°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

but seeing them stand so proudly brought tears in your eyes. you couldn’t wait for them to go down of the platform to hug your husband, stanley. 

you were literally a time bomb as the ceremony would drag on, and xeno, your husband too, had to keep you in place or else you would probably combust and run amongst the crowd to steal stanley before he could even give an inspirational speech.

“calm down honey, it is just a matter of time before the end.” his clawed-hand rested on the small of your back, rubbing slow circles over it.

in a way, it helped soothe you as you leaned a little bit more into his side. “i know, but it’s been too long.” you let out a sigh, looking around the crowd before you averted your gaze back on stanley standing up there.

“it has been only a few days at most, dear.” xeno smirked at your desperate expression, enjoying this a tad too much ─ the way your emotions would strike to extremes back and forth these last few days was endearing.

“minus the time he was kept in the stone.” you grumbled back, “at least he’s back.” your head fell on the scientist’s shoulder, another sigh leaving the barrier of your lips.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ 𖥻⠀⠀ ִ ۫ ּ ⠀⠀ 𖦹 ⠀⠀، ݃⠀⠀𐙚⠀⠀❜

before you knew it, the crowd began to be smaller and smaller, until no one was left but you, xeno and a stanley walking towards the both of you. your smile was as bright as the sunlight when you engulfed the soldier in a tight embrace. “welcome back, stan.” you felt his arms snake around your waist, burying his face in your hair at the same time.

“missed you both.” the sound of his voice was muffled by your hair but still clear enough for you and xeno to understand. honestly, you couldn’t have been happier to be reunited with your two husbands, to have them at arm's length once again. 

as you melted into the other’s warmth, you decided it was time to finally take a step back from the blonde to let xeno have a moment with him as well. you couldn’t help but fangirl seeing them kiss ─ perhaps, you were their biggest fan.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ 𖥻⠀⠀ ִ ۫ ּ ⠀⠀ 𖦹 ⠀⠀، ݃⠀⠀𐙚⠀⠀❜

and just like that, the three of you made your way to join the rest of the kingdom of science in a clearing where a big celebration party was held in honor of the success of the mission.

some people were already drunk and it wasn’t surprising at all.

françois came greeting the three of you as soon as you arrived, a plate with glasses full of champagne in their hand. “would you like one ?” they asked, that same delicate smile etched onto their lips. both of the men took a glass, as for you, you gently shook your head off, dismissing the offer. 

however, your sudden dismissal caught stanley’s attention since he knew you would never skip the opportunity to drink at least one glass of alcohol, especially during a party. his brows furrowed a fraction of second, wondering what could have changed in such a short period of time while he was in space.

until now, he was oblivious of the life growing inside your womb. 

his gaze landed on xeno who gave you a nod of approval. you clearly knew something he didn’t and it made him upset to not be included in what looked like a secret shared between his loved ones. but xeno seemed to notice the turmoil eating his husband, “something the matter, stan ?”

“is there anything I should be aware of ?” he questioned, bringing a lighter to his lips to light a cigarette, only to be snatched away by the scientist.

“you shouldn’t smoke around a pregnant lady, love. that's all i can say.”

“i don’t see one─” his words died on the tip of his tongue as he came to the realization of what xeno had just said, turning on his heels to face you. “you─ for how long ? when did you discover it ?” the flow of questions made you giggle as you placed a hand on your stomach.

“i learned about it right before you left, and yet i couldn’t bring myself to tell you in case something happened up there.” your voice was lower now, trembling, like you were suddenly afraid of his reaction. “i was scared and i know i should have told you sooner, it was wrong to keep you in the dark any longer.” you bit your lower lip, meeting the eyes of your husbands, one by one. “honestly, i’m still scared.”

“we will make it work” stanley covered your tummy with his hand, rubbing the expanse of skin soothingly “together.” he affirmed confidently, xeno nodding along the way. you weren’t alone and knowing that made you feel better, like a weight had been lifted off of your shoulders.

everything would go well, as long as you stayed strong for each other.

He is different from Xeno.

That's the first thing you think, unbidden, and you feel a little guilty for thinking it, but you cannot help the comparison because your eyes have been drawing them both for over a decade and they know. Xeno is long and lean and pale, all elegant architecture, built for libraries and lecterns. Stanley is built for something else entirely. His shoulders are broad and heavy with muscle, sloping into arms that you know, intellectually, could lift you off him without effort. His chest is full and solid, the pectorals clearly defined, a faint dusting of pale hair across the center of them. His stomach is flat and ridged, the muscle stacked tight beneath the skin, narrowing sharply into a waist that is somehow smaller than you'd have guessed from how big the rest of him is. The V of his hips disappears into the waistband of his trousers and you do not allow your eyes to follow it because if you do you will die on top of him.

