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Damon tilts the ‘stowaway’s’ chin till he can examine their face as he pleases, even more pleased when despite their scandalized gasp, their pupils expand like miniature oil spills. Even if the newbie had been able to get a word in edgewise, they wouldn't be anywhere near the truth their body displays for him. And while tiptoeing around the truth with jokes and teasing is fun, being ten steps ahead is even more fun.
When you speak body language as well as Damon does, the truth might as well be spelled out on a billboard above his victim's head.
“I’m always up for a challenge. I do hope you don’t disappoint.”
Wetting his lips, he lets his gaze browse the rest of their features before ending with his eyes meeting theirs, mouth slanted in a challenging grin.
He squeezes their chin, but gently.
‘Cute,’ his fingers say, before relinquishing their hold.
No one can discount Damon's way with words, but they're still his second language. Touch is his mother tongue, what every kid on Cursa learned to keep from being targeted when silence was necessary, when they learned words mean nothing, when they didn't know the words for what they experienced. Touch was the language that filled in the holes where words let them down, and left them hungry and cold.
The context for touch, is body language. Physiological reactions and the things people do instinctively, without conscious thought, like pupils expanding when they see something of interest, blushing, clenching their hands into fists. Even Damon does it, although he can control himself better than most.
The newbie though is almost entirely unfiltered, their every thought and emotion on display. Unfortunately, before Damon can play with them some more, they’re interrupted by Cal, but that’s okay. It’ll give them time to obsess and worry and remember.
Because the newbie is cute enough to turn Damon’s head, and he’s seen and spent quality time with plenty of cute people over the years.
Cute enough for him to turn his sharp, silver-tongue, to the task of convincing the notoriously dick-headed, captain, to keep them around, despite them lacking in pretty much every other way.
No situational awareness, no survival skills, not even any tech skills- it’s like they just popped out of a black hole with a cute face, hot body, and a bit of an attitude problem, just the way Damon likes ‘em. Well, he tends to prefer people who can handle themself, but honestly the newbie is so fuckin’ cute, Damon even thinks their dumbness is cute, which is whole ‘nother level of smokin’ hot, in his universe.
‘Cause naive idiots, are the sort of thing that’ll get you killed quicker than just about anything else, and no amount of cute can bring your ass back from the dead. And despite his reputation for being a Don Juan, Damon doesn’t actually think with his dick, so, it’s a bit troubling that this person has managed to turn more than just Damon’s head- both the big one, and the even bigger, smarter, one.
Damon doesn’t pull his punches when it comes to anyone, even himself, and that level of cute– doesn’t really exist.
No, this kid has had their fingers on Damon’s heartstrings from day fuckin’ one, and that’s… never happened before.
Which just adds to the attraction, as far as Damon’s concerned.
It’s risky, to get involved with someone who makes him think about things like his goddamned heart, but it’s a risk Damon’s never gotten a chance to experience before. They’re like a one-of-a-kind, double-edged, blade, one that he wants to get his hands on so bad, he’s come up with excuses to get close.
“Anyway, I’m not your babysitter, and I don’t particularly care what you do or don’t do while we’re there, so take this, just in case.” Damon pulls one of his knives out of his jacket pocket, and holds it out toward them, clicking his tongue impatiently when they just stare at it like it’s a fuckin’ UFO, headed straight for their gut.
“Take it, you’ll need it.”
Their brows furrow, lips pulling into an adorable frown, as they grasp the handle with all the caution as though they were handling a bomb.
Damon cocks an eyebrow, surprised, and reluctantly impressed. Rich, sheltered, Gold District, kid like they obviously are, he thought they’d balk at even the idea that they might not be perfectly safe at all times– expecting to be rescued at every turn.
“Do you know how to use it?”
They give him a withering glare, “Stick them with the pointy end.”
“You got that right,” he chuckles, wishing he had a little time to at least show them how to hold it properly.
