_backp0rchpoet

Steven nods. “All of it, like,” he motions with his hands. “Gone.”

“Bald?” 

“No, not bald Marc, it wouldn’t be bald, our, our-”

“Our balds would be bald.” 

“I was thinking more like, we just shave the top… bit?” 

“And nothing else?” Marc frowns in thought. “Wouldn’t that look-”

“Weird, yeah.” Steven sighs defeatedly. “It would. Like we just stopped halfway, and if we do it like a really neat line that will look like, ‘woah, too much effort here’, and if we don’t it’ll look a mess.” 

Marc nods. “Look, I know this isn’t helpful, but I don’t want to shave it all off. Because, one,” he holds up his forefinger. “I think it’ll look weird, you know like in porn, hairless balls just make me think of turkey wattles.” 

Steven pauses. “Wattles?” 

“Like the turkey red neck flappy thing.” 

“Oh, I didn’t know that it was called that.” He nods a little, then shakes his head, trying to stay focused. “You think shaved balls look like that?” 

“Kinda.”

“Kinda?” He says, unimpressed.

“Yeah, look, I’m not the vegan who gets freaked out by certain types of mushrooms-”

“We’ve been over this, I heard Michael say in the break room that mushrooms on pizza looked like slugs, and I can’t unsee it, it’s not fair to-”

Marc holds up his hands. “I’m sorry, okay, sorry, I didn’t mean to bring that all up again like that.” 

Steven nods. 

“They just look weird to me.” 

Steven’s lip twitches in a smile and Marc braces himself for whatever is about to come. “Is that what you say to yourself to justify only watching lesbian porn?” 

“Don’t.”

“Is it?” Steven grins. 

“I don’t just watch lesiban porn.” 

Steven scoffs. “Firstly, you do. Second, what’s wrong with watching lesbian porn?” 

Marc gives him a glare. “You’re the one that brought this up!”

Steven grins, enjoying seeing Marc squirm a little. “I did. So, why do you only watch lesibian porn?” 

“Fuck off.” 

Steven chuckles. “Spoil sport.” 

“You’re a bully.” Marc smiles. 

“What was your second point anyway?” 

“What?” 

“You’re second point? First was our balls would look like a turkey if we shave them, what was the other?” 

“Oh, I think it’ll itch like hell when the hair starts to grow back if we use the razor.” 

Steven nods, thinking. “Yeah, I bet you’re right on that one.” He sighs again, his shoulders slumping. “But what are we gonna do?” 

“We could glue it back on?” Marc says, only half joking.

“Marc.” He gives him the disappointed teacher voice. “We are not glueing hair back onto our.. Our… area.” 

“Area?” 

“You’re worried about it itching growing back, what the fuck do you think it’s gonna feel like with glue?” 

“Area? Steven, are we fucking three?” 

Steven puts his hands on his hips. “Is that what you’re focusing on right now?” 

“Well, yeah? Area?” 

“What would you call it then? Hmm?” 

Marc opens his mouth and then pauses.

“See, see?” Steven gestures at Marc, “What the fuck is it?”

“It’s the bit above the dick.” 

“Yeah, but what is that called? Like the actual name?” 

Marc thinks and then frowns. “Steven, I don’t fucking know, why is this important?”

“You made it important.” Steven grabs his phone from the side.

“What are you doing?” Marc sighs.

“I’m looking it up.”

“Steven.” 

“I want to know.” 

“Steven.” 

“All I can think of is pubic mound, but is that like, the word for everyone?” 

Marc shakes his head slightly as he pulls a face. “For everyone? What do you mean?”

“Like for all genders.”

“Oh…” Marc thinks again. “Maybe…” He leans forward as if he could see Steven’s phone from his angle. 

“See? You’re interested now.” 

He nods. “Yeah.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Don’t get too excited about it.” He huffs.

Steven rolls his eyes, and then quickly reads. “Okay, it is the pubic mound for everyone.” 

“Okay.” 

“We’ve learnt something.” 

“Doesn’t really help with our current situation, does it?” 

Steven puts his phone down and rubs his eyes, “Ugggghhhh, what if we just say, ‘Love, I tried to shave a heart into my pubic hair because I thought it would be funny and sweet and now I’m like what the fuck have I done?’” 

You knock on the bathroom door and both Steven and Marc jump at the same time. 

“Erm,” Steven scrambles with the towel around his waist before he opens the door with a flourish. “I-”

“I got back about ten minutes ago.” You give him a soft smile. “I’ve been listening to your side of the conversion, with rapt attention.” You tease playfully. 

