“So, Jyn,” says one of the pilots genially as they sit around in one of the lounges in Hoth with a drink and the opportunity for conversation, “you and Andor, eh?”
The conversations around them stop dead. Heads turn. Jyn is disoncerted to find herself the sudden centre of the room’s attention.
“Cassian and I,” she says, made wary by the interest, but unwilling to back down. “Yes.”
He catches her arm as she turns to go, pulling her around to face him. “Jyn—”
Unbalanced, she grabs for him. He grabs hold of her, stabilises her. She lifts her face up to his face and the comment she was going to make dies on her lips. They’re close, standing closer than they’ve ever been since Scarif, and he’s looking at her the way he did in the elevator down.
“Jyn,” he says again, and it’s both a plea and a warning before his mouth comes down on hers.
It’s the lightest brush of lips at first, nothing more than a tingle, a hesitant inquiry.
He draws back enough to see her eyes before Jyn wraps her hand around the back of his neck, fingers digging into his nape. Cassian makes a noise of agreement in his throat and angles his mouth to nestle deeper in hers as his hands pull her up against him—
It’s an exhilarating madness in the droid parts storage. Cassian’s fingers are deft on her clit as he nips and sucks at the join of her neck and shoulder – inside the collar, so nobody can see. Jyn lets herself relax into his touch, her hands up under his shirt, gripping lean muscle beneath the layers of clothing – then clawing his back as desire snaps through her like a jolt from a live wire.
She doesn’t get to touch him quite as long as she’d like. “Not this time,” he murmurs against her jaw. “I’m too close—”
And yet in spite of his protest of ‘too close’ Cassian still holds on for several exquisitely pleasurable minutes. It’s long enough for Jyn to come just from the pressure of him moving in her, slow and steady – a bright wave of ecstacy bubbling through her veins, drawing a sharp and urgent cry from her lips which Cassian leans in to swallow.
He shudders against her, fingers clenching on her hips, hard enough to leave bruises.
Not that Jyn minds the marks.
“You seem well refreshed this morning, Captain.”
Cassian sits down opposite Chirrut. “I slept well.” Surprisingly well, considering he’s not used to having someone else in the bed, let alone spooned up against him
“Sleep is a good thing. As is waking up.”
Cassian is beyond blushing, but he does give Chirrut a hard look.
Morning sex is slower, more leisurely. Jyn stretches against Cassian, Cassian stretches back.
Under the warm covers of the bed, they can peel off shirts and shuck sleep leggings, snuggle skin to skin, and delight in the scent and taste and feel of each other.
Cassian likes the jut of Jyn’s hipbone beneath his thumb, the trail of her nipple against his arm, the ease of her thigh between his. He likes her tongue tracing up the cords of his throat, the smoothness of her legs against his, the easy curl of her hand around his shaft.
“I thought about waking you with my mouth,” she murmurs, fingering his head. “But maybe another time.”
He laughs and bends to kiss her – soft heat, rapidly growing. “I won’t object if you do, so long as you don’t object if I do the same for you.”
Jyn’s breathing grows uneven as Cassian circles his fingers in to the tip of her breast, then out again without touching the nipple. He shivers as she traces a finger down his side – the line from his armpit to his waist is particularly susceptible – and moans when she angles her hips to slick him against her core.
He rolls her onto her back, and she spreads her thighs so he can fit himself into her, against her. And she wraps her legs around his hips and undulates beneath him—
Cassian’s not new to sex, but sex with Jyn is something more. He doesn’t have the word for it – he’s a spy, not a poet – but it’s not just pleasure, or release, or fun.
It’s Jyn, bright eyed and smiling as she moves back against him. It’s Jyn guiding his hand between them so their fingers are touching her clit. It’s Jyn, digging her fingers into his buttocks as she orgasms underneath him, and takes him with her.
“So,” the Princess says with a politician’s polished politeness, “You’re the woman who led the rebellion against the Rebellion to get the Death Star plans.”
“Jyn Erso, your highness.” She nearly adds ‘Guilty as charged’ but decides that’s probably not wise to say to one of the most influential Rebel leaders when your father created the battlestation that destroyed her planet. “And I had a lot of help.”
Leia Organa glances at Cassian, and one corner of her mouth tilts upwards, giving a mischievous cast to her expression. “I did say you were trouble, didn’t I, Captain?”
His mouth twitches behind the newly-trimmed beard, the clean-shaven cheek.
It’s fairly obvious that Cassian has reservations.
Jyn considers that fair enough – it’s not something a man allows just anyone to do to him.
Still, the questioning is growing tiresome.
“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”
She stops stropping the blade and looks at him, sitting on the edge of his bed, the hot towel he was just applying to his face steaming in the cool air. “Do you trust me?”
The question is asked casually, but the look that comes into his eyes is quite serious. “With my life.”
Jyn looks down at the blade, an automatic drop of her gaze. She’s still getting used to this trust thing, to having someone to come back to, to having someone who wants her there in spite of what she is, not because of what she is.
“So, does your life include your beard or not?”
It’s not a smile. But the lines of hardship and struggle etched into the corners of his mouth and the corners of his eyes ease slightly as he reapplies the towel to his cheeks. “Then do your worst.”
Inspecting the blade, Jyn decides it’s sharp enough. She takes the towel from his hands, and rubs her fingers over his cheek to see if the bristles have softened from the heat. Enough to do the job.
There’s a pleasure in soaping Cassian with her hands – a sensual tactility in the slipperiness, in the prickle of his stubble against her fingers. And Jyn lingers over the line of his jaw until he raises his eyebrows at her.
He’s steady when she picks up the blade, when she makes the first swipe down his cheek.
“So far.” His cheeks fill with his smile. “But there’s still a bit left to go.”
Jyn strokes the blade down his cheeks, along his jaw, down his throat. She leaves the shortbeard – he doesn’t want to be clean-shaven, just neat for today’s presentations. And she likes the texture of his beard against her skin – softer than the stubble, more like a caress.
She’s done this several times before – for other lovers, for colleagues; once, as a job. But none of them ever watched her the way Cassian watches her, his eyes following her every move with a lingering care. She has to block him from her awareness to get the job done without cutting him, because it’s just too much for her to process – the blade, his skin, the look in his eyes...
When she’s done – first pass, cross-grain pass, clean off, and touch up – Jyn runs a finger across his cheek.
“Good.” Arms slide around her and he pulls her down onto his lap.
Jyn gasps. Cassian’s hard, fully erect under her bottom, and from the way he scrapes his teeth against her nape, he rather not look after it himself. She’s not inclined to let him, not when he’s been looking at her like she’s precious for the last hour – never mind his hands sliding under her shirt to stroke her belly, or the roll of his hips underneath hers.
But—“The Alderaanian Transport is due in an hour—”
“That’s more than enough time to...” One hand now cups her breast while the other eases in beneath her waistband and presses down to her core. He slides his finger against her clit, and she arches into the touch. “Is that a yes?”
She rocks herself back against his erection. “Yes.” The Alderaanians can wait.
They don’t have to wait, although Cassian moves in her with leisurely strokes, like they have all the time in the world, but the only alarm he’s waiting for is her.
They’re at the landing pad to greet the Princess and her entourage within the hour, cleaned up, shaved, straightened, and neatened – if perhaps still a little breathless.