#captain eo

The air in his Encino bedroom was thick with the scent of orange blossoms from the garden, trapped by the drawn velvet curtains. 

It was past midnight, a rare pocket of stillness in Michael’s cacophonous life. It was almost pitch black in the room, except from one of his old multicolour light up disco toys shining on the opposite side of the bedroom.

The house, a sprawling monument to success, slept around him. Only the faint, persistent squeak of the pool filter from outside breached the silence.

He lay on his back atop the oversized bed, its pale sky blue comforter cool against his skin. 

He wore silk pajamas, a gift from Latoya when he had turned 19.  

His mind, a relentless projector, had been replaying the day’s studio session—the synth beat on “Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough,” the way his own voice had soared on the playback, a sound of pure, unleashed joy that felt separate from the boy laying in bed.

That feeling, that electric surge up his spine when the music finally clicked and finally made sense, it was still there, buzzing under his skin like a trapped bug.

But now, alone, the energy had nowhere to go. It pooled low in his stomach, a warm, restless ache. He shifted, and the friction of the silk against his thigh sent a small, shocking jolt through him. He went very still.

It’s just tiredness, he thought, the words forming in the cadence of his mother’s voice. You need to pray and go to sleep.

He tried. 

He folded his hands over his chest, staring at the ceiling above. 

“Oh Jehovah, thank you for this day. Please help me to be a better person tomorrow and watch over my family. I ask this in Jesus' name, amen.” he whispered, quietly.

But the warmth didn’t subside. It pulsed, softly, insistently, in time with his heartbeat. 

He groaned and rubbed his hands over his face, exacerbated.

A memory, unbidden, flashed: a dancer from the last tour with his brothers, a girl with a laugh like wind chimes, the way her sequinned hip had brushed against his as they passed in a crowded hallway. 

The memory was hazy, but the phantom sensation was sharp, a brand on his side.

A small, frustrated sound escaped his lips—a quiet “Mmh!” 

He turned onto his stomach, burying his face in the pillow. The new position pressed him into the mattress, and the ache intensified, transformed from a whisper to a clear, demanding shout. 

His breath hitched. This was the feeling. The one the elders warned about. The “sin that dwells within.” He was supposed to flee from it.

But his body felt heavy, magnetized to the bed. He gave a tentative, almost imperceptible roll of his hips. The pressure was a lightning strike of sensation, so intense it blurred his vision for a second. A gasp was torn from him, sharp and ragged in the quiet room. “Ah—!”

Guilt thundered in immediately, hot and sour. No. No, this is wrong. He was a good son. A Jehovah’s Witness. He sang about love, pure love. This was… this was base. Animal.

Yet, his hips moved again of their own volition, a slow, searching grind into the yielding satin of his pyjama pants. 

The friction was better this way, more complete. A low, shuddering moan vibrated in his throat, “Nnnggh…” He muffled it in the pillow, his fingers clawing at the fabric. He couldn’t let his brothers down the hall hear him, nor his parents.

The conflict was a physical pain in his chest, a vice tightening around his ribs. Every sinful surge of pleasure was answered by a psalm of condemnation in his head.

For the flesh lusteth against the Spirit…

He rocked harder, his legs tightening. The silk of his pajama bottoms was a maddening barrier. 

The pleasure was building now, like a copper wire, pulling tighter and tighter in his core, a sensation so profound it felt like fear.

Like standing at the edge of the stage before the lights hit, that terrifying, exhilarating void.

…and the Spirit against the flesh…

With a sudden, frantic movement, he shoved a hand down, fumbling with the drawstring. 

His breath came in short, wet pants now, “Hah… hah…” The knot gave way. 

He pushed the fabric down just enough, the cool air a shock against his heated skin. The direct contact with the soft material of the comforter made him cry out, a short, sharp “Ungh!” that was too loud. 

He froze, listening for any sign of movement in the hall; a creak, a footstep. Nothing but the annoying pool filter and one of his light up gadgets in his room occasionally creaking from its twisting mechanism.

The pause broke the dam of his hesitation. The need was too urgent, too all-consuming. He surrendered to the rhythm, his hips developing a frantic, jerking cadence against the bed. He wasn’t thinking of the dancer anymore, or of anything concrete. 

The frantic, muffled humping against the satin comforter wasn't enough. The friction was diffuse, maddeningly indirect, building the pressure but refusing to focus it. A sob of pure frustration caught in his throat, a heavy, choked sound.

His left hand, still tangled in the pillowcase, released its clawing grip. It drifted down, trembling violently, as if moving through water against a powerful current. 

His mind was a shattered mirror: one fragment showed the earnest, wide-eyed boy on the Andy Williams Show, another the gangly, hormonal teenager he’d turned into – touch starved and relentless in his want.