Steven closes his eyes and chuckles bashfully. 

“If it’s any help,” you give his cheek a quick kiss. “I think the heart sounds lovely.” 

“Show them!”

Steven rolls his eyes, turning his head to pull a face at Marc’s reflection. “You wanted to glue it back on a second ago.” 

Thank you for reading!

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but it’s there too in this interview magazine piece , and then there it is again when he’s all shaved for nathan bateman . so maybe i’m still sane .

You swear to the Force that if anything happens to him, anything at all; tumbles off the axis and crashes himself into an asteroid field —

“I’m going to fucking kill him,” you grit through your teeth.

“Hey man, you’re the one who insists he goes up inebriated,” the ATC’s low chuckle buzzes in your headset.

For a flashing moment, you remember the argument you had with Poe back when the Resistance was evacuating D’Qar. He was dead set on heading up to the Dreadnought with a newly upgraded overdrive thruster. And you — you just didn’t want him to put his own life in danger, blowing himself into smithereens when the experimental booster overheats the system.

This time, you can’t even blame his trigger-happy temperament. You were the one who put him up there after a few too many celebratory drinks in the mess hall.

You’re just starting to rehearse how you would break the news to General Organa about her favourite Resistance pilot getting into a drunken accident in space, when the commslink bursts to life again: “Comm tower — I’m coming in hot!”

“Roger that, Black Leader,” the ATC responds curtly, his voice tinged with mirth.

“Oh, thank fuck,” the words come out ragged as your heavy legs carry you toward the bay entrance — where the relief dies the second you see that sonuvabitch whizzes past with another series of somersaults right in front of your eyes; the hull of his starship a mere breath away from the trees that line the perimeter.

“Kriff’s sakes — Poe!” You yell into the mouthpiece.

“Just in case you didn’t catch that earlier!” He laughs.

Your heart is still lodged in your throat when he finally eases the X-wing back into the hangar, and it is only after he has powered down the engine that you allow the fuel-drenched air to fill your lungs again.

“Not a word to the General — you got it?” you mutter at the ATC, your footsteps quick as you rush toward Poe.

“It’s like she’s never left base,” the ATC titters.

You reach the top of the airstairs just as the Transparisteel canopy peels open, and you catch Poe yanking the oxygen mask away, pulling his helmet off his head. His dark curls tumble free, matted on one side and standing at wild angles on the other — flushed with recklessness, yet aggravatingly dashing.

“How was she?” You gulp as he stares back at you with glazed eyes, like he just met with the engineers of the stars themselves.

He remains speechless, his breathing short and frayed; and you start to panic if the sudden break into atmo might’ve caused any brain damage —

“Wizard,” his voice is light as a big grin cracks his whole face open; flashing you that silly smile that you have grown to love every time he returns to base from a successful mission.

And just like that, your shoulders drop, and the vice around your ribs loosens. All the anxieties from seconds ago just melt away when you see him this — happy.

You exhale in a whoosh, shaking your head as you check off the list on your datapad.

“Did the thrust engine overload though? Because I thought the systems went offline for a sec—”

Your breath hitches when Poe reaches out to squeeze your hand.

“They’re all perfect, sweetheart,” his smile is soft like a dream as he brings your fingers to his lips. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome — Commander,” you blush, leaning in to kiss him; and rather instinctively, his hand slides up your face, moulds to the shape of your jawline as he pulls you closer.

The moment his lips meet yours, it hits different. The adrenaline is still singing in his veins, and when he deepens the kiss, every note is palpable, permeating through your bloodstream like a contagion.

His soft lips taste sweeter, and his tongue feels like satin; conjuring warmth that is hotter and a pressure that weighs heavier, curling in your belly — spreading.

“Kriff, you look so hot right now,” your stifled gasp edges with hunger, as your tongue breaches into his mouth; licking at his moans while your fingers claw at the collar of his flight suit for more.

He chuckles against your lips, and his hand rakes through the back of your head with equal eagerness. “Maybe we could —”

Before he even finishes, you are clambering into the cockpit, swinging your leg over his lap to straddle him. He can only watch you, mouth agape, as you press down on his waist in the confined space.

“H-Hey,” a dazed, lopsided smile blossoms upon his face, when his brain finally catches up.

You lean down toward him slowly, your heated breath ghosting temptation over his, as you whisper: “Hey yourself.”

He jumps in his seat when it jolts backwards, and you have to bite back your laugh as you release the lever at the narrow side of the seat.

