SAMSON
  • WpView
    Reads 28
  • WpVote
    Votes 7
  • WpPart
    Parts 2
WpMetadataReadMatureOngoing21m
WpMetadataNoticeLast published Tue, May 26, 2020
Flashes of a dream from the night before played in my head head while I worked, knowing I needed to focus on the course the ship was flying, but it wouldn't stop. Heat. Skin. Sweat. Hands on me. Hair slipping through my fingers. Hips and tongues, nails and whimpers in the dark of a bunk that wasn't mine. I wanted it so bad. So bad in fact that I'd woken up in a sweat that morning and couldn't get back to sleep, forcing an early jog before the rest of my band woke for the daily missions briefing. I ran the length of Deck C almost four times over trying to get the images out of my head, to get Harry out of my head. And he didn't help my problem at all- it was a game to him, to flirt with me in class, let his hands linger on my ribs when he adjusted the harness of my flight suit. I wasn't innocent, we were both playing the game, we both knew the other wanted it, but I was a cadet and he was my captain, and rules were rules. Or, an entirely self-indulgent AU where Harry is a well known prodigal Captain on the space craft Samson, a battle ship fighting to end the reign of the Hock Organization, a powerful and sinister militia. Claire is a fresh faced cadet from Earth who knows what she wants. And having each other makes the void of space a little less lonely.
All Rights Reserved
Join the largest storytelling communityGet personalized story recommendations, save your favourites to your library, and comment and vote to grow your community.
Illustration

You may also like

  • THE DEVIL IS A GENTLEMAN - H.S
  • Unfathomable Secrets {Punk One Direction}
  • THE GRAYSON EFFECT | 18+ ✔️
  • Stockholm Syndrome//H.S
  • Out of Time
  • The Styles Mansion [h.s]
  • Book 1✔️ Sugar Baby
  • Falling for my Asshole Boss
  • Indecorous

*[EDITING]* When Harry was twenty two, if a dangerously overconfident, time-hopping doppelgänger had pulled up in a freaky, rubber balaclava ('listen, mate' - hand on the shoulder and everything, like the reenactment of a cliché, time-honored rite of passage), and told him that in the very near future, his Friday nights would be indefinitely spent wearing a Greek moniker in the form of a fetishized allusion, that he'd be garbed by a latex mask to protect the sacred, fragile veil of secrecy- Well. He'd probably get a head start for padded walls and a straight jacket. Consider he was doing himself a favor with that one. But if he were told the same thing at twenty three, he'd probably choose to overlook the minor detail of reality imploding and sit back in his armchair, swirling his whiskey with excitement. Twenty three was an eventful year. He'd started casually enjoying whiskey after a long workday (honestly, a palate milestone in and of itself) and became enlightened on the fine art of tactically-applied suffering (and with it, gained a whole new appreciation for high-quality restraints). Because sometimes, a well-placed bruise and bliss just happened to go hand-in-hand. - OR the one in which there's a sex club, Greek stage names, an exploration of boundaries, an open house, a pair of dress shoes, and two evident sides to the same coin.

More details
WpActionLinkContent Guidelines