Millie

Your free hand haphazardly shoves your laptop to the side, your face digging into his pillow as you petulantly groan.

Fuck, you miss him.

Your torso instinctively curls around the pillow, arms wrapping around and hugging it close. The fabric is cool, the texture is soft, and the more you grasp, the further it nuzzles into your crotch.

The sensation alone has your breath catching, fingers digging into the plush material desperately.

You’d caught him once beforehand, humping your pillow desperately. You came home early to surprise him with takeout, only to find something far more appetizing. His palm attempted to muffle his obnoxiously loud whimpering as he locked eyes with you, his other hand stabilizing the folded pillow around his cock.

That’s all you can picture right now, an amalgamation of everything Colt. His corded forearms, his thick fingers, his perfectly rideable nose and mussed up hair- the pillow doesn’t compare to his all encompassing presence, how he lives to please you. Even his voice downright hypnotizes you, having saved all of the voicemails he’d send you inbetween scenes and late at night. He’d send you dorky good morning messages regardless of his time zone, morning voice raspy with the husk of sleep.

Your fingers crawl down your abdomen, tracing the band of your underwear before cupping your pussy. He usually strokes the mons pubis with his thumb lovingly before diving for your clit, so you emulate that action, shivering in response. It’s embarrassing how pent up you are- the past few months have been grueling. The only time you’d cum had been once over the phone, his voice gravelly while he guided you to climax. You suppose you enjoyed his dominant side every now and then.

“Hah,” you gasp, nose diving into the pillow to ground yourself after a particularly pleasurable stroke. You miss the fragrance of his skin, you miss the warmth of his chest, and you really fucking miss the way he holds you.

“Miss your stupid fucking fa- face,” you exhale aloud, “m’gonna ride you, hold you close, so close-“

“Close to what?” A voice inquires, clearly amused.

Your fingers tighten their grip on the pillow, your neck craning to face the threshold to your bedroom.

Colt stands in the doorway, leaning against the trim with a smug expression on his face. He’s definitely pleased you need him as much as he needs you, given the amount of raunchy voice messages he left you from his trailer.

You don’t have it in you to feel ashamed, briskly striding before him and hooking your fingers into his belt loops. He momentarily stumbles, his gait unbalanced until his hands find purchase at your waist. He licks his lips, eyeing you hungrily.

“Woah- aw, you miss me?”

“C’mere,” you growl, and he doesn’t protest. His head dips to your own, lips happily requiting with yours. They’re chapped from the desert sun, as are his hands when they tug at the hem of your shirt. They’re more callused, brushing the skin of your abdomen with care.

“Off, please,” he begs between kisses, and the two of you dance clumsily around each other in a desperate feat. If you hadn’t been dating for a few months now, it would look like your first time together. You practically worship one another like it is, his hands trailing up your sides.

Your fingers trace the contours of his abs, and you can feel him grinning against your lips.

“Like what you see?” His nose playfully nudges your own.

“Like a lot of things. Like how you feel against me,” you hum, and he melts into you in response.

Utterly whipped.

“Mm, ‘n what else?” He questions, hands resting on your hips. You already feel weak in the knees for him, but his embrace grounds you.

“Like how sweet you are,” you smile, and he swears he could die happy as long as it’s with you.

“I mean, literally and like, the way you taste,” you continue, then steal another peck from his lips to seal your point.

“And you call me cheesy,” he scoffs, though it possesses no bite as he blindly follows you like usual. You attempt to clumsily guide him again by the belt loops in response, though your fingers brush the evident bulge in his jeans.

You don’t miss the way his throat bobs in the dim light, his grip on you tightening fractionally.

“Fuck, bed,” he pleads, and he’s thankful you agree and begin to pull your underwear down. His gaze zeroes in momentarily, fixated on anything you do.

“Uh uh,” he shakes his head, diving between your legs, “not now gorgeous, this pair is cute.”

His hands shift, resting against your thighs to pry your legs open.

“You say that about every pair,” you deadpan, resting your hand over his. Your thumb traces the ridges of his knuckles, the skin rough against your own but comforting.

“Cause it’s on you, duh,” he rolls his eyes, still sassy as ever. You’re about to make another remark before he abruptly shoves your underwear to the side, delving inbetween your legs. He moans in relief, and while you don’t catch most of it, you discern a brief, “missed this pussy s’much.”

You don’t want to come between them. You don’t. They really love each other, the perfect example of how brothers should be. They tease each other and Colt sometimes puts Ryland in a headlock until he says uncle, sure, because the Cain instinct can still exist in the vacuum of space. But they care about each other too. Colt is always volunteering to do the dangerous stuff to keep Ryland safe, and Ryland works himself to the bone so Colt can get sleep without worrying about the science side of it all. They make each other laugh all the time, sincerely, from the belly, until there are tears in their eyes. You don’t want to do anything to ruin their genuine brotherly friendship.

However there’s no denying the way they both look at you. 

Ryland speaks at length about what he’s doing with the astrophage and taumoeba, because he knows you can keep up with him about it. He sits with you at the Mary’s window, shares coffee, points out stars and fills your ears and heart with science facts and shared jokes. His feet nudge yours beneath the work desk and, one time, you measured your hands together, palm to palm, just to see the size difference. The two of you had just stared when so easily laced his fingers against yours and squeezed. (The moment had been interrupted by Rocky, as many of them are).

You wonder what those fingers would feel like inside you, beckoning an orgasm from your greedy walls as his glasses sit askew on his face, all his concentration on your pleasure.