“Like I said, Commander,” you breathe, straightening in front of him to pull your tank top over your head. “The built-in was taken out for recalibration.”

Your heart does an excitable flip in your chest, as you watch his pupils blown wide — feral at the sight of your tits, barely inches from his mouth.

“No, of course,” Poe swallows thickly, already cupping your breasts the moment you guide his hands there. “Gotta make sure it’s properly — calibrated.”

“Mmm-hmm…” you hum in agreement, matching his crooked smile before your lips collide for a fervent kiss.

//

Now, the generic cockpit in a T-70 X-wing starfighter measures at a width of just a little over 11 metres; you have the numbers ingrained in your head like a tale as old as time.

What you didn’t account for is the unaltered height of the cockpit when you’re positioned astride Poe, both of you wrestling to get his flight suit off from beneath you. The moment he raises his hips to shimmy out of his boxers, you jerk upward and clear the 1.92-metre limit — smacking your head against the canopy with a sharp “Fuck!”

“Oh, shi —” He wheezes, his fingers gentle as they probe at the side of your head. “You OK, baby?”

“Told you to go commando,” you groan, pouting dramatically back at him.

“Yeah, I can see now,” he drags his thumb across your lips to taper the frown. “Should’ve told me you’re planning on doing this.”

You tut, feigning exasperation as you press your jutting lips to his callouses.

“Then, it wouldn’t be a surprise now, would it?”

You keep your eyes fixed on him as you slide down the length of his body, until you are seated snugly in the narrow space between his legs — gazing up at him all doe-eyed.

Then — you close your mouth over his thumb with a riveted hum, your hands splayed up and down his thighs. His muscles tense beneath your palms as you hollow your cheeks, pushing him in and out of your mouth in wet synchronicity.

“Y-Yeah,” his voice cracks with his composure, as you wrap your fingers around the base of his cock; his hips already flexing impatiently to your light, preliminary pumps. “I’m uh — very, very surprised right now…”

You relish the sound of his breath catching as you increase the pace of your heavier upstrokes, before taking him fully into your mouth; sighing warmly against his velvety skin, as you watch his eyes flutter shut, and his head drops back onto the headrest, parted lips huffing with airy pleasure. 

The built-in life support typically eats up one-third of the cockpit, but with it detached and the pilot’s seat reclined into the vacant space, you’re afforded the spatial buffer on the floor to suck Poe off without the control systems digging into your arse.

You’re able to do the things he enjoys whenever you find time to sneak in a quickie in the supply closet, or while lazing in bed with him on a Sunday afternoon. He likes it when you pack the tip into the back of your throat while you stroke at the veined length and give his taut balls a few fondling squeezes.

It is enough for him to lose control — his fingers tightening in your hair as he ruts into your mouth, chasing after his release until you’re gagging around him, eyes watering with spit and precum dribbling down your chin.

“Ugh — you’re taking me so well, baby,” his breathing fractures; hips stuttering helplessly into your mouth.

You glance up at him through your lashes; utter bliss smeared across his furrowed brows and slackened jaw, that corded line of his throat working as he gasps for air — Maker, if it doesn’t do things to you, seeing this beautiful man unravel like that.

You moan favourably, a fresh wave of arousal surging through you, soaking between your thighs.

You feel his balls drawing up in your nurturing hold, certain that at any moment he is going to cum fast and hard into your mouth — when he pulls you away from his cock with a resounding pop, a sticky string chained to your swollen lips from his reddened tip.

“Waitbabywait — hold on a sec,” he pants, his face flushed in deep crimson and looking so darn edible as he gazes down at you, bleary-eyed.

“What’s wrong?” You sputter, concern flickering through the haze as you push yourself up from the floor.

He instead meets you head-on with a brutal kiss, groaning at the taste of himself swirling in your tongues.

“Let me taste you, baby — I wanna taste you,” he husks, already coaxing you to move out of your spot to take his place.

With great difficulty, you trade spaces. Your stomach pressing uncomfortably against the cockpit wall as he rearranges your collective limbs in a kind of complicated dance; heated skin rubbing against sweat-slick skin — until finally, you settle in the pilot’s seat; whereas Poe, on the other hand, folds his bulkier form in a rather comical manner on the floor.

You have to pinch your lips to stop yourself from laughing, seeing him all crumpled up in an origami mess at your feet.

Even with the extra legroom, he barely fits with those wide Yavinian hips of his.