He’s not usually the ‘tutoring’ type, but he wouldn’t mind it for a few minutes. Standing with his body wrapped around them, his hands covering theirs, as he shifted them into position… Yeah, that doesn’t sound so bad. Unfortunately, there’s only so much time, and it’s just a deterrent for any particularly idiotic, merc trash, that tends to fill The Arc, anyway. But, Damon did make sure to give them a knife that fits best in a thigh holster, that he is also generously providing.
Damon grins at the newbie's sharp inhale as he catches their belt in his fingers, drawing them closer.
“This part loops onto your belt,” he says, voice smooth and warm as body heated silk.
He slides the leather strap between their trousers and belt, hooking it at the proper height so it’ll be easy for them to draw.
Intuitively, they prop their leg out, so he can wrap the other strap around their thigh, securing the bottom part of the holster so it won’t swing around. Damon lets his touch linger a little longer than necessary on the buckle before sliding a finger between their leg and the strap to be sure it isn’t too loose or tight.
Sliding his hands down their leg, Damon smirks as their breath hitches along with their leg. Before they can say anything, he tugs on their trouser leg to straighten out any twists or wrinkles in the cloth that might be uncomfortable.
Even as he releases them from his touch, Damon doesn’t release them from his gaze, keeping his eyes on theirs as he gently shoves them into an empty chair, pressing two fingers between their collarbones to encourage them to sit back. The newbie’s pupils blow wide as they obey his push, their head tilting back on the headrest so their chin lifts, exposing their neck.
Not expecting them to respond so perfectly or so thoroughly, Damon pauses, unconsciously licking his lips, before pulling the seat straps over their head. While it isn’t as titillating as his favorite methods of binding, Damon is an adaptable, imaginative, guy, and he knows the newbie is thinking along the same lines he is, as he runs his fingers along the straps to ensure they aren’t twisted.
Damon’s smirk widens, his own chin tilting as he pushes the first buckle into the harness, his tongue flicking out to wet his lower lip.
The newbie bites their own bottom lip hard enough to leave a mark, and Damon’s distracted by the indentation as he engages the other buckle, imagining leaning down to make his own mark on those lips.
Blinking from his thoughts, Damon knows he’s dragged this out longer than he really should, quickly pulling twice on the straps to make sure they’re firm, before pulling back.
“Thank you,” the newbie says, sounding far more breathless than they really should, considering they were sitting down, doing jack shit.
A knowing smile, topped with a wink, has them ducking their head trying to hide, even though it's far too late for that and Damon chuckles, not feeling the need to say anything more.
His hands had said plenty.
***
At The Arc, even the way their nose wrinkled as they took a sip of their drink was cute, particularly since they'd chosen to try his 'usual.' But it was later, that they really caught Damon's attention in a whole new way.
“You’re too much, you know that? If you were smart, you’d turn and run as far and as fast as you can. Being with me will only bring you trouble.”
They shrug their shoulders, their own smug smirk tilting their lips in a way that draws his eye, and Damon has to resist the urge to lick his lips.
“I’m still here. So what does that mean?”
He steps closer, his gaze carving a line from their lips to their eyes, hearing how their breath goes shallow and speeds up, but for once, he doesn’t press his advantage. His higher thinking kicks in instead, that part of him that’s always plotting two steps ahead, even when he’s in the midst of acting. And right now it’s telling him there’s more to what’s going on between them than just physical attraction.
But Damon doesn’t have much experience to go on in that lane, so he does something he’s never done before. He slows it down.
“I haven’t quite figured it out yet. In any case… thanks, newbie.”
***
Pissed as he is, a part of Damon is fucking smug as hell when that fuckin’ green tin can, couldn’t keep his hands off of the newbie.
Walkin’ into a place with a smokin’ hot piece on his arm that has the entire room drooling and sending him poisonous glares all night, is one his favorite past times, along with ruffling feathers, and snapping people’s self-control.
