Mar’i
The airship’s galley was a cramped, steaming sanctuary, a pocket of warmth against the high-altitude chill that seeped through the hull. Sarka stood at the small stove, her movements economical and precise, a stark contrast to the chaos she so often navigated in the skies. She was stirring a thick, savory stew, the scent of root vegetables and smoked meat filling the small space. It was a grounding smell, one that spoke of provision, of survival. Of having something to offer.
The door hissed open and closed. Mar’i leaned against the frame, her presence instantly changing the atmosphere. She was a splash of impossible color against the galley’s muted brass and steel. Tonight, her hair was a cascade of deep teal and magenta, a vibrant storm that seemed to capture the nebulae they flew through. She wore loose-fitting trousers and a cropped vest, leaving the toned, sun-kissed skin of her midriff bare. A small, worn fish plush was tucked into her belt.
“Smells good, Captain,” Mar’i said, her voice a low, melodic hum that always seemed to ride the edge of a laugh. “But I’m not hungry for food.”
Sarka didn’t turn. Her grip on the wooden spoon tightened. Mar’i’s compliments, her casual innuendos, were a familiar form of turbulence. Sarka was a pilot; she knew how to ride it out, how to keep her course steady. “Lena’s stew. You should eat. We have a long run tomorrow.”
“Mmm.” The sound was a soft vibration, closer now. Mar’i moved with a liquid grace, her bare feet silent on the metal grating. She stopped just behind Sarka, not touching, but close enough for Sarka to feel the heat radiating from her skin, to catch the scent of salt and sea-mist that always clung to her, no matter how high they flew. “You’re always so practical, Sarka. Always thinking about the next run, the next storm, the next crash.”
Sarka finally turned, her expression a carefully constructed mask of neutrality. She met Mar’i’s eyes—dark, sparkling eyes that seemed to hold the depth of the ocean she’d been born to. “It’s how we stay alive.”
“Is that all we’re doing?” Mar’i’s smile was soft, disarming. She reached out, not with a grab or a demand, but with a slow, deliberate movement. Her fingers, calloused from rope and rigging, gently brushed a stray lock of Sarka’s dark hair from her forehead. The touch was feather-light, a spark in the dry air of the galley. “Staying alive?”
Sarka flinched, a barely perceptible tightening of her shoulders. It was an instinct, a remnant of a life where touch was a prelude to pain, where intimacy was a weapon. “Don’t.”
Mar’i didn’t pull back. Her hand remained, hovering in the space between them. “I’m not going to hurt you, Sarka. I just want to feel you.”
The words, so simple, so direct, landed with more force than any shout. Sarka’s composure, the armor she had forged in the spectro-era mines and in a dozen near-death experiences, began to crack. She saw the genuine concern in Mar’i’s eyes, the lack of guile. This wasn’t a game. It wasn’t a conquest. It was an offering.
And she was so tired of being alone.
With a shuddering breath, Sarka let her defenses fall. It wasn’t a decision; it was a surrender. She leaned forward, just an inch, and closed the distance between them. Mar’i’s hand finally came to rest on her cheek, her thumb stroking the skin there with a reverence that made Sarka’s heart ache.
Mar’i closed the remaining distance, her lips finding Sarka’s. It wasn’t a kiss of fiery passion, not at first. It was a kiss of discovery. Her lips were soft, tasting of the sea and a hint of the sweet wine she’d been drinking. She explored Sarka’s mouth with a gentle curiosity, coaxing, not demanding. Sarka found herself responding, her own lips parting, her body leaning into the touch she had reflexively shied away from for so long.
The kiss deepened. Mar’i’s other hand came up to tangle in Sarka’s hair, her fingers massaging her scalp, sending shivers down her spine. Sarka’s hands, which had been clenched at her sides, rose to settle on Mar’i’s waist. She could feel the warmth of her skin through the thin fabric of her vest, the subtle ripple of muscle as Mar’i pressed closer.