But, the moment he drapes your legs over his shoulders, and his tongue starts lapping hungrily at your cunt; the humour fades as your head tips back, your hips already canting to the heavy, torturous rolls of his ministrations.

“Kriff, you taste so good,” he grunts, nails digging into the meat of your thighs as his mouth sucks loud and lewd at your sex.

Within moments, you are teetering at the edge. The abrasion of his day-old scruff against your inner thighs shocks electric straight to your pussy. The contrasting softness of his tongue makes you throb at the accelerating figure-eights — winding you up tighter and tighter.

You let out a throaty drawl, your nails scraping desperately into his scalp.

“Hng-ughhh — Poe, I’m gonna — I’m gonna —”

“Fuck!” He pulls away sharply.

Your hand shoots up, just about to slug him across his candy pink cheekbones for leaving you high and dry like that — when you notice the grievance that knits his brows.

“Stupid flight stick is digging into my arse.” He grumbles, an arm twisted to his back nursing the sore spot between his butt cheeks.

Your frustration dissolves into a snicker instantly, and you’re now cradling his face as he winces into your palm like a wounded animal.

“Not expecting to be pegged on your birthday, were you?” You jibe, amused yet affectionate as he groans into your touch.

“No,” he scrambles up from the deplorable position until he is looming over you in the pilot’s seat; your giggles fizzling to a startled gasp when you feel his cock trail along your slickened folds.

“I’d rather be the one doing the pegging on my birthday,” his voice rumbles low against your chest, already reaching between your bodies to line the tip into you — sinking in.

“Peg you so good I’ll have you seeing stars,” his growling mouth envelopes yours, swallowing your delightful moans.

//

You both latch on to a rhythm that was never lost in the first place, merely put away within arm’s reach until you have one leg perched off the edge of the cockpit, while the other is straightened skyward against his broad chest.

Poe has one firm foothold on the edge of the seat, while the other braces at the sole on the floor; his hips rotating deftly, dragging his cock deep and delicious along your walls.

Through your feathered lashes, you watch him watch you — his darkened eyes revering at his cock thrusting in and out of you between your waxen bodies; then rising to catch your expression, ever shifting with the every move he makes as he hits that delectable spot inside you over and over.

You are nearing the precipice once again; your pretty whines ricocheting off the fogged-up canopy, the coiling pressure stretching low and taut in your belly — when at a rather terrible timing, your calf muscle seizes.

You surge forward at the sharp cramp, biting down on the crook of his neck, stifling your distress in a strangled whimper.

That confuses the hell out of Poe. He knows that this is not what you sound like at all when you’re close. Amidst the entangled chaos of sweaty limbs, his underfoot slips — connecting his left eye heavily into your kneecap; and his testicles punch down on the seat hard, knocking an agonising scream from his lungs.

“Poe!” You wince down at the top of his head, his face burning hot on your stomach. “You OK?”

“Yup! D-Definitely seeing stars now,” he grimaces; breath coming in sharp gasps as he lifts his reddened face to you. “Shit, this is harder than I thought.”

“Now you know why I don’t wanna fuck in the X-wing?” You groan as you lower your trembling leg from the edge.

“You alright, baby?” He rasps, strong fingers easing the muscle pull; sucking his teeth concurrently while he cradles his balls in his other hand.

“Yeah…” You sigh.

This is not going as smoothly as you have hoped. In fact, it is turning out to be even more disastrous than the handful of encounters prior.

There is a moment of reprieve as you both catch your breaths — you combing your fingers through his unruly curls, as he presses his lips to your leg to kiss it better.

You note the shift in him as he grows quiet. His jaw sets and his eyes go distant — that all too familiar look when he is running multiple scenarios through his head. Calculating odds, weighing risk, and a hard choice that may not be favourable to him but one he’ll make regardless — it’s endearing.

Before he calls off this whole fiasco, you slap him on his shoulder, drawing him out of his reverie: “Get up.”

He stares at you questioningly, but abides nonetheless as you take the reins. Another awkward choreography commences; twisted limbs shuffling here while the other overlaps with another there, before he reclaims his pilot’s seat — with your legs flanking his thighs, facing away from him.

You feel rather than hear his breath hitches, as you settle against him, your cunt stroking along the length of his cock, already twitching in response to the new angle.

You catch his eye over your shoulder, a sultry smile spreading across your face, as you watch his eyebrows shoot up, his beautiful brown eyes keening with anticipation.

“How about you steer this ship home — Commander?” You nip at your bottom lip, winking at him.

//