And then there’s Colt. Oh, Colt. Brave to a fault, silly, lovely Colt. First on his feet to go out on an EVA, chuckling through the intercom as if he’s going for a stroll on the beach rather than inching along the outside of a spaceship. So obviously trying to impress you - “Hey, look how easily I can pick up Rocky! Heh, I bet you’d weigh nothing to me.” (Rocky has been very patient with this for his part. You think he actually enjoys being tossed around by the person he’s most able to talk shop with on the Mary). And, he loves to spend his time listening to you talk about piloting, enraptured, even though he clearly doesn’t really understand a word you’re saying. He just likes the sound of your voice.

You wonder how he’d look with his bicep around your throat, fucking you with his free hand, whispering praise in your ear about how well you’re doing for him as he’s rock hard in his spacesuit. 

Fuck.

They’re so different, and you can’t choose your favourite. 

Colt isn’t Ryland.

Ryland isn’t Colt.

And your body isn’t being bent over the pilot’s seat and fucked by either one of them, so this is a lose-lose-lose situation at the moment. 

There’s only one person on the ship you can even begin to discuss this all with.

“Do you see my conundrum?”

Rocky bobs his carapace up and down in a simulation of nodding. His legs are neatly folded in front of him and, despite the absurd circumstances, his posture reminds you of how your Earth friends would sit when you’d go for a gossip over a coffee. Thank god he’s here or you might go completely crazy in this spaceship.

“So, you think Grace is smart and kind, but Seavers is brave and sweet, question? And you’re not sure who is best for you to take as your mate, question?”

“I guess that’s what it boils down to,” you admit, walking your fingers along the counter as you mull the idea over. Twins, different surnames. Both born as Seavers, but Ryland took his mother’s name after the whole scandal with his dissertation which led him into being a teacher. Makes it easier for Rocky to differentiate them, you guess.

“This problem has a very simple solution.”

“Oh, good,” you sigh. You knew Rocky would be sensible enough to figure this all out.

“Take both as mates.”

The squawk you make is inhuman.

“I can’t do that!”

“Why, question?”

“Well, they’re brothers, for a start.”

“You do not have to mate with Seavers and Grace at same time. Also, they are aware of possible social discomfort and will give each other a wide berth. It has come up in their discussions about you.”

“I know they know that they’re— hang on, ‘discussions’?”

Rocky shifts awkwardly. Ohh, he’s just let slip something he shouldn’t have.

“Rocky needs to go and check on the—”

“You stay right there! You have to tell me now.”

You’re not proud of it, but you sit on his ball so he can’t roll away. He makes some annoyed Eridian sounds before sighing.

“Rocky has good hearing. Grace and Seavers have been discussing you a lot. There has been talk of sharing.”

Every atom in the world narrows down to the pang of arousal between your legs which hits you so hard that it’s almost painful.

“Sh-sharing?”

Rocky shrugs.

“Yes. Both seem… amenable.”

Fuck. You can’t believe you’re hearing this second-hand from a fucking alien. You stand up, brush yourself down, and press a kiss to Rocky’s exosuit-ball.

“Thanks, Rock. You’re a good friend.”

He grumbles good-naturedly, knowing he’s been caught out, but bumps his head against the pane you kissed anyway.

Ryland and Colt are playing chess when you find them, which is always pointless, because Ryland always wins. Colt simply cannot concede bragging rights to his younger twin, though, so a rematch is always promised. He’s down to three pawns, a bishop, and his king, and from the way his hands are twitching he might be about to flip the table in annoyance… again.

You never did find that missing knight from last time. Rocky had to make a new one out of xenonite. 

“Hey, how are yo—” begins Ryland when he spots you, but there’s no time for him to finish before you bang your hand down on the board; the pieces rattle and both kings fall, a double checkmate. The twins jump in their seats and look up at you with matching looks of fright. You cut to the chase.

“So apparently you’ve decided to share me?”

They exchange a glance. There’s a silent conversation in their eyes, a type of communication which they’ve perfected over their whole lives together.

“Well,” is what Colt settles on. Silence. You laugh at their mutual inability to defend themselves.

“Was I going to be asked my opinion on this? Considering I’m, you know, the fucking thing you’re meant to be sharing? I’m not an object, I’m a person!”

You are a person. So why can you feel your heart rate spike as you even talk about this? As you even think there’s a possibility of having not one, but both of them fuck you until you see stars?

“We didn’t think you’d mind,” Ryland says simply. You try to find words around your indignance-heavy tongue, but fail. Because really… you don’t mind. Not one little bit.

And Colt is the first one to clock that.

So he’s the first one to stand up and push you against the wall, his hand flat and gentle on your stomach, the other one protecting your head from hitting the hard surface behind you. Your whole body seizes under his strong touch. He’s so there, all muscle-thick and warm and gorgeous. He doesn’t kiss you, but you can feel his lips move against your own when he speaks, feel the tickle of his facial hair against your skin. 

“Question is, who gets to have you first?”

You have to clamp your legs together to try and fight off the flood of arousal which goes directly to their apex. In a sudden moment of clear-headedness, you shove Colt off of you and run for shelter in the bedrooms. You know they’re both watching after you, equally smug. Fuck them. Fuck them!

But it doesn’t stop you dragging your slacks to round your knees the second that the door slams shut and burying your hand in yourself. It doesn’t stop you imagining them stroking you, how dexterous Ryland would be, how insistent Colt’s fingers would feel… and when you come it’s with two pairs of blue eyes on your mind.

Oh no. You’re fucked.