The world narrowed to this small space, to the scent of Mar’i’s skin and the taste of her mouth. The hum of the airship’s engines, the whistle of the wind outside, all of it faded into a distant thrum. There was only the press of Mar’i’s body against hers, the way her hips fit perfectly into Sarka’s, the soft sigh she breathed into Sarka’s mouth.
Mar’i broke the kiss, resting her forehead against Sarka’s. Her eyes were dark, her pupils blown wide with desire. “Sarka,” she whispered, her voice thick. “Let me in.”
It was the same plea, but this time, Sarka was ready to answer. She nodded, a silent, jerky motion.
Mar’i’s smile was triumphant and tender. She took Sarka’s hand and led her away from the stove, towards the narrow bunk that was Sarka’s private space. It was spartan, functional, just like its owner. But as Mar’i pulled Sarka down onto the thin mattress, the space was transformed.
Mar’i straddled her, her thighs bracketing Sarka’s hips, her weight a delicious, grounding pressure. She leaned down, her hair falling around them like a curtain of silk, and kissed her again. This time, there was no hesitation. There was only need. Sarka’s hands roamed over Mar’i’s back, tracing the lines of her shoulder blades, feeling the strength and suppleness of her body. She slipped her hands under Mar’i’s vest, her palms flattening against the warm, smooth skin of her back.
Mar’i arched into the touch, a soft moan escaping her lips. She sat up, her hands going to the hem of her own vest and pulling it over her head, tossing it aside. Her breasts were small and perfect, her nipples dark and already hardened into tight peaks. Sarka’s breath hitched. She had seen Mar’i undressed before, in the close quarters of the ship, but she had never looked. Not like this.
Mar’i saw the awe in Sarka’s eyes and her smile softened. She reached for the hem of Sarka’s simple shirt, her fingers brushing against Sarka’s stomach. “May I?”
Sarka could only nod again, her throat too tight to speak.
Mar’i lifted the shirt over Sarka’s head, revealing the lean, wiry strength of her body. The faint, silvery scars of her past were a roadmap across her skin, a history Mar’i didn’t shy away from. She leaned down, her lips tracing the line of a scar that ran from Sarka’s collarbone to her breast. Her touch was a benediction, a silent erasure of old pain.
Sarka gasped, her hands flying to Mar’i’s hips, pulling her down harder. The friction was exquisite, a sweet torment that built a fire low in her belly. Mar’i’s mouth continued its journey, her tongue swirling around Sarka’s nipple, her teeth grazing the sensitive flesh. Sarka cried out, her back bowing off the bunk.
“Mar’i… please…”
Mar’i understood the plea. She shifted her weight, one hand sliding down Sarka’s body, her fingers deftly undoing the ties of her trousers. She slipped her hand inside, her fingers finding the slick, heated core of Sarka’s desire. Sarka bucked against her hand, a raw, desperate sound tearing from her throat.
It had been so long. So long since she had allowed herself to feel anything but the cold grip of survival. Now, all the years of loneliness, of fear, of self-imposed isolation, came rushing out in a torrent of sensation. Mar’i’s fingers moved with an intuitive skill, stroking, circling, finding the rhythm that made Sarka’s vision blur, that made the stars outside the porthole seem to spin.
Sarka’s hands gripped Mar’i’s shoulders, her nails digging into her skin. She was lost, adrift in a sea of pleasure, and Mar’i was her only anchor. Mar’i’s mouth found hers again, swallowing her cries, her own body moving in a sinuous rhythm against Sarka’s.
The pressure built, a tight coil of heat in Sarka’s belly, winding higher and higher until it snapped. A wave of pure, unadulterated ecstasy crashed over her, stealing her breath, her sight, her very thoughts. She shuddered, her body convulsing, a single, ragged sob escaping her lips as the pleasure washed through her, cleansing and profound.
When she finally came back to herself, Mar’i was holding her, her body a warm, solid weight beside her. She was stroking Sarka’s hair, her touch gentle and soothing. The galley was quiet again, save for the hum of the engines and the sound of their own breathing.