He is, objectively, beautiful.

You have never in your life had trouble acknowledging that someone is beautiful, but this is a different kind of acknowledging. This is the kind that makes your hands restless. This is the kind that makes your mouth go dry.

He takes a slow drag of the cigarette. The ember flares. His caramel eyes do not leave your face.

"You gonna do something," he says, around the cigarette, "or just sit there?"

You do not answer. You cannot. You reach out instead, both hands, and flatten them against his chest and squeeze.

"Jesus."

The cigarette nearly falls out of his mouth. He catches it with his teeth. His brows shoot up and then immediately furrow, and for the first time since you sat down on him the carefully neutral mask cracks and you see a flicker of something genuinely startled underneath it.

"Sorry. Sorry. I didn't..."

"What the hell was that."

"I..."

"You just."

"I'm sorry!!"

He stares at you. You stare at his collarbone because you cannot look at his face. There is a long moment where neither of you speaks, and the cigarette smoke curls between you, and his chest rises and falls under your palms in a rhythm that is not quite as even as it was a minute ago.

He exhales, slow, through his nose. The furrow between his brows eases slightly. It does not disappear.

"Go on, then."

You look up.

"What?"

"Whatever you were doing. Go on."

You swallow.

Your hands start over. Slower, this time. You lay your palms flat against the center of his chest and you drag them outward, over the curve of muscle there, feeling the weight and the give of him under your hands. He is warm. His skin is hot, actually, hotter than you expected, and you can feel his heart beating under your right palm, steady but faster than his face is letting on.

Your fingers trail down.

You follow the line of his sternum, thumbs pressing lightly along the groove, and you watch the way the muscle shifts under his skin as he breathes. You drag your palms outward along his ribs, slow, letting your fingers splay to catch every ridge, and then down along the flat of his stomach, where the abs are tight and warm and you cannot quite help yourself, you press your thumb into the center of him and watch his stomach twitch, involuntary.

His jaw tightens around the cigarette.

You don't stop. You let your fingers drift along his waist, down to where the trousers sit low on his hips, and your thumb and forefinger catch his skin there and pinch, tugging lightly, watching the way it stretches and releases under your fingers. The spot blooms pink where you pulled. You do it again, higher along his ribs, thumb and finger pinching a little stretch of skin and drawing it up before letting it fall back, and another faint pink mark rises where your fingers were. His skin is fairer than you'd have guessed. You think, distantly, that you'd need a warmer palette than you usually work with to do him justice.

A sound escapes him.

It is low and involuntary and he bites down on the cigarette immediately to stifle it, and when you look up at his face his jaw is set and there is, unmistakably, the faintest flush high on his cheekbones. His eyes meet yours. The furrow is back. He does not look away.

"You done yet?"

"No."

He makes a small, disbelieving noise in the back of his throat. His eyes flick to the ceiling, briefly, as if asking it for patience. He does not move his hands from behind his head.

Your palms slide back up.

You take your time. You trace the line between his pectorals with two fingers. You follow the curve of the muscle out toward his shoulder, feeling the shape of it, the way it's built, the density of it under the skin. You drag your thumb along his collarbone and it is like drawing a line in a painting you've been composing for years.

You cup his chest, experimental, palm curving over the full swell of muscle there, and you squeeze.

"(Name)."

"Mm?"

"You are very close to the line."

"I'm sorry."

You are not sorry. He knows you are not sorry. He exhales another plume of smoke through his nose and does not, for reasons that are becoming increasingly mysterious to him, move.

Your thumb drifts, absent.

You do not mean to.

Or... you do, actually. Your thumb finds his nipple and you rub your thumb across it, once, curious, interested in the shape and the give and the way it feels different from the rest of him.

Stanley's whole body goes rigid under you.

"Okay."

The cigarette is out of his mouth and pinched between his fingers before you can blink. His other hand, finally, unlaces from behind his head and catches your wrist. Firm. Not hard. He is extremely careful, even now, about how much of his strength he uses on you. His eyes are wide and his mouth is slightly parted and there is color, a bright red, high on his cheekbones now, spreading down to his ears.

"Alright. That's. Alright."

"I."

"We're done. We're done with this part."

"Stanley."

"(Name)."

He is flushed to his throat. You have never in your life seen Stanley Snyder flushed to his throat. His hand is still around your wrist and his grip is loose and his eyes are flicking across your face like he cannot quite settle on what to do with it, and you realize, with a dawning and absolutely delighted horror, that you have broken him.

He clears his throat.

He puts the cigarette back in his mouth. It is slightly bent now. He does not appear to notice.