It gives him another excuse to touch them too, and this time Damon presses his advantage all the way, wrapping his arm around their waist, pulling them in nice and snug against his front.
It’s all going smoothly, until that fuckin’ dipshit had to go calling him fuckin’ ‘Reznor,’ and Damon’s fingers press in tighter where they curved around the newbie’s waist, while his other fingers twitch toward a blade, that bone deep urge to show people the difference between Damon and Reznor, so they never get it fuckin’ wrong again, rearing its head.
But he doesn’t want to go scarin’ the newbie off, so he lets it go, and is rewarded for his restraint, when they tease him afterward.
“Why, are you jealous?” they grin.
Damon gives them a hard look.
It sounds like they want to know what it’s like to be his, and isn’t it a bit too soon for thoughts like that? Not that he doesn’t like the thought… but Damon’s more of a sex first, friends with benefits later, if things go well, type. Beyond that, well there’s only been one person who’s ever gotten past his friend-zone, and Alisa doesn’t even count, because he was the one who had to work his ass off to get past her friend-zone.
“Why, do you want me to be?”
“Do you want me to want you to be?” they counter, still smiling despite the harsh look he’d been leveling at them.
They tease each other a little more before Damon plays his ace, a smug smile already curling the corner of his lips as he anticipates their reaction.
“But for what it’s worth, if I didn’t let Cal kick you off the ship, why would I let anything happen to you now?”
The look of shock on their face is what he expected, but that soft, cautious, fondness, afterward, has him pausing in the act of taking a drink, feeling the heat of a blush on his ears, before it reaches his face. Damon found himself hoping the dim lights of the club, and the newbie’s adorable dumbness would keep them from noticing.
Because that softness, is the dangerous part. That vulnerable open spot is the part that Damon wants to dig into and see how deep it goes, even though he knows he might just fuckin’ drown in it, because that’s what emotion, any emotion, does to people. It takes them over, makes them say and do stupid things, and where he's from, stupidity kills real quick.
Either way, he didn’t think he’d get the chance to dig in so deep, so quickly, but it happened later that very night.
***
Not many people would believe Damon’s heart was in the right place, when he offered up their royal majesty on a platter. The crew did– not that it kept them from being damn ungrateful. It did keep them from holding a grudge though. But, he really didn’t expect it from their royal majesty themself.
“You’d miss me terribly if you sold me out,” they say, smug and smiling.
Damon spins them around, forcing them back against the wall and pinning their arm over their head. Part of him is wondering if they’re really this fuckin’ dumb, flirting with the guy who’d displayed his willingness to dispose of them, and part of him is wondering if he’s the dumb one, nearly giving up someone who seems to want to put up with him, and not just for a good time.
It doesn’t make a lick of sense. They haven’t even had a good time yet.
“There hasn’t been a lot to miss though, has there? Other than this game you seem to enjoy playing, all you have so far are a few words. And you already know I don’t like to be tied down...”
He slides his fingertips up their neck till they catch under their chin, tilting their head up, as he leans down.
“I’m much more on the side that enjoys to do the tying, you see?”
He’s grinning as their breath catches, but when their eyes meet his, he finds an equal gravity in their gaze. They both know this has gone too far to be called a game anymore, if it ever was.
“Maybe, you would have more than just words if you hadn’t said you wouldn’t let anything happen to me, and then thrown me away.”
Their voice is soft, not angry, and he doesn’t see any trace of tears in their eyes. Just hurt, and confusion.
Unfortunately, they aren’t wrong. Even he isn't immune to stupidity. That damn feeling in his chest that had him making promises like he’d turned into some sort of fuckin’ lame Romeo, instead of Don Juan. And even he knows how that ancient story turned out for that dumbass.
“Besides, what kind of thief just gives up his pièce de résistance to his enemy,” their grin is back, wide and challenging.
Damon snorts out a laugh, letting go of their arm, but not stepping back from where he's looming over them.
