Michael's forehead as she tries to navigate Federation politics and getting them back.

The Moclan they'd been negotiating with before appears on screen, though this time, there is utter weariness in his expression as he regards the crew of the Discovery. "I wish to speak with Captain Owosekun."

Every eye on the bridge swivels in the direction of ops. Subtly, of course. "What is the reason you wish to speak with her?" Michael finally asks, stiffness in her voice.

"We —" the Moclan starts before the pronoun usage seems to hit him. "We have decided not to pursue the ransom."

Michael holds up a hand to quell off the loud cheer threatening to erupt on the bridge. "May I ask why?"

"May I be frank, ..."

"Burnham. Commander Burnham of the USS Discovery."

"May I be frank, Commander Burnham?"

"I don't see why not."

"Your hostage is proving to us more trouble than my superiors believe a Federation ransom is worth. Moclans have always valued their mental sanity over that of other needs, and in this case, we are choosing to prioritize it." A beat. "If you'll provide your coordinates, we'll beam your hostage back to you and cease all negotiations."

Michael frowns. It's an odd proposition, especially for a species that'd originally pushed for such a high sum of money. "How do I know you're not going to renege on this offer?"

The Moclan, if possible, seems to get wearier. "Please," he says. "My men are not sure how much more they can stand of her. If I could speak to Captain Owosekun as soon as possible."

"Captain Owosekun is indisposed at the current moment, but I'll be happy to arrange coordinates with you." Rhys, Bryce, and Tilly are all staring at Joann, eyes widened and eyebrows raised. "Is there a message I can pass along?"

"Tell your captain that she is doing very well at training her crew to outlast captors" is all he says before blinking out. It's at that that Michael finally turns to ops, incredulity written on her face.

"Captain Owosekun?"

Joann shrugs. "I have no idea, Captain. I guess we'll have to find out when —" The air in front of her shimmers for a split second before Keyla all but drops into Joann's lap, rocking uncertainly before Joann's hands on her hips steady her. " — when Keyla comes back, Keyla, how the hell did you manage to convince the Moclans to give you back and drop the ransom?"

"Hi Keyla, glad to see you're alive, Keyla, you're the love of my life and I couldn't live without you Keyla, good to see you too, Jo." Joann just rolls her eyes fondly and kisses Keyla's cheek. "Well, if you really want to know, when two women love each other..."

"Oh my god," Tilly mutters, head plonking onto the console. "Don't let her go on, Captain, I'm begging you..."

But it's too late. "Honestly, all I really did was tell them about the great sex I'm getting." An eyebrow waggle. "Oh, did you guys know about the new cuffs they have on Orville-V? And there's a new machine on Polaris I've been eyeing for literal months now, it's got like five different speeds and I think we're meaning to get our quarters soundproofed —"

"Commander Detmer." The only face lacking in a blush is Keyla's; even Joann's buried her face in her girlfriend's shoulder in humiliation. "Do you mean to tell me the Moclans returned you because you talked too much?"

Keyla hums. "Oh, maybe. That one guy did look like he wanted to throw himself out of the nearest airlock while I was telling him about the different settings on the 'fresher f—"

"That'll be enough, Commander Detmer. Dismissed." Michael looks mollified. "Make sure you put that into your report to Starfleet."

"Aye, captain." With a grin, Keyla turns to a still-mortified Joann. "Come on. All of that talk had me thinking..."

[justanalto]

S A U C E

THE ONLY FAILSAFE YOU EVER NEED IS YOU

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

“She’ll come back.” 

Keyla barely finds it in her to turn her head sideways, the promise puffing weakly through Rhys’ lips. She’s not sure whether he’s saying it for their sake or for hers personally, but regardless of its intention, it does nothing to quell the pressure in her chest that mounts with each passing second. 

Ironic, really -- the more she bursts with to say, the less oxygen she has with which to say it. Save your oxygen, Tilly’d said early on, words strained in the thinning atmosphere of the hallway, but to Keyla, it hadn’t mattered much whether she’d had oxygen to save. Not when her last breath had disappeared up with the ladder with her unsaid goodbyes. 

The whole situation makes her want to laugh, if such an action was in her lung capacity; she’d been planning to ask Joann out later that night once they were off shift, worries for the day discarded on their floor with their uniforms. Jo, she would’ve said, easy head tilt and all, if the universe set you up to deal with me, do you think it could be because it wanted me to take you out? 

What? Joann would’ve asked in that comfortingly teasing way Keyla’d come to memorize. What do you mean? 

And Keyla, fearless pilot of the first ship at the Battle of the Binary Stars, would’ve squared her shoulders, told herself to be kind, and tried not to smile too hard. To take you out, she would’ve said simply, and waited with bated breath for what she hoped would be the favorable outcome. How’s a dinner date at the holodeck Friday sound? 

Instead, the words she’s worked so hard to perfect were snatched from her with nothing more than a whoopsie-daisies and a phaser to her head, stolen from her in a future breath she’ll never get to take. “She’ll come back,” Rhys promises again, and this time, the look in his eyes suggests he knows exactly what’s churning through her thoughts. 