His mind was trying to grapple with the young, innocent he used to be and now the sought after heartthrob he had become. Girls throwing themselves to be used at his feet. 

He loathed the thought of them thinking he’d merely have his way with them. He’d be gentle if he could, sensual, ensuring their beautiful bodies get the attention they so deserved – his hands ghosting over their perky breasts and their gorgeous curves. 

The thought of his hand sliding under a tight waistband, of sly little lace panties, soaked through; wanting him. Needing him.

The thoughts were driving him wild now; crazy with desire.

His fingers brushed his own heated skin. The touch was so electric, so alien and yet intimately familiar, that he convulsed, a full-body shudder wracking his frame. A high, thin whine escaped his pressed lips. 

This is the line, a voice, clear and cold, stated in his head. You cross this, you can't go back. He flipped his body over, now on his back.

His body was a runaway train, every nerve screaming for the destination. His fingers, slick with a nervous sweat, curled. The first tentative stroke, from root to tip, was a revelation so profound it bordered on terror. 

His back arched clear off the bed, a silent scream stretching his mouth wide. He was so concentrated and overstimulated, that his throat was dry – his lips cracked.

The sensation was nothing like the grinding. It was tactile, exquisite, a direct and fused line to the storm gathering in his belly. His hand was soft and warm – just like he’d imagined the inside of a woman he had taken to bed.

He began to move his hand, the motion clumsy at first, all jerking wrist and frantic pressure. It was too much, too intense. 

He slowed, experimenting. A softer, slower glide. A twist at the top. A thumb brushing over the slick, weeping crown. Each variation sent new shockwaves through him.

The sounds he made were no longer attempts at words or even moans. They were raw, phonetic expulsions of feeling, lost in the fortress of his pillow.

His right hand fisted in his own hair, pulling sharply at the roots of his afro, the sting a bright counterpoint to the drowning pleasure below. His hips stuttered, still pushing up into his own grip, a desperate, seeking rhythm. 

The sheet beneath him was soaked, a cool patch against the small of his back when it made contact. 

The world telescoped down to this: the slick, rhythmic sound of his hand, the hammering of his heart against his ribs, the sweat pooling in the hollow of his throat.

He thought of the recording booth, the absolute silence before he opened his mouth to sing. 

That moment of poised potential. This feeling was its dark twin; a silence filled with the roar of his own blood, a potential about to violently, messily become.

His pace became punishing, relentless. He was chasing it now, chasing the echo of that studio high, the feeling of being perfectly, utterly free. His breath came in ragged, hiccuping gasps. 

He’d wound himself to breaking point. Pleasure and terror were fused, indistinguishable. 

The religious imagery crashed over him not as condemnation, but as sensation: it was a falling, a drowning, a being consumed by a holy fire that felt anything but holy.

"I’m— I’m gonna—" The words were a pathetic, broken whisper, lost.

His whole body locked. For a second, he was suspended in a silent, breathless void. Then it detonated.

It wasn't a single wave, but a series of brutal, wracking pulses that tore through him like internal lightning. A guttural, punched-out cry was ripped from his very core, a raw, open-throated yelp that the pillow could not hope to contain. 

His vision whited out, speckled with violent colors, a kaleidoscope of pleasure. His hips jerked erratically, helplessly, as his hand kept working, milking every last, shuddering drop of sensation until it tipped over into a sharp, almost painful sensitivity.

He collapsed.

The stillness that followed was absolute, profound. The only sound was the ragged, torn-up sawing of his breath and the distant, indifferent hum of the filter. The warmth spread across his stomach, a sticky, shameful reality.

The guilt didn't wait. It descended instantly, a heavy, smothering blanket. 

The verses from Galatians completed themselves in his head with cruel clarity: "…so that ye cannot do the things that ye would."

Tears, hot and sudden, welled in his eyes. He didn't move. He lay there, a spent, trembling wreck on the stained, wet sheet, feeling the pleasure evaporate and leave behind the cold, hollow shell of transgression. He had reached for a moment of the divine and clutched only his own weakness.

Slowly, mechanically, he pulled up his silk pajamas. The fabric felt disgusting against his soiled skin. He rolled onto his side, curling into a tight ball, facing the grand, empty expanse of his bedroom. The afterglow was just a physiological ghost; the real residue was a deep, aching loneliness.

He would pray tomorrow. He would pray harder. He would throw himself into the music, into the work, until he was too tired to feel anything at all.

But for now, in the deep California night, Michael lay very still, the ghost of his own ecstasy a sharp, sour taste in his mouth, and the only rhythm left was the slow, beat of his own heart.

fin.

tag list;

"you think it'll be much longer?"