“You think pretty highly of yourself, your royal majesty.”
“It’s my royal imperative, ass-sassin.”
Well, if that was all the vitriol they were going to give him, he’d take it. Damon chucks them under the chin, not bothering to hide his fondness- it was too late for that now anyway. The newbie was under his skin, and they knew it.
“Don’t go getting too cocky, your majesty. Assassin imperatives are a bit harder to handle.”
That attitude doesn’t dim, only rolling their eyes in response, and he’s more glad than he’d ever say to see it. He’d expected a fight, and thought it would be a good distraction, even if it didn’t clear the air between them. Even if that little kernel of whatever had died before it could do anything.
Maybe they’re both idiots– trying to grow something between them, when all Damon has is fertile ground for violence, and all they have is a link to power that is going to get them killed if they don’t do the killing first. And if Damon really wanted a blood soaked romance, he’d have gone back to Cursa ages ago.
No, Damon’s been looking for someone exactly like their royal majesty, even if he wouldn’t have admitted it to anyone. But Damon doesn’t play games he can’t win, so before when he picked up sweethearts, he only kept them for a little while, just enough to whet their appetite for danger, and his for wholesomeness. He let them go before his past reared its head. Before the blood and brutality that is his existence could touch them.
But now here’s their royal majesty, having seen him covered in blood he’d shed, having experienced his brutality as he took back his claim to protect them and offered their neck for the noose instead. And now, Damon’s stuck in between a rock and a hard place, because to survive Zovack, their royal majesty is going to have to become more like him… unless he can protect them. Protect that soft, vulnerability, or at least show them that they don’t have to kill that part of themself like he had.
But first things first.
He’s gonna have to prove it.
***
“You thought I was a safer choice for companion?”
They step closer, that smirk that's starting to become familiar on their lips.
“I guess I did.”
Responding to their challenge with one of his own, Damon lets his fingertips graze their hand, a tentative request that they respond to by opening their hand and allowing his palm to slide into theirs. Damon wouldn’t have admitted he’d expected them to realize they didn’t want him that close and jerk away, if someone was slowly peeling off his skin with a dull blade.
Confidence buoyed, he didn’t waste any time twining his fingers with theirs so they couldn’t slip away, before squeezing gently, rubbing his thumb in a caress on the back of their hand.
‘I won’t let you go so easily again,’ Damon’s touch is saying, even if their royal majesty doesn’t quite get it yet.
“You really are full of surprises,” is all he says out loud.
“So are you.”
Yeah, they sure seemed surprised when he offered them up for Zovack’s pleasure. But Damon doesn’t bring that up, turning his words to Cursa instead, then Alisa, his smugness reviving from his guilt at their jealousy. He would have dug for more, curious how deep it went, but a job’s a job, and this one is important, even to him.
Even after the job was done though, things didn’t go as planned, and Damon’s hand was forced to let them ago this time– sending them off into the shadows of Cursa alone.
Damon wasn’t an assassin for nothing though, and he tracks them down again easily enough, and as he sees them standing across from none other than Vexx Seriff, Damon realizes he isn’t the only one with a past love.
He gives Vexx a considering look when no one else is paying attention, wondering if he should be jealous too. Mostly, he’s just curious how many firsts Serif got from them, because honestly Damon had been really looking forward to owning most, if not all, of those. But then again, he knows he’s good enough to erase whatever lackluster memories Serif gave them, till all they remember is his hands, and his mouth, and his dick.
***
“People who know me don’t usually take my word for things like that, and words are cheap. But, for what it’s worth, I am sorry.”
A smile, not a smirk this time, a real smile, the warm kind that makes humans look like people, lights up their face.
“Apology accepted.”
When they wrap their arms around him, Damon freezes in place, eyes wide and unblinking.
“What the-”
“Thank you, Damon.”
Laughter rumbles in his chest, and Damon’s hands seem to have minds of their own, sliding up and down their back like he’s known them for years, instead of weeks.