“She will,” Bryce chimes in, and around her, Keyla can hear the sounds of her friends’ weak chiming in. She’s not sure when her feelings about Joann became bridge crew knowledge (Georgiou had even threatened her, once or twice before she’d left, homicidal pain in the ass), but in her possible last moments, if she couldn’t have had her beloved ops partner by her side, it was some small comfort to at least have those that knew Keyla treasured her. 

A soft thump. “She’ll come back,” Tilly rasps, and the blackness is beginning to creep into the edges of Keyla’s vision. This is it, then -- this is how she goes, 930 years into the future surrounded by the only family she’s got left and in the name of a shell of the organization she’d originally signed on to serve. Another exhale, and the blackness increases another inch. “She’ll come back ‘cause she loves you.” 

She does? Keyla wants to ask, but her brain is already starving for oxygen, every remaining molecule dedicated to clouding the rest of her vision and making sure that her eyes are at least shut for the grand finale called death. She does. At least if she’s going out, she’s answered all of the immediate questions in life.

She does, and that’s all I needed to know. 

The next time her eyes shoot open, it’s to the soft fluorescent lighting assigned to all science vessels, the floor hard and unforgiving against her back. If this is heaven, it’s not a very nice introduction. (Also, Keyla thinks, heaven would ideally have Joann curled into her, so the fact that neither of those factors are present is a pretty good indicator that she hasn’t died.) 

But, that’s her brain, always a traitor to optimism, just because you’re alive doesn’t necessarily mean everyone else is, too. She’s not sure whether to look around -- despite its violent reintroduction into society, Keyla’s brain has already done the math, and the probability that everyone’s survived is lower than their beginning assumptions that they’d be able to take back Discovery. 

Still, it’s something she has to face. If she faced something, she’d beat it. Besides, it wasn’t like she could lie like this forever. Slowly, Keyla turns her head in the last known direction of Rhys and Bryce, breath whooshing out of her lungs when she sees the both of them, a little groggy but no worse for wear. Down the corridor, Ina is the same, shakily getting to her feet to join the rest of them; Tilly, bless her heart, is scrubbing the curls out of her face with no visible distress --

“You pulled me out of there.” Keyla’s heart does an almost painful lurch in her chest, it can’t be, she needs to be able to sit up right the fuck now -- “Thank you.” 

Brain and body, both of them traitors: the cough that expels itself from Keyla’s chest is not how she’d wanted to announce herself, but it seems to do the trick, and as she finally manages to roll over to her side, her eyes meet Joann’s, flecked with gold and wider than the hole that should currently be in their nacelle. “You’re alive,” she whispers, because it’s just about all she can process right now. 

Joann Owosekun is alive. Joann Owosekun is alive, and unharmed, and maybe looking at Keyla like she’d believed she’d never lay eyes on her again, but above all, Joann is alive. 

Joann is alive, and Joann is here, and god, if Keyla’s heart doesn’t stop doing donuts anytime soon she’s pretty sure she’s going to go into cardiac arrest. (Joann. Is. Alive.) 

“So are you,” the other woman finally whispers back, her awed expression shifting to one more suited for general company as she looks around at the rest of the crew. “All of you.” 

“You did it?” Tilly asks, finally managing to make it to her feet; in no time, the rest of the crew is in somewhat similar positions, if not a little unsteady. Keyla still can’t stop staring at Joann -- it’s like she’s seen the rebirth of the sun, every fiber of her being yearning to reach out and simply hold her, ensure that what she’s seeing is real and not some horrific figment of her imagination. 

“We did it,” Joann answers, and it’s so her, so Joann to share the victory with those around her that it makes Keyla want to weep in relief. There’s no way she can be dreaming this up, no way this can be faked, not even the best of holoprograms could make up Joann’s nature. 

Next to them, Tilly laughs. “Let’s go to the bridge, then,” she says, the rest of the crew moving to follow. It’s then that Joann’s eyes turn back to Keyla’s, still wide, still drinking the pilot in with a stifled sort of disbelief. Her arms seem to unfold with an almost unconscious movement, and the same autopilot in Keyla’s brain shuffles her two steps forward and into Joann’s arms, the solidity of her touch activating an octopus embrace of her own. 

You almost died, she wants to whisper, eyes shutting tightly at Joann’s arms wrapped around hers. You almost died, and I never got to tell you I love you. You almost died, and you almost took me with you. “I knew you could do it,” she whispers instead, because it’s better than chastising Joann for things she couldn’t control. “I always knew you could do it.” 

She’ll ask Joann out later -- and even later down the line, Keyla will tell her she loves her -- but right now, in the sweet, sweet relief of a defeated Emerald Chain, there is nothing better than the simple knowledge that they are both alive. 

[justanalto]

Okay I will make one (1) kdetmer/jowosekun request

these two fucking dorks. i love them to an inch of my life thank you.

It wasn’t much, but it was all she’d thought of when considering an outfit for a last-minute entrance. (Plus, the last time she’d worn it, her date had practically cut the date short and dragged Joann back to her apartment, so...it wasn’t like Joann was looking for a repeat, but...)

<JOWOSEKUN>: how did you know i was looking if you weren’t staring back?

<JOWOSEKUN>: focus on your date, keyla :P