Actions

Work Header

...next time?

Chapter Text

The ship is dark and quiet and Aava's about to retire for the night when her comm pings with a new message. 


She groans, annoyed, because it's bound to be Blue or some other suit giving her some dumbass orders. But... no. This is... something else.

She squints at the displayed holopic from an unknown number for a second before managing to place just exactly who that square patch of smuggler jacket belongs to.

This is... interesting. Very interesting. 

Trystan, she replies - via text because there's no way she's giving Zero the opportunity to eavesdrop on the conversation - Since when do you have my comm number?

She likes to think she can feel him panic and drop his comm in that dirtbag they call a spaceship even from here before he hurriedly replies: It was an accident?

Naturally, she replies, because whether he's referring to the accidental shot of his person or the incident itself which resulted in him finding her number to begin with, it was no doubt unintentional, as everything with Tryst Valentine is. 

She should have Zero trace the number. The crew of the Mynock are too idiotic to realise they've left themselves vulnerable. Again.

But... Aava thinks, as she slinks into her bunk, it's been a while since she's had some fun.

She smirks into the darkness and replies, If you're going to be sending me holopics of your body, Trystan, you may as well make them naked ones.

She imagines him spluttering over her response, maybe even getting a little flushed, a little hard, and it gives her great joy.

...What?

You heard me Trystan.

And if she knows Tryst at all, that will do it for him. She stretches back against the sheets, ankles crossed, head pillowed on her hands, and her silk nightie stretched out between the two, and waits. 

Tryst must be even more desperate than she imagined because it doesn't take long. 

It's a picture of his painted toenails. They're an adorable mess of glossy red paint and haphazard sparkles that either the five-year-old member of their crew has crafted, or the idiot that is Tryst Valentine himself. Naked enough for you? is the accompanying text. He thinks he's so kriffing clever. 

Cute. Now show me your dick.

Are you this bossy with all your playdates?

You didn't seem to mind it last time. Now, dick. 

Tryst is the mouthiest sub she's ever met, but he's still a sub alright. He'll play along, she knows. 

A moment or two passes. She closes her eyes, lets her own hand wander as she begins to imagine his fingers unbuttoning his clothes, wrapping around his penis, twisting his nipple in that way that makes him gasp...

Her comm pings. It's his dick, thank Force, but depressingly flaccid.

Aava sighs and begrudgingly removes her hand from her panties to text back, Don't disappoint me unless you don't want me.

It takes only seconds for a flurry of apologises to come through, and a minute later, a much improved holopic appears. 

Good boy. Keep touching yourself for me. Send me a picture of your come when you're done. You have three minutes.

This time it's a call that comes through. She should have known that the boy couldn't follow simple instructions. 

"What?" she drawls. "Was I not clear?"

"You're not going to help me with this?!" 

"I think you've got it," she says calmly. "Two minutes, thirty five seconds."

He groans and she hangs up before she even hears the end of it. She won't give him the satisfaction of knowing that his cute little frustrated groan went straight to her groin. It did though, and she lets out a little whimper, imagining just how frustrated he must be now and all the little sounds he must be making. She's embarrassingly turned on from the thought. 

She tries to keep an eye on the time but it gets increasingly difficult as she resumes touching herself to the thought of Tryst doing the same. She knows this must be driving him crazy and, in turn, it drives her crazy. Her pleasure is building, and building, and then just ten seconds before her time limit is up, a message comes through. 

Oh, Force, it's beautiful.

It's a shot of Tryst's bare, come-streaked chest, his ribs protruding as if caught on a sharp inhale and blurred as if taken by still-shaking hands. He must only just have come.

Aava groans as she's caught by a sudden wave of pleasure and finds herself riding an intense orgasm, eyes glued to the sight of Tryst's blurry holopic. 

She comes back to herself a minute later, swearing under her breath repeatedly, as her eyes open and adjust to the darkness. That had no right to feel so kriffing good.

On her comm is an unopened message - Did I do good?

It's pathetic how her heart jumps a little at his need for reassurance. He can be so good for her when he wants to be.

Yes, sweetheart. You did so good. And then, in a moment of foolish bravery, she adds, Send me another tomorrow.