They talk some more, but Damon’s higher thinking is still going over how their body is closer to his than anyone has been without a motive, since he was barely not a kid on Cursa. The next slide of his hand down their spine is slower, surer, and they notice, shivering in response. He changes his trajectory, fingertips swerving to the side to wrap around their waist, just like he’d done to claim them from that green tin can at The Arc, but this time there’s no one challenging him.
This time it’s just him and them, and still his grip is tight and certain.
‘Mine,’ Damon’s touch is saying.
This time, he thinks they get it, as they pull back so they can look him in the eye. He doesn’t hide anything from them, he knows he doesn’t need to.
A burning, haze-inducing, urge, grows in the pit of his belly like he's downed half a bottle of aged whiskey. An urge for his mouth to tell them more, but not in the boring, empty, way that's the best words can do. Damon's lips want to wordlessly, whisper, 'Mine' against theirs. His tongue wants to slide it into their mouth, where they'll swallow it down and his desire will become part of them.
His hands want to slide under their clothes, pressing every damn thing he shouldn't be feeling into their warm and welcoming body, finding out if they like quiet hands that leave goosebumps in their wake, or fingers that scream into their skin, or both. He wants to speak the language of touch till their royal majesty's mind is stripped of every other language it's ever known.
His higher thinking kicks in before his thoughts get too out of hand, reminding him of everything that's at stake. The safety of the entire crew, including their royal majesty, being at the top of the list.
Damon puts his first language to use in a different way, the opposite way, shifting to create space between them, before winking to cut through the tension without leaving a wound. He gives their waist one last squeeze, a soundless promise that they'll talk again soon, before letting them go.
***
They have a sheen of sweat from training on their skin the next time Damon touches them, and more skin on display than he’s used to seeing on them too.
“You saying you don’t want it?” they ask, but don’t really ask, because they both already know the answer to that particular question, and their challenging grin just proves it.
Damon releases a long breath along with the bone deep impulse to show them exactly how much he wants it, forcing his hands stay above their waist, trailing a barely there touch down their neck, the goosebumps forming along their skin doing nothing to help him beat back the urge to tear off their clothes and claim them then and there, timing and audience be damned.
“I want to do so many things to you,” he admits, as he shifts closer.
Close enough to smell the tang of sweat on their skin. His mind careens into pictures of all the ways he could be the one making them sweat and groan.
“I keep thinking of all the noises I could get you to make if we were alone. How loud I could get you to scream...”
They’re the one releasing a long breath this time, one that stutters as his fingertips trace their collarbone.
‘I want more,’ his touch is saying, and he can see the desire echoed back at him in a hundred different ways on their body.
***
The prison lab is crumbling into a pile of debris, and Damon doesn't have time to think when he finally finds them. There isn't a single word in his head, but his body says, 'No,' as it launches itself forward. It says, 'Not today,' arm outstretched as far as it can go. It hisses, 'Not them,' fingers wrapping around their wrist in a grip that would ring through the entire building with it's intensity if the language of touch worked the same way words do.
“What the hell?” he snarls, as he steadies himself against the counterweight of their body.
Their eyes snap open, and Damon’s heart twists inside his ribcage as he sees the far too familiar, vacant, acceptance of death reflected in their eyes, before they blink, and it vanishes. Wonder takes its place, but that glimpse of hopelessness sticks in Damon's mind as he drags them up out of the pit. Yanking them into his arms, Damon's leg muscles burn as he launches their bodies as far away from the gaping maw of death as he can.
Lust isn't the only dialect of movement his body knows, battle is another, and he twists his body in just the right way, at just the right time to take the brunt of the landing. The ledge they'd been standing on cracks and crumbles into the pit behind them, and Damon's grip tightens around their body, a silent chant of, 'safe, safe, safe.'