"captain, i've only been at this for a few hours. you gotta give me a little more time."

a worried sigh and more relentless pacing was all you got in reply, but you weren't able to turn and see if your captain, eo, had paired it with a cross of his arms.

"y'know, we wouldn't even be down on this planet if you hadn't decided to cut through the middle of a battlefield," you spoke in between the sparks of your stick welder, trying your best to reattach pieces of the ship that had been shredded from laser fire.

that battlefield he had decided to tear straight through only half a day ago in the name of a "secret shortcut only the very most experienced captains knew about" was an ugly one.

the inky blackness of space had become littered with clusters of orange bursts of flames from exploding spacecrafts and the zip of lasers passing over, below, and through eo's spaceship.

by the time the ship had made it out to the other side and was set on a collision course towards a jagged green planet just beyond the carnage, the battle behind you had left only battered battle fleets in its wake.

eo didn't take too much time trying to defend himself to you or his crew about his haphazard decision. you knew he was a little too stubborn for that, especially when he shouted, "there's nothin' to worry about. we made it out, didn't we?" but you could tell he was starting to become more than a little anxious.

you two weren't exactly the types to have long, deep conversations about your darkest vices and insecurities in between your missions together, but eo wasn't exactly the hardest person to read.

he cared about his crew, but he also cared about seeing his missions through by any means necessary. every so often, the importance of the latter seemed to outweigh the former. when it did, everyone had to pay the price.

it wasn't the first time he threw himself, and by extension, you and the crew, into danger for the sake of a mission. you had been caught in plenty of fire fights, infiltrated countless intergalactic kingdoms, and even warded off a gang of space pirates ransacking the ship. this time, you were shocked any of you were alive.

now, you were here; sat outside the ship, kneeling in the sticky mud of a foreign planet and sweating bullets beneath your welding helmet, fighting to get the damage caused by the battle fixed and get the ship even semi-functional.

the rest of eo's crew kept themselves busy inside, trying their best to get the internal controls back online. eo wasn't much help in that regard, so they (very politely) ushered him outside to assist you. his "assisting," however, seemed to be restless pacing and pestering. you could see why his crew decided to make him your responsibility, lest he wreak more havoc on the already fragile internal controls deck.

"it was the quickest way to cut across the hubble deep field! we were outta options and needed to land quick, so i made a choice."

you paused for a moment, releasing the trigger on your stick welder and letting the crackle of electric sparks fizzle out. you stared deep into the cavernous crater you had been puzzle piecing back together for the better part of 3 hours.

"out of options?" you muttered, your tone absolutely drenched in disbelief at what the captain had said. you could feel your face beginning to burn hot with annoyance beneath your helmet, but kept your back to him and your face towards the damage.

"i'm not gonna get into a yelling match with you, captain, because i know you mean well. i know you well enough to say that."

you adjusted your grip on the handle of your welder, squeezing the trigger and reigniting the electrode.

"but if you ever put me or the crew in danger like that again, i'll get you discharged."

the sparks kicked up in full swing, and neither of you said a word to each other until the ship was operational again. if the crew had noticed, they didn't say a thing.

well, except hooter. you knew he'd check in on you sooner or later.

the ship had been cruising through star clusters and skirting between nebulae for a few days before eo finally conceded to the war of silence waging between the two of you.

it wasn't a dramatic confrontation like you had expected from him. no kicking the door to your quarters down, no shouting and finger pointing or "i'm the captain and what i say goes." it was much quieter than you had expected from him.

he gave you the courtesy of a warning knock before slowly pushing open the door to your room, a pair of brown eyes and a mop of black curls emerging from behind it.

you were sat on your bed, reviewing the repair notes you had put together after the crash landing a few days back. papers were stacked and spread across the bed, the side table, the floor, anywhere that had space.

the documents were plentiful, and you knew your boss, commander bog, was going to want these when you got back to the cosmodrome the ship had left from. he was sure to be up to his neck in reports by the time the ship would return.

eo nudged the door open a little further, stepping halfway into the room and pulling you from your daze of documents, dates, and damage details. his eyes darted around your quarters, gloved hands fidgeting with each other.

"can i come in? just to talk for a little bit."

he didn't wait too long for an answer, entering the room fully and shutting the door behind him. he stood there, hands still fumbling with each other, and kept his back practically against the door.

you hadn't ever seen him so visibly anxious before. he had a hard time keeping his eyes straight ahead, and his posture was tight. he looked like a child psyching himself up to tell his parents he had accidentally broke something.

the lights in the room were low, but you could still catch the redness that had settled on his cheeks and bridged across his nose.