He has to take a deep breath before he can stop and let go of them, but only to give his eyes a chance to verify their safety. He spots a few, already dried, spatters of blood on their clothes, a few bruises on their skin. His hands search their body for hidden wounds, eyes sharp for signs of pain, before he draws them back into his embrace.
He can't seem to stop touching them. He doesn't know how he's supposed to ever let them out of his sight again, after seeing the void that is his future without them, staring out at him from their already lifeless face.
“The fuck were you thinking, almost dying like that?!”
He doesn’t give them time to answer with words, because Damon’s first language is touch and this time he slips into his mother tongue a bit more literally than usual, his lips crashing into theirs, his tongue slipping into their mouth as they try to gasp.
Their fingers grip the front of his shirt, pulling him closer, and Damon’s half a breath from showing them the roaring intensity buzzing under his skin. The one that's been growing with every proof that they are speaking the same language, yet another language, one Damon has tried to speak once before, only to have his very ability to speak it, be the reason he was rejected.
Alisa knew all about being cruel to be kind, and she used that knowledge on him a thousand times, but never so cruel as when she exiled him for loving her the way she deserved to be loved. She had called it freedom, and in his heartsick fury, Damon had called it cowardice- the worst insult you can fling in someone's face on Cursa.
And Alisa, Cursan as she is, flung it right back into his face, but her insult was in their mother tongue, her blade and the blood it spilt, and the scar it left, saying more than any taunt ever could.
It was the A6 crew that showed Damon another definition for freedom, besides loneliness. But even though he saw what they had, saw how it brought them together, instead of tearing them apart, he didn't really believe it was something he could have. Alisa's warning reminded him that he couldn't, every time he glimpsed his own damn face. But now, holding his royal sweetheart in his arms, Damon wants to defy every scar he's ever had. Alisa's, the ones from his past that he erased, the ones that still cut through his brain from a lifetime of violence.
Mostly, because he doesn't see any other way to keep their royal majesty safe and keep them his at the same time, but also because they are the one who made him finally, truly, believe he can have both.
Freedom, and attachment.
An ominous rumble sets the remains of the building to shivering around them, and the flood of emotion that had swept through Damon vanishes under a wave of determination, fueled by adrenaline and fucking, love.
Damon pulls away from their still grasping arms, internally sympathizing with their desire to keep speaking in his favorite language.
“As appealing as it is to kiss you on the battlefield, I’d very much like to still be alive later on so I can kiss you again.”
They nod as they stumble to their feet, and Damon takes their hand in his, squeezing tight, 'I'm with you.'
“Think you can keep up with me?” he grins.
“Only one way to find out,” they laugh.
***
“Since you’re still in one piece, we should talk about what happened before…” he tells them, once he has them alone again, the sun through the trees casting dappled shadows on their skin.
Their eyes flick around the forest nervously, fingers wringing together, and Damon’s almost amused by their skittishness.
“Do you regret kissing me?” they ask abruptly, gaze firmly on the leaf littered ground at their feet.
Damon is stunned silent for a moment. Have they really missed all the things he's been saying for weeks now, with his hands, his eyes, the things he's done? Sure, he may touch and eye fuck just about anyone he finds attractive, but he can't even remember the last person he fucking apologized to, and he sure as hell doesn't go around rescuing just any poor sap who could use a helping hand.
Damon's expression softens as he remembers that his mother tongue isn't as familiar to them, and certainly not in the way he uses it.
“Do I look like I regret it?” he asks back, putting a smile into his voice since they're currently still fascinated by forest floor.
They lift their head, looking him in the eye, and Damon can see how the anxiety tensing the corners of their eyes and lips relaxes and fades away, and his smile grows.
“And here I was, innocently trying to finish what we started earlier,” he teases, banishing the last of their worry away.
Reaching out to take their still clasped hands, Damon pulls them into his arms, so he can say, 'This is where you belong,' in the best way he knows how.
"Innocent?" They tilt their head back so he can see their playful pout, "That's no fun."