"i just, ah-" he had started, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

"i just wanted to, y'know...apologize. for the crash, and putting you all in danger the other day."

part of you knew he was here to give you something like an apology. that same part knew it was going to be short and sweet, and you were disappointed to find yourself proven right.

you readjust yourself on your bed, turning your body towards him with a tilted head and narrowed eyes.

"you're saying all this because i told you i'd get you discharged, aren't you?"

his eyes finally snapped forward and locked onto yours, his eyebrows furrowing worriedly. his mouth could only produce what sounded like half-choking and half-scoffing stutters.

"i'm right, aren't i? if i hadn't told you i'd get you discharged, you wouldn't be here,"

you felt an agitated smile of disbelief start to form on your face.

"you're only sorry because the ddsa board would take your piloting license and send you packing to some rotten wasteland of a burner planet for causing them so much trouble all these years."

okay, that last part wasn't necessarily the typical course of action for the board of the department of deep space activity. in truth, eo would likely be sent to work on the ground for the ddsa considering his plethora of galactic knowledge, but he had no way of knowing.

eo was only half the enigma he made himself out to be to the rest of the galaxy, at least compared to your knowledge of him. commander bog had done you a great service by forwarding you eo's digital profile from the ddsa's pilot directory.

the profile gave you more insight into eo than he had ever given you willingly. it brought up his abnormally quick ascent in the galactic aviation academy on his home planet, his quick shipment across the trappist-1 star system to your own home planet, and his years of activity as a space pilot.

he climbed the ranks of the ddsa's piloting program faster than anyone in the department's history and was sent off to explore the cosmos just as quickly. until now, the punishments for his recklessness had been a scolding and a slap on the wrist. the possibility of discharge from the piloting program had never been in the same room as eo, let alone on the table.

the chance of being dumped on some abandoned dwarf planet drifting near the edge of the universe? that wasn't even within a 5-mile radius of eo. until now, at least, as far as he was aware.

to say your words made him tense would be the cosmos's greatest understatement. he looked as rigid as a corpse, like every fiber in his body was pulled taut, and the sheepish red glow that was once branded across his face drained into pale shock. he looked downright sick.

nevertheless, he gritted his teeth and spoke.

"i'm not apologizing to get outta trouble. i've already gotten hell from the ddsa. i'm apologizing because i am sorry, not because anyone makes me feel like i gotta be."

you kept your face as stone cold as you could manage, but you could feel your mind stirring up a storm of swears and confusion.

already gotten hell from the ddsa? you only ever knew them to give him a verbal warning, nothing to warrant him looking so...defeated. that was the only way you could describe it. defeated and defensive, like they had given him the scolding of a lifetime. maybe they did threaten to ship him off to the edge of space.

you knew him to be a little too prideful to offer an apology like this and not mean it. you were used to his "i'm sorry for being right," apologies, nothing where he put his ego to the side and actually admitted to doing anything wrong.

you felt your hard expression begin to crack. something about him looking so beaten down, so desperate for some kind of forgiveness, anything. it really made you wonder what the department had said to him to break him down this badly.

eventually, you broke. you sighed, frowning back at eo.

"i'm not gonna get you discharged. not that the board would take your license anyway, you're the only competent pilot they have left that hasn't been taken prisoner by space pirates or blown to pieces by a stray comet."

eo huffed in what you assume is relief, some of the tension rolling off of his shoulders. the corners of his mouth turned up ever so slightly, just enough to begin forming his dimples.

"and i appreciate you apologizing to me. i hope you gave your crew the same courtesy."

he nodded quickly, his small smile breaking into a wide, toothy grin. color quickly flooded back into his face, painting his skin a warm brown once again.

"i did, i promise. they told me they appreciated it too."

as his voice began to come back its normal peppy chirp, your face mirrored his with a smile. you watched his twitchy hands detach from each other and fold gently over his middle, and his anxious side-to-side rocking become an excited lift-and-drop on his toes.

"so, now that we've been up and moving for a few days, what's next on the agenda, captain?"

he crossed his arms over his chest, letting himself fall back against your quarter's door.

"y'know the supreme empress we defeated a few months back? with the big dungeon and the scary guardsmen?"

you narrowed your eyes slightly in question, still not losing your smile.

"yeah, 'course i do. hard to forget you almost getting sentenced to torture for a hundred years. why?"

eo looked almost giddy now.

"she's got a brother, twice as nasty, and we're on our way to see him."

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this became WAYY more lore heavy and world build-y than i had anticipated, but i just kept going and going and never wanted to stop. remember kids: if you crash too many space ships, the department of deep space activity Will get you send you to the moon because earth jail just aint enough.

i hope you guys love reckless abandon captain eo as much as i do, he's my angel <33 hoping to get a solid storyline up n going for this series soon!!