Damon chuckles, but doesn't take their bait. If they're still questioning what he feels about them, then there are things he needs to spell out with words- cheap as they are. He'll just have to spice them up with some action, right?
"You actually had me worried back there, you know?" he murmurs, all hints of joking gone. "I knew you'd get into trouble, but I didn't think you'd get that close to death."
He lifts his hands to cup their face, thumb brushing their cheek, "I also didn't think I'd care this much about you dying..."
'You are precious to me,' his touch says blatantly, what his mouth can only talk around. For now anyway.
They're staring at him, all wide eyed and open mouthed, and yet somehow still stunning instead of ridiculous.
Before they can respond and probably ruin the mood, Damon leans in, and kisses them.
They kiss him back, and he didn't expect it to affect him as much as it does. His heart rate speeds up, all of his thoughts and worries quiet, his focus narrowing until it's just them- the way they taste, the smell of sweat and smoke clinging to them, the softness of their body pressed up against his lean muscle, making him want to touch every inch of them, in every way possible.
They moan against his mouth, hands scrabbling to bring him even closer, and he tells them 'yes,' shoving them back against a tree so they won't fall as he deepens the kiss into something guaranteed to make their knees weak. His hands roam, squeezing and caressing the sides of their body, saying more than they've ever had the chance to say to their royal majesty before.
Damon wants to tell them even more. His hands want to touch the untouched parts of them. His fingers want to learn how to make them scream, just like he's imagined. His mouth waters at the thought of tasting them, and his tongue wants to try and make up for the pain it caused them, with the mind-obliterating pleasure it's so fluent at.
But there isn't enough time to say all he wants to say, the way he wants to say it. Running around the galaxy, failing to stop a coup, getting tracked by the R.G., playing with gangs, picking up brainwashed carrots, and blowing up buildings, has really cut into his free time, and strained even his stamina. That isn't even mentioning the ash and dust still covering them both from head to toe.
He wants to, he's more than tempted, but the part of his mind that's always on high alert is telling him they need to move on before they get caught, so Damon pulls away.
Leaning back against the tree trunk, their royal majesty is panting for breath, pupils blown wide, as they stare blatantly at Damon's mouth.
"Keep looking at me like that and I'll drag you back onto the ship right now."
Deciding to show them a bit of compassion, Damon leans in and leaves a line of kisses along their jaw that has them wriggling deliciously against him as they laugh.
"Keep kissing me like that and I'll have a hard time stopping you."
Damon chuckles at their delusion of being able to stop him from doing anything, but he doesn't feel the need to respond with words.
Leaning down, he gently bites their lower lip, relishing how they gasp and press closer, 'I can make you beg for it.'
As he pulls himself away, Damon knows his expression is more open, softer, than it should be. It's saying too much, but he can't help how they make him feel safe enough to show that vulnerability.
"Let's head back, then," is all he says out loud.
Damon keeps his arm curled around their waist as they stroll back to the ship. Back to this new life, and new world, they're all working together to make. A universe where one day, maybe he'll be able to say certain words out loud that he's only dared say once, and never again. Three words that when strung together became the most costly words he'd ever spoken. Because no cheap words could have broken his heart, such as it was, and exiled him from home, such as it was.
For years it felt like the emotion those words exposed, was the most dangerous thing Damon had ever faced. The only thing that could make him lose.
But sharing one look, heavy with meaning that neither of them need to say, with their royal majesty, has Damon feeling like he's won something priceless, and absolutely worth every bit of violence the universe dealt him, and that he'd dealt right back.
Violence he'll gladly deal out a lot more of, to protect what he's been given.
Grinning, Damon pulls his newbie even closer, more excited for the future than he has been in a long time. The universe has never been able to stop him before, and it sure as hell isn't now. One way or another, the last of the Peg'asi, his Peg'asi, isn't just going to make it out alive, but is gonna win. Damon will make sure of it.